We may feel intensely sorry for the hopelessly beleaguered and utterly hapless Gordon Brown. But our sympathy is mixed with an equal measure of irritation and even a degree of Schadenfreude. Our pity is that which one might feel for a petulant wailing child who has spoilt the only toy he has ever really, really wanted, the premiership. We are not mourning the downfall of a great tragic hero. Gordon is neither Sophocles’ Oedipus nor Shakespeare’s Othello. And despite his absurd claims of a few years ago, he is most definitely not Heathcliff. For one thing, the latter broods; Gordon sulks.
Oedipus was a noble character brought down by a couple of somewhat unfortunate misjudgements: killing Pa & marrying Ma. His nobility of character is demonstrated through his acknowledgement of guilt and acceptance of responsibility. Once certain of his guilt, Oedipus blinds himself and then demands that he be sent into exile. Gordon Brown shows no such nobility. For one thing, saying sorry appears to be complete anathema for him; for another, he seems to more than unwilling to allow himself to be sent into exile. Indeed, if rumour has it, the door of Number Ten is now firmly barricaded and superglued against the likes of Geoff Hoon and Patricia Hewitt
There are a few genuinely Shakespearian characters in the Cabinet. Sadly, Hoon and Hewitt may have failed their recent auditions as Cassius and Brutus, but think of Jack Straw cast as the feckless and ponderous Polonius; Peter Mandelson as the deeply sinister and malevolent Iago; or John Prescott as the linguistically challenged and plebeian Bottom. However, one suspects that Gordon was not born to play the Dane, the Moor or any other hero. There are far too many flaws, too many misjudgements. Indeed, the mere thought of him sweatily strutting his stuff in hose and codpiece prompts one to hurriedly move on.
I suppose the issue comes down to one of scale as well as basic integrity. Gordon Brown lacks moral stature and belongs to the subterranean world of the Nibelungs not to the world of heroes. To return to Emily Brontë and Wuthering Heights: on the blasted moors above Haworth, the silhouette of a great granite crag might be seen, its massive outline broken by a single great fissure. Barely discernable beside it is the silhouette of a small heap of gravel.
