Don't Call Politicians Clowns. I Have A Much Better Word.

The word arrives with such a satisfying thwack. Like a cream pie in the face.

We watch as a minister stumbles through a press conference, trying not to admit her pet project is an abject failure. A senator is caught drunk at a footy match he flew to first class at taxpayer expense. A president grins through a scandal with the serene vacancy of a man who has genuinely forgotten what shame is.

And inevitably, the word rises to our lips. From the gallery, from the comments section, from the pub, comes the verdict, spat out with righteous condemnation:

“Clown!”

I understand the impulse. I have felt it myself. But I must object. This designation is grossly unfair. Not to the politicians. To the clowns.

Calling incompetent leaders “clowns” is not just inaccurate. It’s a category error of the highest order. On behalf of myself and my colleagues, I take issue.

I have lived many lives as a clown. On stage and screen as stand up comic, in children’s hospital wards as a clowndoctor, as a humour therapist working with dementia and trauma, and as an international speaker spreading the gospel of laughter’s benefits.

There was no room for stupidity or incompetence in any of these roles. What was required was being clown-smart. Bringing to bear sensitivity, presence, compassion.

Take the skill set required in my clowndoctoring days.

Walk into a children’s ward projecting energy while being non-threatening. Read the room in seconds: worried parents, bored children, a nurse who hasn’t sat down since seven. Recalibrate your entire being toward warmth and play.

Do all of this without notes. Do it right now, because that small person in the bed hasn’t laughed in a while and they need you to reconnect them with joy. Make a fluffy bunny appear in your empty hand. Take a mock bow and bang your head against an IV stand. Feel the inner glow that comes from hearing a child’s laughter.

This is being in touch with a specialised species of intelligence, largely absent from most parliamentary conference sessions.

I have met a great many politicians. For some years, I impersonated them and got to know a few of them pretty well. And here is what I found: they are not, as a collective noun, stupid. Some are genuinely remarkable. Curious, principled, possessed of a stamina and tolerance for tedium that would defeat most of us within a fortnight.

And then, yes, there are the others.

The performatively outraged. The institutionally vain. The ones who have confused the holding of power with the deserving of it. I have shaken hands with pollies who looked at me with the eyes of someone calculating my usefulness, arrived at a number, and then smiled accordingly or moved on to a better investment.

These are real failures. They deserve to be named and satirised, voted out, and occasionally prosecuted. But they do not deserve to be called clowns. They have not earned that honour.

I actually wish some politicians were more like clowns.

Imagine leaders who are attuned to the emotional state of their constituents. Who possess an understanding of timing, which is vital in both comedy and communication.

Picture elected representatives who can admit vulnerability, share humanity, and create connection. Leaders who, like clowns, know that their role is not to elevate themselves, but to elevate others. Most clowns work this out by their second gig.

A clown called Anthony Ackroyd impersonating Aussie Prime Minister Kevin Rudd

Language shapes thought. So what should we call incompetent, venal politicians?

Clown is clearly unacceptable. Perhaps Fool? Buffoon? These words have their origins in previous centuries, used to describe performers who satirised social pretensions and spoke truth to power. They are not fit for our purpose.

To find the right word, we go back to ancient Greece. In classical theatre, there was a stock comic character: the Alazon.

The Alazon is the impostor whose promises are a lie. Inflated and hollow. The braggart who exaggerates their own abilities or achievements to mask ineptitude, claiming to be more than they are and hoping no one checks the footnotes.

The comic tradition knows this character well. And knows this character is the opposite of a true clown. Pompous and greedy, where the clown is humble and generous. Incapable of self-awareness, unlike the clown who must face his foibles.

In the end, the Alazon is exposed as arrogant and empty and suffers a humiliating downfall.

One type of Alazon was “The Boastful Soldier”. Minister of War perhaps…?

So the next time a politician spectacularly misunderstands the room, the brief, the country, and the basic mechanics of cause and effect, resist the temptation to reach for the C-word.

Instead, hiss to the person beside you, “Bloody Alazon!”

The great Charlie Chaplin famously said, “I remain just one thing, and one thing only, and that is a clown. It places me on a far higher plane than any politician.”

But clowns are not elitist. Our ranks are open to anyone with humour, heart, and humility.

Even politicians.

You know…

the non-Alazon type.

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Thanks for reading and all the best - Anthony

anthonyackroyd.life

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