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BoJo and the Tiers of Learned Helplessness

They say history is written by the winners.

Rubbish.

History is written by whoever gets in first.

An American president can paint a simple history of his choosing in a series of 140 occasionally coherent characters, and those characters are truth, are history, to an attention span unbefogged by the ensuing noise. Come election time, you say, Trump will be beaten easily.

No he won’t.

Remember the excitement, the hope, that accompanied Tony Blair’s arrival at No. 10 all those years ago? And the memory of cruel disappointment, of failure, that his every bob above the scummy surface of self publicity’s septic tank brings to our still saddened hearts? Yet, with a legacy to build, with the amenity of lies we can all agree on and a majority to support them, Bojo can’t get his messaging clear.

When we were eventually locked down the first time we soared above covid. Stay At Home – Protect the NHS. Bang something loudly on a Thursday to show you’re in.

Simple.

All in it together.

Bojo could be Churchill after all (if he made his own decisions).

But now?

More noise and fog than the Ministry of Sound. No tune – nothing we can hum.

Stress an animal in a situation it can’t control and pretty soon it doesn’t bother to try. Give it a way out and it won’t use it. It learns helplessness. It gets depressed, aggressive or, like Dominic Cummings, does it’s own thing.

We should know the rules.

Sure.

But why bother?

They don’t stay the same and they don’t make any difference. If you’re big enough, feel free to negotiate your own. What, where and when – it’s up to you.

It’s no surprise that in the face of complexity we seek our own simplicity.

Our tears will write our own little histories thank you, while we tire of the tiers of yours.




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