The Chief pressed the "play" button on the remote and sat back to enjoy his favourite bit of the recent broadcast of proceedings in Hardupwest.
Mr Quentin Money-Bagges QC peered over the top of his Armani spectacles and addressed the hushed chamber.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my attention has been drawn to a series of most unfortunate statements".
The QC paused and removed his spectacles for dramatic effect as he plucked a sheaf of papers from a large white envelope.
"I will with your forbearance read just a few of these outrageous remarks made to the gutter press and on various blogging sites.
"Bryn should consider his position"
"The chief executive should take a holiday"
"Flogging is too good for him"
"I'm worried about Bryn"
"Sack the bastard"
"And I could go on. It is quite apparent, is it not, that some of you have come to this Court today with your minds made up and have therefore failed in your duty carefully to weigh up the evidence and vote, as your Leader has recommended, to reject this ludicrous motion of no confidence.
"I therefore regret that the following members of the jury have disqualified themselves from playing any further part in these proceedings, and must immediately withdraw.
"Mr Butcher, Mr Baker, Mr Nutter and Ms Candlestickmaker, Mr Grumpy, Mr Sneezy, Mr Kiljoy and the young man with glasses and a pudding basin haircut...."
The list continued, and gradually the opposition benches emptied, until at length Mr Money-Bagges resumed his seat.
The Leader rose. "Ladies and gentlemen, it now falls to us to vote on this grave matter. You are of course free to cast your ballot as you see fit, having carefully considered all the evidence put before you today. You may, on the one hand, agree with the bile and bitter ravings of those members who have now disqualified themselves. Or you may take the view that we are fortunate indeed to be served by one of the greatest minds ever to take office in this or any other authority.
"It is entirely up to you. But if any of you should be unwise enough to ignore the evidence, I shall have no option but to withdraw your special responsibility allowances forthwith. Moreover, those of you awaiting special deliveries of tarmac may find that we shall be forced to make cutbacks."
The Chief paused the Blu-ray recording. What a genius. What mastery of his brief. Mr Money-Bagges was certainly worth every penny of his modest £1,999.99 per hour (+VAT and expenses) fee.
His reveries were interrupted by a cough.
"What is it, Smithers?"
"It is Mrs Chippings on the telephone, Sir".
"Very well, Smithers, and when I have finished my conversation with Muriel, I intend to inspect the model in the Billiard Room".
The familiar voice boomed down the line. "These are dark days indeed, and I cannot say how much you are missed. The place is falling apart under the third rate monkeys who have taken our rightful places".
"Muriel, I have always known that I can rely on your unswerving support, but do not worry. I have put the time now at my disposal to very good use, thanks to my entirely voluntary decision to step aside. I have a new vision for this godforsaken hellhole, and together, Muriel, we shall rule again and take this authority to new and undreamed of heights. It will be just like old times, only better.
"Why don't you get little Higgins, the chauffeur, to motor you over this evening, and I will show you my new vision."
Moments later, the Chief strolled into the Billiard Room where Smithers was waiting.
There set out on the vast Louis Seize mahogany table was a scale model of how the county would look in just a few years from now.
Off the coast stood an array of gigantic platforms pumping gas back to the shining new refinery in the re-named Princess Camilla Coastal Park. Close to the refinery was the vast new Chippings International Airport, with high-speed rail links leading to the Robbie Savage Winter Olympics village and stadium. On part of the complex lay the Reverend Bonnett Ice Skating Experience with its huge auditorium capable of seating 20,000 members of the Oklahoma Church of Latterday Divine Retribution.
Close by and surrounding the former industrial town on the coast were the new settlements of Little Venice with their attractive water-filled streets. Towering above the lot was the refurbished and rebranded Parc Pickering, while just to the north lay the new Prince George Aquatics Centre on the shores of Princess Kate Lake (formerly known as Llangyndeyrn).
This was most satisfactory, the Chief mused, before his gaze shifted to what Muriel liked to call "The Reservations" further north.
Where once had stood the scruffy old county town now sprawled a huge conurbation of housing developments and shopping malls rebranded as Camillaville.
This would all create jobs, jobs, jobs, and further north still in the howling wastelands previously inhabited by a few sheep farmers and scurrilous bloggers rose the attractive concrete hulk of Wylfa C, powering the vibrant economy created by the new Local Development Plan.
This was indeed a vision for the 21st Century, and together with Muriel he would drive it forward.
The Chief's thoughts were interrupted once more by the familiar cough of Smithers.
"Sir, it seems that you are needed to run an election."
At that moment a shaft of sunlight broke through the lowering grey clouds. Things were indeed looking up.