Working With Big Personalities in Small Councils

Small councils have their own weather systems.

You can walk into a meeting and feel it before anyone says a word.

There is the fog of unresolved tension. The thundercloud of someone who has arrived already annoyed. The icy breeze of a councillor who is “fine” in the way that means absolutely not fine.

Then there is the dazzling sunshine of someone so charming that everyone gets slightly blinded.

The clerk is trying to keep the barometer steady.

The Chair is trying to stop the roof coming off.

I say this with affection, because small councils can be brilliant. They are close to the community. Decisions matter. People care. When things work well, small councils can move quickly, creatively and with real heart.

But that closeness also means behaviour spreads fast.

In a large organisation, a big personality can get absorbed into the system. In a small council, one person can change the whole emotional climate.

One person’s emotional weather can become everyone’s working conditions.

That is where the trouble starts.

When people think of a difficult personality, they often imagine shouting, finger-pointing and dramatic exits.

Sometimes, yes.

But often it is subtler than that.

It is the person who talks first, talks longest and somehow appears on every agenda item as if summoned by civic Wi-Fi.

It is the person who sighs just loudly enough to be heard.

It is the person who sulks in a way that makes everyone start managing their mood rather than the meeting.

It is the person who says, “People are saying,” and suddenly a vague cloud of unnamed residents, unnamed councillors and unnamed concerns floats into the room and sits there like damp washing.

No one quite knows what to do with it.

This is the point where councils often make the mistake of trying to manage the person rather than the behaviour.

They say, “That’s just how they are.”

Or, “We all know what they’re like.”

Or, “It’s easier not to challenge it.”

Or, “Let’s just get through the meeting.”

And I understand why.

Everyone is tired. The clerk has already had 47 emails about the same bench. The Chair still has Christmas lights, cemetery fees and a planning application to get through. Nobody wants to turn a meeting into a hostage situation at 9.35pm.

But when behaviour keeps getting worked around, it becomes part of the culture.

The council slowly adapts itself around one person.

People stop speaking. New councillors go quiet. The clerk starts bracing before meetings. The Chair becomes less of a Chair and more of an emotional air traffic controller.

And the actual work of the council gets pushed to the edge of the room.

Not all disruptive behaviour looks aggressive.

That is what makes it confusing.

Charm can be lovely. Councils need warmth. A bit of humour can save a meeting from becoming a slow death by agenda pack.

But charm can also be a strategy.

Some people are delightful in public and difficult in private. They know when to smile. They know who to flatter. They know how to look reasonable while quietly stirring the pot.

Then the person on the receiving end starts to wonder:

“Am I overreacting?”

“Maybe it is me.”

“Everyone else seems to like them.”

This is often the most exhausting kind of behaviour because it creates self-doubt. The impact happens behind the scenes, while the performance out front looks perfectly reasonable.

Sulking works differently, but it can be just as powerful.

Someone withdraws. They go cold. They stop contributing. They sit in the meeting giving off the energy of a damp Victorian ghost.

And slowly the room reorganises around them.

Someone tries to cheer them up. Someone avoids a topic. Someone softens a decision. Someone says, “Maybe we should leave that for now.”

Before anyone realises it, the council is no longer following the agenda.

It is following a mood.

That is not governance.

That is emotional weather management.

People are allowed to have feelings. Councils are full of feelings because councils are full of people. But feelings cannot be allowed to run the meeting.

You can care about someone’s feelings and still hold the boundary.

“I can see this is strongly felt. We still need to move through the agenda.”

That is not cold.

That is kind.

It is nervous system regulation in governance clothing.

The hardest thing about big personalities is that they invite everyone else into their weather.

They want you to defend. Explain. Rescue. Take sides. Prove yourself. Calm them down. Join the outrage. Agree that they are the only person who really sees what is going on.

This is where both clerks and councillors need to pause.

You do not have to attend every drama you are invited to.

You can slow down.

You can say:

“That needs to go through the proper process.”

“I can respond to the factual points.”

“We need to bring this back to the decision in front of us.”

“This is not the place for personal criticism.”

These are not glamorous sentences. Nobody is putting them on a mug.

But they work because they do not feed the drama.

They bring the room back to adult-to-adult communication.

And that is what small councils need most.

Big personalities are not the problem.

Uncontained behaviour is the problem.

Councils need strong voices. They need passionate people. They need people who care enough to challenge, question and push for better.

But passion without self-awareness can become dominance.

Charm without integrity can become manipulation.

Emotion without boundaries can become control.

And one person’s weather should not become the climate of the whole council.

A healthy council can hold big personalities without being run by them.

That is the work.

Making the culture strong enough to hold different people, strong feelings and difficult conversations without losing the plot.

Or the clerk.

Or the roof.