Gnarr (7 page)

Furthermore, I wanted to have a woman with a foreign last name on our list of candidates. I remembered Elsa Yeoman, a woman I knew from my time in the advertising agency, where she’d been in charge of catering for the workforce. Elsa was a clever and open-minded person and immediately said yes. When I learned of her Jewish heritage, I missed no opportunity to present her proudly and brag a bit about her: “The Best Party is not only the first smoke-free party in Scandinavia, but also the only party in Iceland that’s happy to have a Jewish woman among the top candidates.”

At that time, parties often flaunted their election propaganda on the pages of newspapers. They outdid themselves with their full-page ads and resorted to completely shopworn clichés. The slogans were devised by advertising agencies and were modeled generally on any phrases that had proven successful in Denmark, the United States, or elsewhere, the usual
blah-blah about home, garden, and family. Most people could no longer bear this stuff. The newspaper advertising we invested in appeared in the classified section of a greasy rag. We inserted the following: “The Best Party is looking for men and women who want to change things.” We were almost overwhelmed by the number of replies.

This party platform, by Jón Gnarr and other party members, was written in April 2010
.

1) Protection and support for Icelandic households

Families are the core of our society and are our greatest asset. The state has a duty to meet the needs of households and to campaign for the protection of families in all circumstances. Because they deserve only the best.

2) Benefits for vulnerable members of society

These people need our help and support. That’s why we offer free use of the city’s buses and free entry to all swimming pools, because everyone, even the poor or otherwise disadvantaged, should have the opportunity to move in comfort through our city after a nice clean shower.

3) An end to corruption!

We promise to fight all kinds of corruption—by indulging in it publicly and in full view of everyone.

4) Create equal rights

We all deserve only the best, no matter who we are or
where we come from. We will ensure that everyone gets the best, and do our best for every individual. After all, we all play on the same team—the best!

5) More transparency!

We think it’s important that politicians always put their cards on the table so that the citizens know what’s going on. We promise to implement that concretely in our party as well.

6) Active Democracy

Democracy is great, and active democracy even better. Therefore, we are committed to it.

7) Debt relief for everyone!

On this point we will simply let the people decide—because the people themselves always know best what’s good for them.

8) City buses: pupils, students, and the disadvantaged ride free!

We can promise more cost exemptions than any other party—because we won’t actually try to keep our promises! So we could promise all kinds of things, no matter what, from free plane tickets for women to free cars for the rural population.

9) Free dental treatment for children and the disadvantaged

This is a service that, so far, doesn’t exist—so we’ll promise it along with the rest.

10) Free entrance to the swimming pool for all, free towels included!

Probably nobody can resist this offer—it’s an election promise of which we are very proud.

11) The banking crash: those responsible are now being asked to pay
.

We think this too is only right.

12) Absolute gender equality

We promise absolute equality, because that is the best for everyone.

13) We also take women and the elderly seriously

Women and the elderly are in fact rarely given a proper hearing. Everyone seems to agree that these people have nothing substantial to say. We will change that.

Four weeks before the election, the polls left no doubt: The Best Party was now the strongest political force in Reykjavík. After each new poll, we got together and held a war council. We finally had to put in an appearance on the campaign trail. Also, we needed to tone down our silliness and come up with something sensible to say. So in interviews I was now serious and prudent. We took turns appearing at the campaign events, and soon realized that we didn’t necessarily have undecided voters in front of us on these occasions, but rather the members and supporters of the respective parties. The cheerleaders, so to speak. They looked like normal people who came because they took an ardent interest in these matters. But if any average normal citizen drifted in, it was guaranteed to be some old fogy or whiner. It was pure theater.

In addition, we were invited to club meetings and gatherings of large companies for Q&A sessions with the public. I answered all questions honestly and conscientiously, but also took the opportunity to switch to a more casual tone. My message was roughly: “I’m doing this because I feel like it. Because we enjoy it. But if you vote for us, we’ll take it very seriously and see the thing through. Is that a deal? If that’s not what
you want, just vote for the same lot as last time, and I’ll start looking for another job. No hard feelings!”

