Sunak has been like an automaton for so long. Our leaders shouldn’t fear being seen as human

There’s a man I meet sometimes when I’m out walking the dog. This is not a Deacon Blue song. He lives a street or two away. I don’t know his name and our conversations are brief. There is a nod, or a wave, and on we go. He’s probably well into his 70s, and dresses well, always wearing a formal white shirt. He walks neither too quickly nor too slowly, his hands tucked behind his back. He never seems concerned by any weight of worry and he always has a contented look on his face. In fact, he’s one of the most zen people I’ve encountered.  

The other evening we happened to stop at the top of the path leading into the local park. He made a bit of a fuss over Toastie, as Toastie somehow always manages to bring to himself, and then said, “listen to that.” So I did. 

“It’s a song thrush,” he said. “It’s got a lot to say for itself.” It was a whistling sound, confident, pretty incessant, not settled, but oddly calming. I’d never known that’s what it was before, though I’m sure it’s been familiar for years. And we both listened for a little while, and then he nodded and off he went. Of course, now I’m out of an evening listening for a song thrush or any other bird that can be heard above the clattering parakeets.  

I don’t really understand the practice of mindfulness. I know it works for a lot of people. I think it takes patience that lives beyond me. But trying to stop in a moment and hear a song thrush sing has curious restorative qualities. Focus is needed for something that is both absolute and of no real use. And I can’t listen to Bill Evans’s Peace Piece on EVERY walk. 

The other day, when Labour were sworn in as the new government, Rishi Sunak stood up as leader of the opposition, across from where he had been, to make a brief speech. He must have been dreading it. Think of how roundly his every decision during the election had been derided, how complete the vanquishment had been. But he did it and he sounded completely, oddly human, contrite, but not self-pitying, aware of what he’d brought but carrying some humanity. Which is odd, considering he had been like an automaton for so long. 

Why wasn’t he like that when he was PM and then running the election campaign? It wouldn’t have won the thing, but at least he’d have been seen as, you know, normal.  

A key frustration for so many of us is how, when out of office, a different, more interesting, more empathetic and humane version of former elected officials appears. I don’t mean the sort of chuckling after the destruction here I sit with my former foe that makes up so many political podcasts, but just in moments when they’re asked for opinions or, as some kind of elder seer, for advice.

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Clearly, to get into the political battle they need both a protective hide and a party line. But it would benefit us all if they threw both bits of that off somewhat. Spads and strategists may argue that it’s better. It’s not. 

The new generation rushing into Westminster, with more experience of life lived at the sharp end, will hopefully allow those experiences to inform how they act and speak, rather than shut them out. But while that takes time to bed in, they should all be encouraged to get outside and listen to some song thrushes from time to time.  

Paul McNamee is editor of the Big Issue. Read more of his columns here. Follow him on Twitter.

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