It's the question every male Hadleigh parent dreads.

"Father, what did you do in the Great Curry War?"

Now, before answering directly, I do need to point out one rather important thing: I'm not a great fan of the hot stuff. In fact, as a ghoul, curry goes straight through me! Geddit? No? Oh, suit yer selves.

So, during the mainly social media conflict a few years' back, between the respective owners of The Royal Bengal and the breakaway Spice, er, takeaway, I was like The Netherlands in World War One or indeed the town's third purveyor of poppadoms, Indian Villa: nervously neutral.

The comments between the two camps were as violently visceral as a red-hot chilli pepper up the fundamentals. (Goodness knows where that kinky metaphor came from? Perhaps I'm thinking of poor Edward II or 'Peggy' as we called him). Think a Bengali British Jets and Sharks. Or a Suffolk Sylheti Montagues and Capulets.

I'm not that tribal, really, except when it comes to Papist dogma on celibacy for priests. So, when Father Derek filed a rather pedestrian tale of The Royal Bengal copping a one-star rating in the view of the thermometer prodding public protection people at Babergh, I shoulder-shruggingly thought little of it.

Stuff happens, including an off day with the old cleanliness regime. But the abuse our poor scribbler received from one or two folks associated with the restaurant was a Balti too far.

One chap called into question Father Derek's grasp of reality, pointing to the four-star rating they have proudly displayed on the window of the establishment. Except, of course, that accreditation does not reflect the official rating currently publicly available.

Hadleigh Nub News does its best to boost the reputations of the place's small businesses – when they allow.

It would have been far better to have humbly said that it was an unfortunate episode and The Royal Bengal was working hand-in-hand with the white-coated inspection staff to get the place ship shape or whatever the equivalent retail terminology is. And then invite the ever-adventurous Father Derek round for a chicken jalfrezi to show that there were no hard feelings.

Saying soz really shouldn't be that hard.

But it is for some who live among us. Or rather near to us – too near for comfort, in fact. I'm referring, of course, to Councillor Simon 'Toad/Onan' Barrett. 

Adding to his long list of shameful acts whilst in public office, Toad/Onan got himself thrown out of Babergh's cabinet meeting earlier this week. Waving around his hairily- palmed hands, the Conservative grouplet leader started berating another councillor during the budget setting debate. Something about the left-wing economic establishment, I think.

This caused Generalissimo Ward, Babergh's much-put upon supremo to stir from his pious devotions and issue a stern warning to Toad/Onan to zip his amphibious gob or else.

True to form, Toad/Onan opted for else and so was frog marched out (doubtless, dear reader, you'll appreciate what I've just done there) clutching what remained of his credibility, like an itinerant beggar holding his last Aldi bag of possessions.

This is so very Toad/Onan: a political leader in utter poverty of purpose. What was even more disappointing, though, was the failure of Hadleigh's Tories to once again condemn such self-pleasuring nonsense.

Could it be that Queenie Dawson, Macadam Fraser and wannabe elected representative Bolter Ferguson approve of such disruption?

I think we should be told. 

Talking of Macadam, I hope our county councillor will be out again filling in all the potholes that have appeared in exactly the same places as in previous years, especially those in and around Pykenham Way. Some are so big they could accommodate, some are speculating, the combined IQ of the town's entire district and county councillor cohort – with room for a nice takeaway to spare.