Politicians come in all stripes. Staid and serious, like Angela Merkel; wily and gregarious, like Bertie Ahern; prudish and antiquated, like Jacob Rees-Mogg. Brutish like Donald Trump and Jair Bolsonaro. We are even largely accepting (to a point) of those in possession of vast moral lassitude, like Boris Johnson. It seems there is a particular quality we have a harder time wrapping our heads around: normal.
It’s a strange aspect of contemporary politics that those we choose to lead us are often the least like us. Johnson could hardly lay claim to any of the trappings of an average person. People liked him for his bumbling charisma, his affable warmth no matter how affected, his proclivity to rattle off lines of Ancient Greek as though it were his mother tongue. Attractive qualities in a prime minister? It depends on who you ask. But normal? Nowhere near.
And it is not much different in the current Conservative Party leadership contest. Rishi Sunak and his wife are named on the Sunday Times rich list as the 222nd wealthiest in the country, with a 730 million fortune. He was a Fulbright Scholar and has an MBA from Stanford. Liz Truss, on the other hand, may come from more conventional surroundings. But her personal affectations and strange cadence set her apart. Speaking to the Financial Times, one Tory MP described her as “a very odd person ... not good or bad — just very weird”. She is probably going to be prime minister in just a few weeks.
Being “normal” is of course no virtue nor failing. But politicians strive to imitate it all the time. Election season sees them flood to pubs and greasy spoons, pretending they do this all the time, grasping for that electoral sacred cow: relatability. It does not always work. When Owen Smith was vying to be leader of the Labour Party in 2016 he described a cappuccino he received in a Welsh cafe as a “frothy coffee”, in an erroneous attempt not to appear like a metropolitan elite but instead an average Joe. Of course the attempt fell flat because everyone knows what a cappuccino is. More recently, Sunak was caught out by not knowing that McDonald’s had changed its menu in the two years since the outset of the pandemic. Inauthenticity, then, seems far more of a problem.
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It’s never something Johnson has struggled with. In 2013 he fumbled over how much a loaf of bread might cost, but “I can tell you the price of a bottle of champagne” he said, somehow rescuing an otherwise doomed interaction. This mode of authentic elitism is not just incidental to his former popularity, but integral to it. The argument for normalcy — “people might vote for me if they think they are like me” — simply flies in the face of all evidence.
Donald Trump, who for a time lived in a gold-plated apartment in a building called Trump Tower in downtown Manhattan, was as far from normal as they come. It didn’t prevent him from inspiring feverous loyalty in vast swathes of the American electorate. George W Bush may have adopted a consciously folksy idiolect in a bid to appeal to the common man, but he was part of a powerful political dynasty and as transparently unfolksy as they come. Voters might make frequent appeals to the inherent value of relatability — it was a core criticism of Hillary Clinton during the 2016 presidential race — but do we actually care?
I am reminded of Finland’s headline-making, 36-year-old premier Sanna Marin — who was the youngest head of government in the world at the time she was elected — and the recent domestic scandal she has found herself embroiled in. Videos of her partying with friends — “boisterously” in her own words — were leaked to the public. It is an intensely familiar scene: Marin dances, poses for the camera, mimes lyrics and seems to be having, in the simplest of terms, a lovely time.
Further to her efforts to behave like a normal young woman with friends, Marin has had to issue a second apology this week. This time it was thanks to pictures taken in her summer residence and posted on social media by TikTok influencer Sabina Särkkä. It depicts two topless women (otherwise clothed) kissing. It may be scandalous to those of a certain sensibility, but to most it’s completely harmless.
A furore has ensued. How unbecoming of a prime minister, no less a lady prime minister. Just proof, she is not fit for office, lacking the seriousness and gravitas granted by age. Leaders wear suits and ties. Marin’s leather jackets and denim shorts are more befitting of a responsibility-free concert groupie, not a politician grappling with the seismic philosophical and political question of joining Nato. Isn’t there a war on, by the way?
But for all the priggish pearl-clutching at her alleged indiscretion, it seems the ultimate, subconscious charge is a simple one. No one can truly be concerned at the apparently shocking news that a woman drinks and parties with her friends. No. It is the opposite: this is the most normal way I have ever seen a politician behave, certainly more commonplace than those who scheme over pinot noir in smoky men’s clubs. And the viral machine of social media has kicked into gear because of it. The ordinariness of it all is exactly why it has turned heads.
So this quest for relatability seems a futile one. If not actually relatable you risk the charge of inauthenticity — a crime far worse than posh. If actually relatable — as Marin must have learned — you undermine your authority. Leaders, they’re not like us. And in any case, we don’t want them to be.