Of Liars, Boris, and the Heart of Darkness

I have a reasonable background in learning how to lie.

Dad, God Rest His Soul, was superlative at it, in fact his remarkable powers of what we would now call gaslighting may well have contributed to the exacerbation of Mum's schizophrenic tendencies, even if his other behaviours hadn't destroyed any consistent idea of reality in our lives. I recognise now what a dangerous though interesting place that was in which to grow up; I also accept that no-one is ever entirely truthful at all times about all things. We walk a line between the bearable and the necessary.

At Dad's funeral I learned that Dad had a DNA test to prove he wasn't the father of two sons somewhere in Liverpool. I honestly would not have put it past him to fake the test if possible; according to my brother, my father specifically requested that my mother not be told of any of this. We have stuck with that, though I suspect these days she would hoot with owlish laughter at the revelation. One of his mistresses was a woman in Liverpool way back when. He always denied everything.

My background may be one of the reasons I give BJ no quarter. I know the look, know the kind of performer I am seeing. Doesn't mean he isn't likeable, affable, charming even, but there's little more to it than getting out of trouble and being cheered. The given performance in the given moment is all there is. He won't, perhaps can't do much else.

So there's little PPE and little testing, and he disappears a lot, and messages out of number 10 are never consistent, save in one thing: Boris is wonderful. They've taken to calling him 'The Boss.' But he's not a boss. He's no leader. He's the Lead. He's an actor. And while I appreciate great acting, it is a dangerous talent to have all by itself in Number 10.

It reminds me of a book that followed me all through my studies. From O level* up through to my Masters, I found myself always facing Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness. This bloody thing nearly killed me, but I got to know it very well. In the book, Marlow describes his travels up the Congo river in pursuit of a man called Kurtz. Kurtz has always been a great orator, a magnificent idealist; but when Marlow finds him, Kurtz has degenerated into a terrifying man-god figure, heads on poles outside his compound; of the man who went out to bring light to the 'savages,' only the ultimate savage remains, far more degraded than any Kurtz sought to illuminate. Outside of words, Kurtz was empty. The heart of darkness does not give a damn what a person says they are.

As perfect bathos,** Johnson's course has been up the river Thames, to no jungle more impenetrable than Westminster palace. I like to think that his own heart of darkness comprises of a pair of clown shoes and a squirting buttonhole. But he too is empty; beyond talk, there seems to be no will to work. Cue performers whose only gift is the repetition that the Emperor is indeed wearing the finest clothes in all the land. And the man himself? Lost money, and used mistresses, backers waiting for their profits. The good news is he'll do anything to be popular, which might prevent some of the more fanatical excesses the right are hoping for; That's it, the best we can hope for.

There is no Marlow here, nor even, I hope a real version of Kurtz. But as far as I know, there has never been a more pronounced vacuum of principle in our government. We're in a place that is both trivial and dangerous. Body bags are the price we pay now, and we will be very lucky if it stops here.

*Yes, it dates me!
** Though the book's last paragraph does suggest the heart of empire/heart of darkness parallel...