By Carl Parslow
IN most democracies, the political manifesto is a serious thing. It’s the moral contract between the governed and those aspiring to govern. It’s the covenant that says: “Here is what we promise to do, judge us accordingly.” Breaking a manifesto pledge in Westminster or Paris can trigger howls of outrage, emergency press conferences, and in extreme cases, the political equivalent of a public flogging (ask Rachel Reeves how that feels in a couple of weeks).
In Jersey, by contrast, manifesto-breaking is not a scandal, it’s practically a sport.
Each election year, the Island is flooded with pamphlets, posters, and social media posts, each bearing the smiling face of a hopeful candidate and their vision for a new dawn. The manifestos themselves are curious artefacts, part aspiration, part autobiography, part self-help book. They read less like policy blueprints and more like a collection of affirmations: “I believe in affordable housing.” “I want efficient government.” “I care about the environment, children, and probably golden retrievers.”
The trouble is, unlike manifestos elsewhere, these are not costed, calibrated, or even particularly coherent. Jersey’s politicians are mostly independents. Without party machinery or policy teams, each candidate scribbles their personal wish-list on the back of an envelope, uploads it to Facebook, and calls it a manifesto. There’s no collective platform to bind them, no shadow treasury to tell them their maths does not add up, and no whip to enforce any semblance of unity once elected. It’s politics as performance art.
Then comes the great transformation. The victorious few are ushered through the revolving doors of Cyril Le Marquand House. Once inside, the newly elected States Members vanish from public sight, their manifesto promises disintegrating faster than a paper straw in a gin and tonic.
Suddenly, the same individuals who vowed to “cut government waste” are happily commissioning reports to explore the possibility of “streamlining efficiency through strategic transformation initiatives”, at a cost of only a few million. Those who promised to “support small business” are now announcing new layers of compliance and regulation “to ensure sustainability and resilience”. And those who campaigned to “reduce bureaucracy” are found forming new committees to investigate why bureaucracy hasn’t yet been reduced.
In Jersey’s political ecosystem, accountability is an endangered species. Manifestos are not treated as contracts but as campaign props. Once the ballot boxes are sealed, the pledges vanish into the ether, and the business of government is handed back to the same cadre of mandarins, consultants, and committees who run the show between elections.
Ministers, once selected, are effectively free agents. They are not bound by the promises that got them elected, nor obliged to deliver on the wish lists of their supporters. The Council of Ministers sets its own strategic priorities, which may or may not bear any resemblance to what the electorate thought they were voting for.
It is a kind of democratic theatre: the public claps politely at election time, the curtain falls, and then the actors retire backstage to rewrite the script entirely.
The fundamental absurdity is that there is no mechanism for the public to call politicians to account when they fail to deliver. There are no party whips to discipline them, no independent oversight body with teeth, and no cultural expectation that broken promises matter. The electorate simply shrugs and prepares for another round of leaflets next time.
In larger democracies, the press or opposition parties would gleefully pounce on a failed pledge. “You said you’d freeze tuition fees, and you didn’t!” “You said you would reduce public spending, and you raised it!” But in Jersey, where every politician is technically independent, the accountability ecosystem is more like a polite book club: everyone has opinions, but no one wants to make a fuss.
If these manifestos were corporate documents, they would be laughed out of a boardroom. No budget. No costings. No implementation plan. No timeline. Just a string of adjectives: affordable, efficient, vibrant, sustainable, inclusive, transparent, green, digital, agile, and, the favourite, “fit for the future”.
So, what is to be done? If manifestos are to mean anything at all, the electorate must demand more than laminated optimism. Candidates should be required, formally or informally, to explain how they plan to deliver their promises. That means publishing estimated costs, timelines, and trade-offs. It means saying what they would stop doing to fund their bright ideas. It means actually collaborating with fellow candidates.
It also means hustings have to be more the sharp end of democracy: an opportunity for candidates to defend their pledges, field searching questions, and demonstrate their grasp of policy. Currently each candidate is allotted a few minutes to recite their well-worn slogans: “I believe in affordable housing, sustainable growth, efficiency, and transparency.” They might as well add “world peace” and “nice weather”.
A public “manifesto tracker” could help. Elected Members’ pledges could be logged and monitored, an online scoreboard the public can see, in real time, promises being kept, delayed, or abandoned. Ministers might then think twice before promising to halve civil service headcount while simultaneously expanding government departments with consultants.
Voters must all become more demanding. Instead of asking “what do you believe in?”, we must ask “how much will that cost, and where’s the funding coming from?” or “who exactly is going to do this, and when?” We would not buy a car without a receipt or a house without a survey so, why do we all buy political promises without asking for a warranty?
Until that happens, Jersey will remain a place where good intentions go to retire, and manifestos are filed under “fiction”. The Island’s politicians will continue to offer fairytale visions of efficient cost-effective government, and economic vibrancy and diversity, and the electorate will continue to nod approvingly, forgetting that the same words were spoken four years ago, and four years before that.
If Jersey’s manifestos are ever to be more than bedtime stories for grown-ups, it is time the electorate stopped being the audience, and started becoming the editors.
Born and educated in the Island, Carl Parslow is an experienced Jersey Advocate and notary public with over 25 years’ experience. He heads up Parslows LLP business legal services department, advising corporates and individuals on a range of issues with a particular emphasis on acting for Jersey owner-managed businesses. Outside of work, he enjoys rugby and cycling with Lasardines.
