Falling in love with the Great British Public
As Britain wakes up to a new Prime Minister, and the first coalition government since World War 2, Michael Foley, author of Age of Absurdity, takes a light-hearted look at the secrets of success of David Cameron and Nick Clegg in the election that we can now finally say is finished.
I never thought I’d say this but I’m suddenly in love with the binge-drinking, celebrity-worshipping, bigoted, snobbish, xenophobic Great British Public. I take my hat off to Jason Pitbull, Sharon Happy Hour and Mr and Mrs Salubrious Outer Suburb for their unique achievement on May 6th. They rejected apathy by turning out in greater numbers than before and conformity by refusing to follow any pattern or wholeheartedly endorse any party. They rejected racists, nationalists and celebrities. They kicked out Jacqui Smith, the hypocrite who tried to pass puritanical sex laws while her husband was hiring pornographic videos at the taxpayer’s expense. They kicked out George Galloway, the narcissist who posed as a man of the people in East London and then posed in a catsuit on Celebrity Big Brother. They kicked out Lembit Opik, the MP with a different understanding of the term ‘party man’, who demonstrated Lib Dem tolerance for immigrants by dumping an ageing British TV presenter for a Romanian Cheeky Girl. Even more amazing, they kicked out Peter Robinson, the righteous Christian with the dubious property deals, toy-boy-loving wife and luxury second home in Florida.
But most amazing of all, in the silence and solitude of the polling booth, with only the ballot form and blunt pencil for distraction, the Great British Public suddenly understood the vacuity of Nick Clegg and realised that the so-called breath of fresh air was actually hot air. The first TV debate put me to sleep, as I expected, but the ‘result’ woke me up with a jolt. I was astounded to find that everyone considered Clegg a runaway winner. I did indeed agree that he talked eloquently – but only with his hands. What came out of his mouth were empty platitudes about fairness and change, attempts to score points by accusing his rivals of point-scoring and attempts to show himself above their bickering by bickering with each of them himself.
Why was Clegg considered so superior? Surely no one could have fallen for the oldest tricks in the ingratiation handbook – gratuitous use of first names and agreeing with everything your interlocutors say? I have to tell you, Nick, that if we ever meet and you start to answer a question by saying, ‘Michael, you’re exactly right’, I’ll puke over your yellow tie.
What seems to have seduced everyone was Clegg’s combination of boyish eagerness and novelty value. And the crucial factor in his boyish appeal was surely his haircut, a touch of image-making genius – short, with a few bits sticking out at the front and up at the back, loveably mischievous like a boy in the William books, but not spiky enough to alarm Middle England. Most of the credit for the Clegg surge should go to his hair stylist.
This vindicates my theory on the importance of hair for male politicians. In The Age of Absurdity I suggested that no man with significant hair loss can now be elected to major public office. Consider Sylvio Berlusconi, who lost his hair and was kicked out of office, then had a hair transplant and got voted back in. Or Neil Kinnock and William Hague who failed to get elected not because of personalities or policies but because they were both chrome domes. Luckily for the Conservatives, they finally understood this and got rid of Ian Duncan Smith who was not only shining on top but had two white side tufts. David Cameron does have the essential dense and dark cover – but is terribly misusing this crucial asset. Far from making him look boyish, his sleek style is reminiscent of those old-style Tories with self-basting hair.
As for Gordon, it’s hard to imagine anyone less boyish and novel. He’s about as bouncy, bubbly and fresh as one of those ancient Communist leaders, hunched into a greatcoat on a balcony and scowling morosely at an endless parade of missiles and tanks. Total humiliation was surely the fate of someone so obviously over – but the Great British Public seem to have exercised compassion. Or maybe it’s just because he at least has a thick head of hair.
Michael Foley was born in Derry, Northern Ireland, but since 1972 he has lived in London, working as a Lecturer in Information Technology. He has published four novels, four collections of poetry and a collection of translations from French poetry, which have earned impressive reviews from The Guardian, New Statesman and New York Times. The Age of Absurdity is his first non-fiction book.
