you,” she said.
This was my make or break moment. My night at Gethsemane. I could still jump ship from the political movement that I myself had set in motion. On the other hand, didn’t I also have a responsibility towards all those I’d dragged along with me? I invited my Best Party friends Heiða and Óttarr to an extended crisis meeting. These two could see things with a precision that I had lost. Heiða in particular always saw everything in crystal clear terms. “You’ve succeeded,” she told me, “in setting something up in politics—and that’s what many have tried, but none have yet managed. The Best Party works, and it’s going to change politics—and not just here in Iceland.”
Of course that was a comforting thought, but also kind of creepy. Did I really feel like devoting myself exclusively to practical matters for the next four years and shelving the whole of my previous life? Did I really feel like spending my time in meetings about day care centers, short distance public transport, protection of minors, and budgets? Did I feel like throwing my weight around on behalf of the construction of the new regional hospital in Reykjavík? Or spending months boning up on the operation and management of the domestic airport? What I seemed to be up against were almost exclusively practical matters—and that’s really not my type of thing! I think creatively. Mymental process is tangled, erratic, and uncontrolled. Four years as mayor of Reykjavík would be something like four years in jail.
A big election meeting was scheduled for the next day at Reykjavík University. In the evening Jóga sent me to spend some time in the bathtub. I lay in the hot water and mulled things over until I had grasped the situation. Of course they all wanted me to continue and see the thing through, but surely everyone would understand if I dropped it all. Then I thought of the countless people who actually wanted to vote for me. Did I really want to disappoint them? Simply chicken out, call the whole thing off, just before the big finale?
And in that moment, there in the tub, the decision was made.
I’d leave it to chance.
I’d do it. I shared my decision with Jóga.
I then reported to Einar Örn and said I’d made a decision. I’d
withdraw
the candidacy of the Best Party, I told them, and inform the election body. I’d lost track of things and didn’t trust myself to do this job. Einar showed understanding and seemed to respect my decision.
“Joke!” I said. “I was just a bit hung over, but now I feel like a new me. Like Felix from the ashes!”
“Now at least they’ll all think you’re a total idiot!”
That night I slept extremely well—like someone who knows that he’s made the right decision. The next day I told no one about it, not even Heiða. I put on aserious and troubled demeanor, quite contrary to my habit. The representatives of the other parties gave their election speeches. Then it was my turn. “At first I thought the idea pretty awesome,” I began. “But then things got more confusing, and now the whole thing is kind of out of control. I’m not a politician. I am a comedian, and politics isn’t my profession. Therefore, I hereby announce that the Best Party has decided to withdraw its candidacy from the upcoming city election.”
There was silence. On the faces of the students, disappointment spread. The other candidates exchanged meaningful glances and concealed their satisfaction with difficulty.
“Joke!”
Then laughter broke out.
I explained in several ensuing interviews that it was high time that artists in Reykjavík took over the helm. Very few people were of the opinion that artists had any place at all in politics. But I hastened to point out to them that Iceland was known around the world for its art. It was our writers and artists in particular who ensured we had fame and reputation abroad, so it was high time to let Icelandic artists finally get the recognition they
This was my make or break moment. My night at Gethsemane. I could still jump ship from the political movement that I myself had set in motion. On the other hand, didn’t I also have a responsibility towards all those I’d dragged along with me? I invited my Best Party friends Heiða and Óttarr to an extended crisis meeting. These two could see things with a precision that I had lost. Heiða in particular always saw everything in crystal clear terms. “You’ve succeeded,” she told me, “in setting something up in politics—and that’s what many have tried, but none have yet managed. The Best Party works, and it’s going to change politics—and not just here in Iceland.”
Of course that was a comforting thought, but also kind of creepy. Did I really feel like devoting myself exclusively to practical matters for the next four years and shelving the whole of my previous life? Did I really feel like spending my time in meetings about day care centers, short distance public transport, protection of minors, and budgets? Did I feel like throwing my weight around on behalf of the construction of the new regional hospital in Reykjavík? Or spending months boning up on the operation and management of the domestic airport? What I seemed to be up against were almost exclusively practical matters—and that’s really not my type of thing! I think creatively. Mymental process is tangled, erratic, and uncontrolled. Four years as mayor of Reykjavík would be something like four years in jail.
A big election meeting was scheduled for the next day at Reykjavík University. In the evening Jóga sent me to spend some time in the bathtub. I lay in the hot water and mulled things over until I had grasped the situation. Of course they all wanted me to continue and see the thing through, but surely everyone would understand if I dropped it all. Then I thought of the countless people who actually wanted to vote for me. Did I really want to disappoint them? Simply chicken out, call the whole thing off, just before the big finale?
And in that moment, there in the tub, the decision was made.
I’d leave it to chance.
I’d do it. I shared my decision with Jóga.
I then reported to Einar Örn and said I’d made a decision. I’d
withdraw
the candidacy of the Best Party, I told them, and inform the election body. I’d lost track of things and didn’t trust myself to do this job. Einar showed understanding and seemed to respect my decision.
“Joke!” I said. “I was just a bit hung over, but now I feel like a new me. Like Felix from the ashes!”
“Now at least they’ll all think you’re a total idiot!”
That night I slept extremely well—like someone who knows that he’s made the right decision. The next day I told no one about it, not even Heiða. I put on aserious and troubled demeanor, quite contrary to my habit. The representatives of the other parties gave their election speeches. Then it was my turn. “At first I thought the idea pretty awesome,” I began. “But then things got more confusing, and now the whole thing is kind of out of control. I’m not a politician. I am a comedian, and politics isn’t my profession. Therefore, I hereby announce that the Best Party has decided to withdraw its candidacy from the upcoming city election.”
There was silence. On the faces of the students, disappointment spread. The other candidates exchanged meaningful glances and concealed their satisfaction with difficulty.
“Joke!”
Then laughter broke out.
I explained in several ensuing interviews that it was high time that artists in Reykjavík took over the helm. Very few people were of the opinion that artists had any place at all in politics. But I hastened to point out to them that Iceland was known around the world for its art. It was our writers and artists in particular who ensured we had fame and reputation abroad, so it was high time to let Icelandic artists finally get the recognition they
Similar Books
