I was at a party recently where a self-important woman looked disdainfully at my proffered hand before limply shaking it as if it were a wet dishcloth crawling with E. coli. After briefly touching my fingers, her lip curled as she demanded to know who I was and what I did for a living. It felt like an audience with a medieval monarch – the hauteur was extraordinary. As a youngster, such imperious behaviour would have crushed me. But my older self was amused by the Lady Bracknell schtick.
Some people, regardless of their exalted position in life, manage to be effortlessly down-to-earth, putting you instantly at your ease. The difference, in my experience, is that the latter don’t take themselves too seriously. While filming Captain Corelli’s Mandolin on the island of Kefalonia, the late, great John Hurt would arrive on set by moped. His co-star, Nicolas Cage, by contrast, would appear in the back of a chauffeur-driven limousine. Asked why he didn’t use the limousine at his disposal, Hurt said that he wanted to avoid looking ‘like a luvvie’. Ditching the fancy car was a way of staying grounded.
Groundedness is something we should all maintain. Having a bunch of mates to bring you back down to earth is essential. No matter how high and mighty you think you’ve got, they’ll always be ready with a put-down. Adopting airs and graces with people who’ve known you since school is to invite ridicule. Kids are also excellent for keeping your feet on the ground. If I ever feel tempted to humble-brag about an achievement, my youngest will say: ‘Dad, honestly, no one cares.’
Self-effacement is healthy. Gain a sense of undue importance and, before you know it, your grip on reality begins to loosen. Suddenly you’re behaving like a Middle Eastern potentate. I’ve had bosses with towering egos who swaggered around, making pronouncements without any sense of how ridiculous they looked. One puffed himself up during a meeting and said, without any trace of irony: ‘I earn a lotta money.’ A former chief executive of mine sent out a weekly newsletter about his exploits. We waited with bated breath for each edition, not because we were interested in what he’d been up to, but for the comedy value. It was a masterclass in self-aggrandisement.
A friend and I were at a gathering at the Athenaeum Club in Pall Mall, which was full of very grand people. The eyes of the great and the good would briefly alight on you, then, realising you were no one important, sweep the room for someone who was. We ate the canapés, drank the warm white wine, made polite conversation, then ran giggling through the night to the nearest pub via McDonald’s (my Filet-O-Fish was much more satisfying than the finger food we’d just had).
Of course, it doesn’t help that the world seems to be run by people who take themselves far too seriously. Like characters in a Gilbert & Sullivan opera, dictators have a penchant for Ruritanian-style military uniform with oversized hats, rows of medals for battles they never fought (disconcertingly, Gaddafi also liked to wear make-up), and ludicrous titles. Any self-respecting autocrat also needs a billion-dollar palace filled with eye-wateringly expensive tat. When looters make off with all that overpriced junk following the inevitable coup, personal items will often be discovered – like the photographs of Assad in his underpants – which compound the humiliation.
We ate the canapés, drank the warm white wine, made polite conversation, then ran giggling through the night to the nearest pub via McDonald’s
Democratic leaders also easily lose perspective – the most obvious example being The Donald (a man who apparently thinks it’s undignified for him to walk up a broken escalator). His superlatives are legendary: ‘I know words. I have the best words.’ And when Labour swept into power at the last election – mainly because they weren’t the Tories – they were soon acting in an entitled way. In fact, Starmer quickly became a dead ringer for Napoleon in Animal Farm. ‘Two legs good, four legs bad’ was strangely apposite.
There are exceptions, though. Instead of occupying the grand official residence, the president of Uruguay from 2010 to 2015, José Mujica, lived on a ramshackle farm, growing his own food and driving a 1987 Volkswagen Beetle. He also gave away most of his pay. Pope Francis, similarly, preferred a lifestyle more modest than his position warranted, choosing to live in the Vatican guesthouse rather than the more elaborate papal apartments.
So, before you’re tempted to start clicking your fingers at waiters or referring to yourself in the third person, remember the Roman slaves who would walk behind victorious commanders whispering ‘memento mori’ in their ear. AI chatbots have been criticised recently for being too ingratiating. Perhaps ChatGPT’s algorithms could be recalibrated so that, instead of flattering us, it occasionally responds with ‘memento mori’ too. Or, more bluntly: ‘You need to get over yourself.’ Global leaders aren’t generally known for their humility. But, given the current instability, it might be worth reminding the people who hold the world’s fate in their hands that they’re, frankly, not all that. It may not dent their hubris, but anything’s worth a try.
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