In a rare moment of professional integrity, a well-known politician agreed to an interview with that one condition: he’d actually tell the truth. No aides, no spin doctors, no pre-approved lines written by interns who think “accountability” is a fancy cocktail. Just one man, his ego and the faint smell of deceit masked by expensive cologne.
So It Begins
He arrived fifteen minutes late, “fashionably,” he claimed, though “fashionably” is an ambitious term for a man who looked like tax fraud in human form . “Sorry not sorry,” he grunted, collapsing into the chair like democracy into oblivion. “Was on the phone pretending to care about housing. Exhausting. Anyway, double whisky, neat. It’s not like I’m paying, right? Taxpayer tab, baby!”
Before I could even open my notebook, he’d ordered another. “Liquid integrity,” he called it, before letting out a laugh that would curdle public trust.
“I became a politician,” he said, leaning back with the confidence of someone who’s never been told no, “for the same reason everyone does: power, money and the glorious absence of actual work. I tried lawyering once, but apparently you can’t take people’s money forever unless you’re backed by a party.”
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He spoke like a man who’d been interrupting people professionally for decades. “Most days I sit in meetings pretending to care about infrastructure or something. Honestly, I don’t even know what half the reports say. I just wait for my party’s WhatsApp message: green tick for ‘aye,’ red for ‘nay.’ It’s basically democracy on autopilot, mate. Vibe governing, if you will.”
As his whisky level dropped faster than public faith in governmental institutions, the truth began oozing out like an oil spill. “My proudest achievement?” he mused. “Convincing people I’ve achieved anything. It’s an art form, really. You just furrow your brow, say ‘We’re working tirelessly,’ and suddenly you’re trending on social media as a ‘dedicated public servant.’ Mate, I’ve never worked less tirelessly in my entire life!”
On being accused of being out of touch, he choked and nearly snorted whisky out of his nose. “Of course we’re out of touch! You think I mingle with the public by choice? They’re angry, broke and smell like despair. I only meet them when there’s a camera around. The last time I took public transport, someone tried to talk to me. Can you imagine? Horrific experience.”
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He leaned in, voice dropping like he was sharing classified information. “Wanna talk about elections? Easy. Promise the impossible, act shocked when you can’t deliver and distract everyone with nonsense. Announce a new law against something already illegal, slap on a hi-vis jacket, strike a deal with the right foreign state and bam: re-elected! You’d be amazed how far a staged photo of me filling a pothole goes. The country’s on fire, but if Mrs. Jenkins’ driveway looks tidy, I’m a national hero.”
He lit a cigarette under a massive NO SMOKING sign. “Corruption’s not what it used to be, though,” he sighed nostalgically, like a man missing the good old days of brown envelopes and corporal punishment in kindergartens. “We call it ‘consultancy’ now. Approve a few contracts, smile for the press, then ‘retire’ into a six-figure job at the same company. Not bribery, just strategic networking. It’s all about branding.”
By the time climate change came up, he was rolling his eyes like a teenager asked to do chores. “I’ll care about the environment when the Colorado river reaches my wine cellar. Until then, I’ll pose with a recycling bin, mumble about ‘net zero’ and let my assistant Google what that actually means. Most of my colleagues still think carbon neutral’s a new energy drink!”
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He swirled the dregs of his glass, looking momentarily thoughtful. “People say they want honesty in politics, but that’s plain wrong. If I told them what really happens, they’d storm the Capitol. Again. They don’t want truth, they want comfort. They want to believe someone’s steering the ship, even if we’re drunk at the wheel, steering it into a yacht full of donors.”
The third whisky turned him philosophical, or maybe delusional, hard to tell. “You know what’s funny?” he slurred. “You media lot always question what we say, calling it “lies” or whatever, but you love ‘em. You thrive on the whole circus! Without us fibbing, you’d have nothing to tweet about. You’re basically our enablers, like political bartenders serving up fresh outrage every morning. It’s kind of your fault, if you think of it.”
He stood up abruptly, nearly toppling the chair, and almost fell down before adjusting his tie like a man convinced he’s still composed. “No offense,” he said, clearly about to offend, “but the truth’s a terrible business model. Lies pay better, last longer, get you invited to fancier parties and you know it!”
As he swaggered toward the door, he muttered, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a charity gala. It’s for the poor, but the champagne’s imported straight from France and the canapés are sublime.” He winked. “Don’t worry, I’ll post a photo looking humble. Hashtag empathy.”
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And with that, the most honest politician in living memory stumbled into his waiting car, mumbling something about “claiming emotional labor on expenses” while his chauffeur pretended not to exist.
The lights dimmed, the ashtray still smoked, and democracy, bless its exhausted heart, kept limping on, powered entirely by denial, whisky and the faint hope no one’s actually paying attention.
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