After the recent general election in the UK, in which the Conservative Party’s Prime Minister Theresa May needlessly threw away a slim overall majority, the knives flew so fast you might have thought you were watching a team of Japanese sushi chefs. George Osborne, the former Tory Party Chancellor of the Exchequer, who was swiftly defenestrated by Mrs May after she became PM, and who now is Editor of the Evening Standard – a once glorious newspaper which today is full of Z-List celebrity gossip and sensationalist tripe – was first in line to stick a hatchet in her back. On TV he said: “Theresa May is just a dead woman walking; it’s just how long she is gonna remain on death row.” Georgie could hardly keep the smile from his face as he said these words, such was his gleeful Schadenfreude. One of the worst Chancellors in decades rubbishes one of the worst Prime Ministers in decades: like ugly glove puppets pelting one another with paperclips.
But I suspect Osborne hasn’t a clue about the origin of this saying, which now pops up everywhere. It seems to have replaced “lame duck” as a description of anyone who is finished, washed up, career over.
One of the worst Chancellors in decades rubbishes one of the worst Prime Ministers in decades: one ugly glove puppet pelts another with paperclips.
But for me there is a much older precedent for this suggestion that death stalks your every move, one that comes from ancient Rome. In the days of Julius Caesar, when Roman generals who had achieved victories returned to Rome to parade in triumph, they would usually be accompanied by an Auriga – a slave with the status of a gladiator. As the general lapped up the applause of the crowds, the Auriga, holding a golden crown above the general’s head, would whisper in his ears “memento homo” – “remember man”. The implication was that the general should not forget that, despite his military prowess, he was not a god, not immortal; that he was, in effect, a dead man walking.
This attitude perhaps reached its greatest embodiment in the form of Marcus Aurelius, Emperor of Rome from 121 to 180 AD, and the last of what Niccolò Machiavelli called the ‘Five Good Emperors’, who ruled by absolute power but with great tolerance and benevolence. Marcus Aurelius, a Stoic, compiled a series of short writings, now known as Meditations. They remain today a tremendously wise guide as to how to live a balanced and indeed stress-free life. Not caring too much about anything, might be one way of summing up the Meditations, for tomorrow (or later) you are forgotten dust.
When I watched the smirking George Osborne deliver his verdict on Theresa May – and my own position is simply that of imposing a curse on all politicians, of any party or group – Marcus Aurelius came to mind. Osborne’s readiness to condemn May’s blunder (for such it was) was not motivated by a desire to see the UK governed intelligently, guided thoughtfully, and its people nurtured and cared for. No. It was prompted by his own greed for power, the sense that he would be welcomed back into Parliament by his Conservative allies, and – at last – reach the pinnacle of the greasy pole and stroll into No. 10 Downing Street at the head of a supposedly less nasty Tory Party. If and when May is cast adrift, taken out the back and shot by her crocodile tears-besmirched friends, Osborne stands a good chance of re-entering politics, heavens help us. As Marcus Aurelius said: “If it is not the right thing to do, never do it. If it is not the truth, never say it.”
Marcus Aurelius should be on Osborne’s (and every politician’s) bedside table: “Remember that man lives only in the present, in this fleeting instant: all the rest of his life is either past and gone, or not yet known. This mortal life is a little thing, lived in a little corner of the earth; and little too is the longest fame to come, dependent as it is on the succession of fast-perishing little people who have no knowledge even of their own self, much less of one long dead and gone.” If Marcus Aurelius is too much for them, then what about Percy Bysshe Shelley’s Ozymandias:
‘I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said – “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert…Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that the sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.’
I suppose that Osborne can be forgiven for adding his hatchet to Theresa’s back – after all, to say that she is a dead woman walking is certainly true, metaphorically at least, and – given her Type 1 diabetes – perhaps literally too. But, as with all politicians, Osborne’s time-frame is not the here and now, not the present moment; it is the next five years, and the next, and the next – the delusion that power might be possible and that, having obtained it, he would use it well.
Still, if we can Brexit and Trump then why not complete the three-card trick and have a Marxist for PM?
A Marxist-inspired chimera may indeed lie ahead, of course. As the DUP blackmails the Government – we only want a billion pounds, and maybe the chance to ban gay marriage – we are surrounded by scoundrels, in charge of the country, holding the purse strings, oblivious to bigger pictures while pretending to have a grasp of what is going on. The words ‘hell and handcart’ spring to mind; the death of dignity, modesty, decorum, marches on. Many people became hysterical after the referendum voted to leave the EU, claiming that we were descending into a form of chaotic quasi-authoritarianism. The way matters are headed, you ain’t seen nothing yet.
If more of us carried around in our heads the ancient Roman injunction ‘memento homo’ it might engender a little less shouting, a little more reflection.