Politicians, step-ladders, and meeting the ground at a rapid rate of knots...

There are some people who should never go up a step-ladder. I count myself amongst them.

I have all the balance of a drunken Glaswegian on a Friday night, trying to walk a straight line, for the boys in blue, while touching his nose with his forefinger, and counting backwards from a hundred.

I should always stay sober, on the bottom rung, or below.

Never venturing upwards.

Never climbing above head height.

Never leaving terra firma behind

It’s safer that way.

Less distressing.

There’s no risk of toppling off…and no pain involved, when muscles and bones meet ground at a rapid rate of knots.

I’ll tell you another thing.

Politicians shouldn’t go up ladders, either. Well…most of them.

There are some notable exceptions. But too few to mention, as Sinatra memorably sang.

But I wouldn’t piss on the rest from a great height, if they were on fire.

They should take any political ambitions they have and stuff them firmly up their rectums before they start climbing.

They should wear lead-lined boots to help keep their feet firmly on the ground, from the moment they feel any desire to rule any country.

They should avoid climbing the heady heights of political power like the plague, and place their upwardly mobile egos where the sun never shines.

But they won’t.

Bastards.

As long as there’s any power to be grabbed, they’ll grab it.

As long as there’s any self-importance to be felt, they’ll feel it with both hands.

As long as there’s anyone climbing up the ladder behind who threatens to overtake them, they’ll do their worst to kick them off.

And as long as there are any lies to be told, moral codes to be broken, ethics to be stamped on, principles to be twisted, and integrity to be conveniently forgotten…they’ll pull, push, stamp, twist, bend and do whatever it takes to get to the top of the ladder.

No matter how high it is. No matter how long it takes.

In all my time on this earth avoiding step-ladders, I can only remember coming across two politicians who gave me any reason to smile with fondness when I thought of them.

No doubt there have been many more. Too many to mention.

But here are my two.

The first one was JFK. Obviously. He wasn’t perfect by any means…and I was too young and too naive to know the true story behind his rise to power.

He was a light in the darkness.

He died of an assassin’s bullet at 12.30pm on Friday, November 22, 1963.

The dream that was Camelot died that day too.

I knew exactly where I was when it happened.

Much like the rest of the world.

And the other was the best Prime Minister Britain never had.

The Scottish barrister and Labour MP John Smith.

He was another light in the darkness.

He died of a massive heart attack at 9.15am on Thursday May 12, 1994.

The dream that was Downing Street died that day too.

I knew exactly where I was when it happened.

Much like the rest of the UK.

Maybe one day politicians will be able to climb their career step-ladders, safe in the knowledge that, when they get to the top, they’ll have achieved something worthwhile. Something glorious. Something unforgettable.

Maybe one day I’ll be able to climb my paint-splattered step-ladders, safe in the knowledge that I won’t end up in A&E at 3.00am with my leg in plaster and hobbling on crutches. My pride broken as well as my right foot. As I did a few years ago.

And maybe one day pigs will fly…

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The above is an extract from my as yet unpublished (and mostly unwritten) book Ad Interruptus.

Like its sisters Ad Lib, and Ad Infinitum (NOW AVAILABLE), it's about creativity, advertising, life, and lots of stuff in between.

You'll find Ad Infinitum, Ad Lib, and Ad Hoc on Amazon, along with my other books, Love & Coffee and Heaven Help Us. In print and ebook. Waiting for you.

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