Political Commentary
Making do without hypocrisy
Hugh Macpherson
During these recess days, there is some time to reflect on the wounds that have been inflicted on the body politic by the all-out warfare of the last year or two at Westminster. One grave effect has been the loss of the vital quality of political hypocrisy which is defined as "acting; playing a part; a feigning to be better than one is; concealment of true character or belief (not necessarily conscious)".
To be sure, such an excellent public attribute as hypocrisy has not been allowed to disappear without a struggle. That great preserver of ancient traditions and beliefs, the Church of England, has kept a tenacious hold on it. When Prince William of Gloucester was so tragically killed recently the reaction of the Archbishop was in the finest tradition of his office. Most people felt very sad about the fate of a bright young man who had himself said that he found it impossible to pursue a normal working life, even in the diplomatic service, because the reaction of people to his royal associations was to be either obsequious or aggressive. With the illness of his father he retired to the pleasant life of a rich young man, involving aeroplanes, country estate and glamorous girl-friends. Far from this raising cries for a Republic most people — especially the young — probably felt little more than slight envy for the jet set life of the handsome Prince. When the tragedy occurred most of the popular newspapers had a field day with accounts of his colour supplement existence. The Archbishop publicly simply spoke of his "devotion to the service of others" and no doubt went off to slip into another of the many extraordinary garments that Archbishops find essential gear for carrying out the wishes of the Almighty.
Politicians have unfortunately lost this capacity to use the meaningless lubricant phrase for the simple reason that there must be at least some suspicion in the public mind that the user is "not necessarily conscious" of what he is concealing. Perhaps the Archbishop has geninely been conditioned by the environment of episcopal palaces into his naive belief in the activities of healthy young men, and can be given the benefit of the doubt by the public.
But part of the growing cynicism about what politicians say is due to the growing sophistication of the voter, because political education has advanced with the development of television. All politicians are suspicious of this communication medium, not only because it requires special techniques which are as much a part of the modern politician's equipment as splendid oratory was in days gone by, but because it provides more people with a degree of political insight than at any time in history. What is more, the restraints on broadcasters and the objectivity of political comment, despite the protests of politicians to the contrary, are greater than ever experienced by political journalists when Lord Beaverbrook and other press Lords were waging war on selected people and causes in the palmy press days before and after the war.
Another reason for the public unwillingness to take much of what politicians say with other than a lrage pinch of salt was the conscious decision by Mr Harold Wilson to alter the traditional relationship between the Prime Minister and the press during his early days as Leader of the Opposition in 1963. Where Harold Macmillan rarely saw even the Parliamentary Lobby, and Sir Alec treated pressmen amiably enough as a breed of literate ghillies, Mr Wilson genuinely enjoyed the company of journalists and believed that a politician could be absolutely open, if not about all the facts of politics, then about the professional machinery which makes it into a fascinating game of chess, for the players if not always for the pawns.
This had a tremendous initial success with journalists and it was sincerely intended. No less a person than Mr Anthony Howard, in compiling a minute account of the 1964 election campaign (The Making of the Prime Minister; Cape, descirbed himself and co-author Richard West as "wary admirers of Mr Harold Wilson" and went on to say how they were "deeply grateful to him for his unfailing helpfulness and frankness . . . " Certainly the wariness finally conquered the admiration but it, too, was sincerely meant, for journalists no less than Mr Wilson Nearly thought they were entering a new era of open relationships with top politicians.
Of course this sort of relationship between professionals playing the same game could not survive. Since politics, like religion, can only be successful with a io9d measure of hypocrisy, relationihi0 bei tween Mr Wilson and the press deteriorated to the point where the media now figure just behind the Tories and the Civil Service in the former Prime Minister's personal demonology. Mr Heath and other Tory leaders recognised the dangers of familiarity early on and made the firm resolve that when they came into office a new austere relationship with the communications media would be the order of the day.
Mr Heath's personal press officer in the House of Commons, who had served him well in the bleak days of opposition, disappeared into industry not to be replaced, and a profesiional diplomat was installed in the Press Office at No. 10 to keep things on a proper footing. All the Barnum and Bailey boys from the Central Office who had striven so assiduously to make Mr Heath seem human during the dark days of opposition were put to less onerous tasks, and Mr Heath's official frown was distributed around the press officers of other ministers to let it be known that the cult of the personality was out and all major interviews were to be cleared with No. 10.
This dealt with the errors of Mr Wilson. Unfortunately it could not deal with the powei of television and the press when things started to go wrong for the Government—first in the refusal of the electorate to become enthusiastic Europeans, and then in the necessity to stuff all the lame ducks with pound notes.
Things began to melt, and although even Mr Peregrine Worsthorne found the atmosphere in the austere Cabinet room chilly in April of this year (" No jokes or private confidences, not a trace of the charm or bonhomie with which these rather gaunt occasions are usually enlivened"), by June Mr Robert Carvel of the Evening Standard and his editor Mr Charles Wintour received a warmer welcome (" He speaks frankly about more personal things . . . How lonely is the job?") in the White Drawing Room amidst a couple of Corots and pictures of Sir Malcolm Sargent and the Queen Mother. If Barnum and Bailey were not quite back in business at least the trimmings were by Fortnum and Mason.
The trouble is that people now have even less respect for politicians than before. When Mr Wilson belatedly expresses Opposition support for the Government's commendably firm stand on the Uganda Asian question, people simplY think he is playing the political game. When Mr Heath protests that his Industrial Relations Act, his personal lame albatross, was designed to help the trade unions it sends ripples of merriment up and down the dole queues. Everyone thought he was out to whip the unions into line, which is one of the reasons they put him in No. 10. Alas, for both, the great attribute of hypocrisy, is no longer available. The elec. torate knows better.
Previous page
