This week, spare a
thought for the lost, the lonely, the displaced of Greece.
You may have seen
them already, shuffling aimlessly through the streets of Athens in dust-smudged
designer suits and expensive silk ties.
They’re the ones mumbling defunct campaign
promises, trying to shake the hands of random strangers, and approaching small
children to plant a slobbering kiss on their cheek.
You’ll know them from
the dazed look in their clouded eyes and their repeated demands for directions
to Syntagma Square. You might even spot them trying to climb up onto any
elevated surface to deliver a rousing speech no-one will listen to, or evoke
the name of some long-dead relative to stir up brand loyalty (few have the
heart to tell them that – in the immortal words of Monty Python’s Parrot Sketch
– such loyalty has “ceased to be”).
Be kind to them, for
they are ill-prepared for the harsh chill wind of reality that most Greeks have
adjusted to in the past few years. They’ve spent most of their working lives in
the cosseted corridors of power, stroked daily by admirers and buoyed up by
well-connected supporters with the means and the influence to ease their route
from their luxury homes through the grit and grime of the city.
They’ve never had to search their pockets for a ticket for the Metro (even if they used public
transport – something most considered below their station – they were entitled
to ride for free, unlike the country’s army of unemployed).
They’ve never had to
hustle for the last empty seat on the bus.
They struggle with the concept of paying for a meal or a coffee, having been treated as non-paying guests by honoured proprietors keen to make the most the VIP patronage of their premises.
They struggle with the concept of paying for a meal or a coffee, having been treated as non-paying guests by honoured proprietors keen to make the most the VIP patronage of their premises.
Little wonder, then,
that they feel lost and utterly abandoned now that the Parliamentary rug has
been pulled out from beneath them.
Quiet tears course down their smooth but grimy
cheeks as they contemplate the TV screens on which they were holding court to a
captive audience not so long ago, but which now show a slightly chubby-faced
40-year-old – with no tie! – walking up the steps of the Prime Ministerial
mansion to take his oath.
They shake their
heads in disbelief at the sight of back-packs being carried into the corridors
of power by what look like overgrown college students.
They cover their
ears in horror to the sound of “Rock The
Casbah” and “People Have The Power” at rallies instead of the sonorous, serious
tones of Hatzidakis, Orff or Theodorakis.
Be kind to them. Point
them gently in the direction of the nearest coffee shop (explaining that they
must pay for what they consume) and let them sit there sipping the thick
bitter beverage of defeat until they come to terms with the fact that they are
no longer Members of Parliament.
Just don’t turn your
back on them. For all their forlorn looks, they’re survivors, prepared to do
pretty much anything and form the strangest of alliances to assure their
survival. By the time they’ve drained their last drop of coffee, they’ll
already be plotting their return.
You have been
warned.
