Northern Ambiguity

Who gets access to information, and who gets to decide really matters.

It matters more than most systems are willing to admit.

We talk a lot about “bringing people to the table”.

But there is a fundamental difference between sharing power and staging participation.

Too often, the direction has already been set.
The key decisions have already been made.

Then the invitation goes out:

“Come and have your say.”

People are asked for their views, but not given any real influence over the outcome. They are consulted, but not trusted. Heard, perhaps, but not listened to.

That is not participation.

It is theatre.

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In Hartlepool, we are not short of people who care.

Residents. Community champions. Local leaders.

People who know their neighbourhoods. Who understand the history of local issues. Who have seen what has been tried before — what worked, what didn’t, and why.

Many of them give their time freely.

And yet, far too often, they are not the ones deciding.

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Instead, decisions can end up sitting inside systems that feel over-engineered and difficult to navigate.

Layered.
Complex.
Unclear.

Sometimes to the point where it is hard to identify who is actually accountable.

That confusion is not always accidental. When accountability is blurred, power becomes easier to hold, and easier to avoid.

Because when things go wrong, the language quickly shifts:

“Reflection.”
“Learning.”
“Lessons learned.”

Even when the outcome was predictable from the start.

In many cases, those lessons would not have been necessary if the right people had been sat around the table in the first place.

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Let’s have a meeting
Then there is the culture of meetings.

Pre-meetings about the meeting to come.
Follow-up meetings to reinterpret what was agreed.
Layers of groups and sub-groups that create the impression of movement without always producing meaningful progress.

And in community work, these meetings are usually held during the working day.

That’s important.

Because it actually excludes many of the very people whose voices are supposedly valued, residents with jobs, parents, carers, volunteers, people already active in their communities.

There is a real irony here.

Many of the professional facilitators of these processes do not live in the town. Some are only present a few days a week. Most are not around in the evenings or weekends, when community life is at its most active.

Yet local residents and community champions are expected to engage on their terms, in their format, at their convenience, or risk not being heard at all.

That is not community-led decision making.

That is managed access.

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And if you learn how to play that game, if you speak the right language, frame things in the right way, and align with the expectations of the system, you can gain influence.

Not because you are closest to the issue.

But because you are most legible to the system.

Meanwhile, those embedded in the work every single day bring something far more valuable:

Reality.

They knock on doors.
They run sessions.
They build trust.
They respond to what is actually happening, not what is written in a plan.

That kind of knowledge cannot be replicated through a workshop or a consultation exercise.

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That is exactly what we are trying to do differently in Hartlepool.

Across sport and movement, youth voice, and wider systems and governance, the same question keeps coming up:

Who has a seat at the table, and who is missing?

At Hartlepool Sport, we currently facilitate around 17 different, overlapping forums and networks.

On paper, that looks like a well-connected system.

In reality, it is something more human than that.

It is people.

People who live in the town.
People who care about it.
People who show up, often without being asked twice, because they want things to be better.

These spaces are open. They are not hidden or exclusive. Anyone can step into them. They are built on relationships, not hierarchy.

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Is it perfect?

No.

Is it funded?

No — not really.

Most of it runs on goodwill, borrowed spaces, and the willingness of people to give their time.

That comes with challenges.

Sometimes things are pulled together at the last minute.
Sometimes communication could be better.
Sometimes the system feels stretched.

There is always room for reflection and improvement, and that should not be seen as a weakness.

It is part of doing this work honestly.

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But there is something important in this approach.

This is not one table.

It is many.

Connected.
Messy.
Real.

A series of spaces where people can step in, contribute, lead, and shape what happens next.

A system that is not perfect, but is rooted in place.

And one that is trying, genuinely, to ensure that the people closest to the issues are not just invited into the conversation, but are part of the decisions that follow.

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If we are serious about community development, neighbourhood renewal, or civic participation, then decision-making has to sit much closer to the people affected by those decisions.

Not as a gesture.
Not as consultation theatre.
Not as a late-stage opportunity to validate decisions already made.

But for real.

That means sharing information openly.
Making decision-making routes clear.
Designing governance that people can actually understand.
Holding meetings at times people can attend.
Recognising lived and local expertise as expertise.

And being willing to share power, not just talk about it.

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There is something about “the table” that I don’t think we’ve fully figured out yet.

Even when intentions are good, systems, particularly in local government, often default back to service delivery.

Over the past few years, I’ve been closer to those decisions. Close enough to see how many are made. Close enough to see how the first and second order effects land in our communities.

And there is a pattern.

Impact needs to be demonstrated.
Outputs need to be evidenced.
Progress needs to be visible.

So the system leans towards what it can show.

Quick wins.
Short-term fixes.
Top-down solutions.

Sticking plasters instead of something deeper.

Not because people don’t care, but because the system rewards what is measurable, immediate, and controllable.

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But there is a cost to that.

If someone else is always making the important decisions for communities, then over time those communities are shaped by that dynamic.

They are managed.
Protected.
Coddled.

And eventually, whether intentionally or not, infantilised.

Because the underlying assumption becomes:

That communities cannot be trusted to act in their own interests.
That they cannot make the “right” decisions.
That the answers already sit elsewhere, with those paid to know better.

And once that assumption takes hold, it quietly justifies the system that follows.

The roles.
The structures.
The distance.

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I don’t think that’s good enough.

Because “how” we decide is infinitely more important than “what” we decide.

You can arrive at the same outcome through two completely different processes, one that builds trust, agency and long-term capacity…

…and one that erodes it.

The difference is not the decision.

It’s who was in the room.
Who had the information.
Who had the power to shape what happened next.

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That is why the seats at the table matter.

Not as a metaphor.

But as something real.

Who is there.
Who is missing.
And who is actually deciding.

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Maybe the answer isn’t to guard the table more tightly.

Maybe it’s simpler than that.

Make the table bigger.

Make it easier to get to.
Make it happen at times people can actually attend.
Make sure the information is there to engage with properly.
And be prepared for decisions to look different as a result.

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Because if we get that right, the table stops being a barrier.

It becomes a shared space.

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Come along, i’ll make the cuppas.