Politics is a funny business

I HAVE little to do with politicians. So my first "business trip" to Parliament House a decade ago was quite an occasion.

Krygsman

YOU will appreciate that I have very little to do with politicians. My advisory career has been built in the private sector. As a consequence my first "business trip" to Parliament House a decade ago was quite an occasion.

I was part of a group who had been invited to a private dinner with a senior, but now retired, politician. I must admit to having been chuffed by the invitation.

It's a big deal going to a function at Parliament House with a politician who has regularly popped up on television for 20 years. Or at least it is if you are not used to this sort of thing.

The evening was very pleasant. I was seated next to the "famous" politician: he spoke to me about his family; I spoke to him about mine. I was looking for fakery, for political spin, for something oh-so-typical-of-a-politician but I found none. (Although I was very impressed by the shininess of his black shoes.) I would describe this man as a pleasant and agreeable dinner companion.

During dessert the famous politician spoke for maybe 15 minutes on various matters then answered a few questions before politely excusing himself to manage matters in his office. The rest of us stayed for tea and coffee.

About 45 minutes later I was leaving Parliament House and while waiting for a lift I saw the famous politician walking with a group about 20m away. He was surrounded by five people, one of whom I swear was walking backwards so that he could maintain eye contact with the politician.

I deduced that these were either staffers, journalists or other such acolytes that must hang around Parliament House. As the politician and his disciples were walking, he was talking. I couldn't make out what he was saying but every so often his orbiting satellites would burst into laughter.

And I thought, hang on, I've just spent two hours talking to this man and he isn't that funny. Pleasant? Yes. Agreeable? Certainly. Funny to the point of witticisms so sharp that anyone within earshot ignites into uncontrollable laughter? No.

And then it hit me. What I was watching was the power of high office. Here is a prize of ultra-high office: people think you're funny. Really funny. And do you know, I suspect that the famous politician also thought he was funny. And why wouldn't he?

Twenty years of being in the public spotlight, having staffers, media, not to mention the general public and the odd businessman, fawn over your every word might just get you deluded about exactly how funny you really are.

And why stop at the funniness delusion? I bet these acolytes, if asked, would say that this particular politician was also charming and clever and kind to children and animals.

I am aware that not all attention heaped on politicians is of the fawning variety, but even negative attention is a sort of an acknowledgement that their opinions matter.

And, you see, this is the poisoned chalice of high political office: to command power on a scale that most people cannot even conceive of must be absolutely intoxicating. In fact, so intoxicating that once you have held that office you never want to let it go.

But, of course, everyone in high office must at some time let it go. And therein lies the pain. It is the pain of losing what few others have ever experienced.

I often wonder about that famous politician, now retired. Was there a point weeks, months, years after he left public office where he reassessed exactly how funny he was, now that there wasn't a clutch of orbiting acolytes on tap to laugh at his every witticism?

KPMG Partner Bernard Salt's new book is The Big Tilt.
[e-mail]; Twitter.com/bernardsalt; Facebook/BernardSaltDemographer