Seb James: A new councillor’s view on Reform-led Worcestershire

Cllr Seb James is a councillor for Bowbrook Ward on Worcestershire County Council.

When I was elected to Worcestershire County Council in May 2025, I arrived hopeful that good-faith scrutiny, honest numbers, and pragmatic compromise would carry the day. Worcestershire had just undergone a political earthquake: after two decades of Conservative control, the council fell to no overall control, with Reform UK becoming the largest group (27 of 57 seats), two short of a majority.

That political shift came amid a worsening financial outlook. In early 2025, Cabinet papers set a net budget requirement of £495.6m for 2025/26 and proposed a 4.99 per cent council tax rise—the legal maximum without special permission—split between general services (2.99 per cent) and the adult social care precept (two per cent). At the time, the council warned that exceptional financial support (central government permission to borrow or sell capital assets to fund day‑to‑day costs) would be necessary to avoid issuing a Section 114 “bankruptcy” report.

By late 2025, with Reform leading a minority administration, the council’s fiscal position had deteriorated further, and the gap between campaign rhetoric and governing reality became impossible to ignore.

During the campaign, Reform UK repeatedly styled itself as the party that would “cut waste and taxes.” But in December 2025, Worcestershire’s Reform‑led cabinet applied to the government for permission to raise council tax above five per cent, including an option up to ten per cent, the largest contemplated rise in the county’s modern history.

The council’s deputy leader and finance lead, Cllr Rob Wharton, publicly framed the application as seeking “tools in the box” in case the government settlement was worse than expected: “At the moment, just to be clear, five per cent is what is factored into our plans, but it does depend on that settlement.”

For residents, the numbers matter most: Worcestershire’s Band D county‑precept (excluding police, fire, and district precepts) stood at around £1,615 in 2025/26. An eight per cent county‑level rise would add about £129; a ten per cent rise could add ~£162 per year for a Band D household.

The council’s own budget booklets and cabinet papers lay out the pressures starkly. For 2025/26, Worcestershire’s net budget was £495.6m, with £359.5m expected from council tax and £87.5m from business rates; the budget also drew £33.6m in exceptional financial support and £15m from reserves to balance. The expenditure side shows Adults’ Social Care and Health at £375.3m gross, Children & Education at £168.0m, and Home‑to‑School Transport at £45.8m, underscoring the scale and rigidity of statutory service pressures.

In late 2025, cabinet papers and trade press coverage detailed a 2026/27 funding gap in the region of £73–74m, with multi‑year projections of cumulative shortfalls exceeding £270m by 2028/29—numbers that dwarf any savings available from trimming overheads. This is the lived arithmetic of local government: every one per cent rise in council tax yields roughly £4m for Worcestershire, meaning even a ten per cent increase would leave tens of millions still to find through cuts, borrowing, asset sales, or further support.

The defining lesson of my first months is simple: don’t over‑promise. Reform’s pitch to voters—lower taxes through cutting “waste”—was always going to be tested by Worcestershire’s hard numbers. By October, the council’s own consultation documents acknowledged that previously keeping council tax “as low as possible” was “no longer sustainable” given the pressures in adults’ and children’s social care.

When the Reform‑led cabinet then sought permission to exceed the cap—up to ten per cent—it crystallised the contradiction. National and local outlets reported the move as potentially “the biggest council tax rise the county has ever seen,” and noted that the administration also sought exceptional financial support of around £43.6m.

To be fair, Reform’s finance leadership has consistently said the planning assumption is five per cent, and that the ten per cent option exists for flexibility pending the Local Government Finance Settlement. That nuance matters; it’s on the record. But for residents, the overarching impression is stark: a party that promised tax restraint now contemplates higher bills—because the spreadsheets leave them little choice.

Another striking reality is the gap between public performance and private pragmatism. In live‑streamed meetings, party lines harden. The posture is often ideological, nodding to national branding—what many observers would recognise as the “Team Farage” mood music. Yet off‑camera, in corridor conversations and cross‑party briefings, Reform councillors are more vulnerable, more open to cooperation, and more candid about the arithmetic. That contrast isn’t unique to any one group; political theatre is universal. But here, the delta between broadcast certainty and backstage compromise feels unusually wide.

One of the hardest realities I’ve faced as a new councillor is watching hard‑working, well‑intentioned colleagues stumble—not because they lack commitment or intelligence, but because they are shackled to a national tagline that doesn’t fit local life.

In Worcestershire—a landlocked county with no coastline, no ports, and no migrant boats—Reform UK campaigned under the banner of “Stop the Boats.” It was a slogan designed for national headlines, not for the granular realities of county governance. Yet here, it became part of the pitch, printed on leaflets and echoed in hustings. Residents asked, sometimes wryly, what boats we were stopping on the River Severn. The answer, of course, was none.

This disconnect matters. When a party’s identity is built on national culture‑war soundbites, local councillors inherit promises they cannot possibly deliver. And when those promises collide with the unforgiving arithmetic of adult social care budgets and statutory transport duties, the fallout is brutal: credibility erodes, trust fractures, and councillors—many of whom genuinely want to serve their communities—are left defending positions they never wrote and cannot reconcile with reality.

While this drama has unfolded, I’ve focused on what matters most: delivering for residents.

Since May, I’ve:

• Secured urgent repairs for dangerous potholes in rural lanes after months of complaints.
• Worked with local schools to improve home-to-school transport reliability for SEND pupils.
• Helped families access social care support by cutting through red tape and escalating cases.
• Championed community engagement, hosting open surgeries and Q&A sessions so residents can understand the council’s financial challenges and have their say.
• Pushed for transparency, calling for clearer budget communications and ward-level impact summaries so people know where their money goes.

These aren’t headline-grabbing moves—but they make a real difference. And they reflect what local government should be: service first, slogans never.

Watching this unfold has been sobering. I’ve seen hard‑working councillors fall under the weight of national slogans that don’t fit local realities. In a landlocked county, Reform promised to “Stop the Boats”—a tagline that might win airtime on national TV but means nothing to families worried about potholes, care packages, and school transport. When politics becomes theatre, communities pay the price.

And this is where I believe the Conservative comeback begins. Because while others chase headlines, we never stopped working after defeat. We stayed embedded in our communities—answering casework, fixing problems, listening to residents. We know that real leadership isn’t about slogans; it’s about service, substance, and solutions.

That’s why I’m confident: when the dust settles, voters will remember who stood by them, who told the truth about tough choices, and who kept delivering even when the cameras weren’t rolling. That’s the Conservative way—and it’s why we will win again.