One of modernity’s toxic effects is that words now mean whatever we want them to mean. They cease being a means of communication and become an instrument of power. Lewis Carroll realized this fact:‘When I use a word,’ Humpty Dumpty said in rather a scornful tone, ‘it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less.”
‘The question is,’ said Alice, ‘whether you can make words mean different things.’
‘The question is,’ said Humpty Dumpty, ‘which is to be master—that’s all.’
Modern politicians and “brand builders” both use language in that unreal way—the former to gain power over the electorate, the latter over the market. And the unreality starts with the word “brand.”
“Brand,” with its “personality” matched to the “market profile,” is a modern invention. Branding has little to do with product characteristics because the public has been house-trained to think in terms of brands, not products. A pub-crawler selects a brand of lager not because it’s necessarily the best, but because the “brand builders” have activated the correct response mechanisms. What those mechanisms are differs from brand to brand, but only superficially. What matters aren’t semantics but semiotics; not substance but form; not reality but make-believe.
Similarly, modern politics have practically nothing to do with reality, a fact that is reflected in the words used to describe political concepts. If even the names of parties mean nothing these days, then it’s little wonder that the modern political process almost entirely bypasses reason, in whose name it was concocted in the first place.
Instead politicians follow the same logic and share the same techniques as marketers. Politicians are relying ever more on the sort of focus-group research that has put marketers in such good stead. A marketer who wishes to include some latent appeal to reason will be helped by an elaborate code frowning upon lies but countenancing more subtle deception.
The situation in politics is even graver than in commerce because there are few legal restrictions on what a politician can promise. Unlike a marketer, a politician isn’t prevented by law from telling a lie, such as issuing a promise he has no way (or intention) of keeping. He may suffer for that in the next election, but in all likelihood he won’t. The electorate is like a market: short on memory, long on the desire to see the game played by the rules. And veracity isn’t one of the rules.
Thus, when a politician promises to look after the poor, few voters expect him to do so. Most politicians and voters couldn’t care less about the poor. But left-leaning voters won’t plug themselves into the loop until they hear the proper mantra. Whether the politician actually intends to help the poor is immaterial.
It would matter, however, if the politician announced that such mythical help would be financed by tax increases. The voter’s money is real life. So a politician will mollify the voter by promising to increase spending without increasing either the taxes or the money supply. The voter could then ask where the money is going to come from—especially if the economy is sluggish—but is unlikely to do so. He’s satisfied merely having heard the right noises. He’s ready to consent to be governed.
The difference between “right-wing” and “left-wing” politicians lies not in their actions, much less in their principles, but in the response they wish to elicit from the electorate. A voter leaning right will want a guarantee that his taxes won’t go up, and a politician seeking his vote will grab that opening with alacrity. The elder George Bush’s “Read my lips: no new taxes” was a good example of such marketing. Both the politician and his supporters knew that taxes would go up—they usually do. If the income-tax rate remains the same, some less visible taxes will make up the difference. One way or the other, the state will make us pay more because by doing so it’ll increase its power, and that’s all it craves.
A “conservative” politician is expected to make patriotic noises, whether it’s a commitment to defense (US), sovereignty (UK), anti-Americanism (France) or, implicitly, international dominance (Germany). The pitch of such noises has to be set right: too low, and the core market won’t buy; too high, and the appeal will be narrow. The winner will be a politician who finds the right words to claim, in the language of advertising media buyers, both coverage and depth. The winner will keep his core supporters’ loyalty while appealing to a broader audience.
Modern politicians play the same amusing verbal tricks when they use egalitarian-sounding nicknames. It has to be Tony or Dave; names such as Anthony or David bespeak obtuse traditionalism. It’s as if Philippe Egalité reverted to Duc d’Orléans rather than progress to a more amenable Phil.
One needs a name that can go populist without sounding infantile. Had John Major been named Ronald, he’d probably still be prime minister. “Ron Major” sounds like a square-jawed warrior who’ll lay down his life for his neighbors. Not so “Johnny” Major, who could only be a wimp with a gold chain under his shirt. Likewise, George Bush Sr. probably lost to Bill Clinton partly because his name doesn’t lend itself to populism: “Georgie” Bush would be a polo-playing layabout, not the free world’s leader. His son won two elections, but only because he was known as a cozy “Dubya.” Both candidates in the last US election had irreducible names, so they had to build their brands in other ways.
It’s of such little games that modern politics are made. It’s we who are the big losers.
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