Don't be fooled - ice cold Keir understands Machiavelli all too well

In fairness, the 16th-century writer and diplomat gave his subsequent ­readers ­plenty of reasons to conclude he had a cynical, manipulative view of politics and human nature. He maintained that politics and morality aren’t the same thing, ­famously arguing that “it is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both”, suggesting that practical rulers should utterly

destroy their enemies rather than leave ­survivors to wreak revenge in due course, and ­recommended princes maintain a healthy capacity for ruthlessness in their decision-making if they hope to thrive and survive.

But his idea of what makes for an ­effective stateman is a world away from the Dick Dastardly caricatures of modern politicians and party functionaries who persuade the media to describe them as modern ­Machiavels.

In fairness, the culture has given ­impressionable middle-aged men bad role models. Life mirrors art, as they say.

And just as Gordon Ramsay convinced a ­generation of would-be celebrity cooks that chewing out their sous chefs is the best way to perfect a consommé and ­demonstrate your professional chops in the kitchen, ­political dramas have also been ­glamourisers and recruiting sergeants for particular ideas of how politics ought to work and the kind of person you need to be to thrive in this environment.

For the children of the early 2000s, The West Wing spawned a generation of Sam Seaborns and Toby Zieglers, convinced that the best way to resolve intractable ­political issues is getting your politician to deliver a good speech. Barack Obama’s stint in the White House was probably the apogee of this vision of politics – and he was great casting for the role.

I like good rhetoric as much as the next guy – probably more so, as someone who talks for a living – but as a vision of politics, the liberal fantasia left a lot to be desired, as did the generation of heroic nerds whose delusions of how political change is ­realised that it helped cultivate.

But the same goes for The Thick of It. Instead of being taken as a critical satire on the cynicism and vacuity of late New Labour politics, a surprising number of people seem to have mistaken Armando Iannucci’s vision of a dysfunctional government dominated by bullying Scotsmen as a how-to guide to political success.

Niccolo Machiavelli (Image: Phil Cardamone)

Because the modern politician who ­acquires a reputation for being ­Machiavellian is generally known to be a thug and a backstabber. They have no interest in clothing their naked villainy in anything as gauche and unworldly as morality or religion. Unlike Richard III or Francis Urquhart, they want to play a devil – and seem a devil too.

These people see themselves as “operators” and political “players”, and, as part of this often-unearned political identity, often find it necessary to brag about their closeness to leading politicians, while ­engaging in petty and pound-shop ­factionalism, preening themselves at the idea their names strike fear into the hearts of their internal and external enemies.

Personal glory

All political parties of any size attract spirits like this – and like bluebottles in summer, their numbers always multiply the closer a party is to power, confidently sidelining and supplanting time-served activists who trod the pavements for their tribe when the sun wasn’t shining so brightly and there was no prospect of ­personal glory in doing so.

In this General Election, I am ­unstunned to discover that several of my ambitious university ­contemporaries – last seen as Labour students during the glory days of Tony Blair and Gordon Brown – have suddenly shed their private-sector jobs to make themselves available for election. It isn’t just wee Douglas Alexander who is taking us back to the future.

Whatever party these indispensable sociopaths burrow their way into, these characters are not only as cynical as the deeply blue sea, but also want everyone to know how desperately cynical they are. These aren’t people who’ve concluded it’s better to be feared than loved. ­Because they’re thoroughly unlovable in the first place, fear – and usually a genius for ­pandering upwards – is all they’ve got. And as last week has demonstrated, the right wing of the Labour Party is planted thick with them.

Which brings us back to Machiavelli.

Because this kind of overt and boastful nastiness is the exact opposite of what he counselled cunning users and ­movers of people to do.

The truly calculating statesman, he stressed, should take care “to appear to everyone who sees and hears him completely merciful, faithful, kind, upright, and religious” because “men judge generally more by the eye than by the hand because everybody can see you, but few come in touch with you. Everyone sees what you appear to be, but few really know what you are”.

Being famous as a cruelly malicious person and a stranger to the truth ­defeats the point. The devil is a man with ­smiling eyes. If you’re known as a Prince of ­Darkness, chances are you aren’t doing it properly.

Brazen lies

Sir Keir Starmer, by contrast, seems to understand Machavelli’s insight all too well. For a man whose time in politics has been characterised by an ­astonishing and brazen series of lies, Starmer’s ­reputation for probity remains strangely robust. More than that – probity and ­fidelity (and well as change) are refashioned as key selling points. His supporters ­continue to tweet about how the return of a new ­Labour government will restore ­“decency” to British politics.

A short resume. He stands for election on 10 pledges and commits to promoting the ethos of the platform. Having won, Starmer not only dumps the majority of these pledges, but makes it clear that he regards all these policies as hopelessly crackpot and unrealistic. He says ­Jeremy Corbyn is his “friend”. He then denies ever ­saying this – despite proof positive to the c­ontrary.

This early impulse on how to deal with his predecessor’s reputation inaugurated a bit of a trend. Starmer says Israel has the right to cut off water and electricity from Palestinian civilians on camera. He then denies having done so.

He criticises Boris Johnson for ­sacking internal critics. And last week? You know where this is going – he seizes the ­opportunity to deselect potentially ­dissident voices, based on last-minute complaints and social media surveillance going back decades.

He denies anything sinister has been afoot, while his outriders and apologists simultaneously brag about the wonderful political ruthlessness this demonstrates – taking it for granted that the leader’s PR line is just plausible deniability, and the party can win points both of probity and treating people shabbily at the same time. What are these? Snow-white lies? The mendacity of hope?

Ruthless fibbing

Two factors seem critical to overlooking, minimising and justifying all this. First, much of the media has concluded it’s his turn for a shot at Number 10. And second, any economy with the truth he’s demonstrated was heroic, ruthless fibbing because the targets of these falsehoods deserved to be lied to. He wanted to win. If the party saps bought what he was selling, more fool them. The same goes for his contortions on Gaza.

You’ve heard all the clichés before. A “ruthless, unapologetic, laser-like focused aim on electability” means carte blanche to say and unsay anything, commit and uncommit to anything, to treat former allies shabbily, all the while blaggarding your critics as impractical, unrealistic, and lacking in solidarity, treating people abysmally while bragging about your ­conscience.

Forget the pound-shop Malcolm ­Tuckers which surround him – Starmer’s the real Machiavel.