When it became clear that the Best Party was well on the way to evolving into a serious political body, I found myself giving constant interviews and expressing myself on boring and complex topics such as kindergartens, the Reykjavík domestic airport, and various financial matters. After all, the voters had a right to know what concrete plans the Best Party had for seniors, children, or this or that interest group. I thought this was more like a poorly disguised attempt to lull us to sleep with the greatest possible boredom.

I responded doughtily, but every answer threw up two new, even more complicated questions. Finally, I pulled the emergency brake and said that until further notice I wouldn’t be making any additional comment in the Icelandic media. Now that the truth about the financial crisis had come to light, the whole quagmire of corruption, racketeering, and money-grabbing in which they’d all—political parties, business, and the media alike—been involved was exposed. As such, I decided that I would only be made available to foreign journalists.

In those weeks we were out on the road all day, from here to there and back again. Everywhere it was nonstop talking, and I often turned up at meetings totally unprepared and with no idea what was really going on. The rest of the time we hung out in our campaign headquarters, drank coffee, and discussed things.

From time to time my wife Jóga came along with a proposal that I meet this or that person. For example, we still needed someone in our ranks with legal expertise. Jóga suggested Haraldur Flosi Tryggvason, about whom I knew nothing except that he’d once played saxophone with the Jupiters. And now I knew he was also a lawyer. So I met with him and his wife over a cup of coffee and mentioned that we were still looking for a lawyer. At first he was skeptical, but his wife spoke to him and begged him to accept the offer. He mulled it over, took counsel with his father, and finally said yes. After the election, Haraldur Flosi was made chairman of the energy company Orkuveita Reykjavíkur. He would play a key role in the financial restructuring of that company.

It proved particularly difficult to get women to join the Best Party. I emailed a lot of my women friends and encouraged them to join us, but most remained dubious. Those who did finally decide to join mostly stayed discreetly in the background rather than muscling in on the front line. I would love to have seen a greater proportion of women among us. Politics has always been an almost exclusively male world, and it often strikes women as daunting and alien. Trying to persuade a woman to join the Best Party was a bit like trying to get a woman to run riot with the boys in the football stadium. Difficult and well-nigh impossible, but I wish it had been different during the election.

The last days before the election went by in a total
trance. I slept no more than two or three hours per night. We held endless meetings. The rest of the time I went on the Internet, and when I dozed off at my computer I immediately woke up with a start because I’d just dreamed that I urgently needed to update my Facebook status. In the meantime I was alternately in the grip of abysmal resignation and naked panic.

Gradually, the highest-ranking members of the Reykjavík city council had come knocking on our door wanting to talk to me and my party friends. All were educated and experienced politicians who had been on the council for years and years, some of them for over two decades. I had no idea what kind of people they were and what they did exactly. They said they wanted to address a few urban policy questions with us, something about budgetary and financial measures, schools and kindergartens. In fact, they wanted to sound me out, to get a feel of what could be expected if I actually ended up sitting in the mayor’s chair. I promised that, if this happened, I would treat them with trust and respect. I would show full appreciation for their know-how and their professional experience and would expect the same from them in return.

At that moment it dawned on me what a damn complex business I had gotten myself into and how shockingly little I understood about the job. I’d concocted the whole thing out of pure fun. I wanted to pull a few stunts and meet a few cool people. But what I had set in motion here was definitely several sizes too
big for me. I was getting in over my head. I barricaded myself behind my hand-knitted anarcho-surrealism. I turned up at TV interviews totally unprepared and in garish outfits and spouted garbage. What would I do to protect children and teenagers? What would be the main points of my cultural policy? Would it amount to merging kindergartens and primary schools or closing them? Would the daycare fees be raised? All questions that, to be honest, I’d never thought about.

And then came the inevitable: I was systematically grilled on a major live television interview. The moderator organized a veritable cross-examination and took me apart good and proper, while I felt my coolness gradually diminishing to zero. I sat there, facing my opponent, completely naked and defenseless. I blushed, stammered, and sweated, and then I heard an inner voice whispering to me: “Jón, what are you doing here? What the hell have you let yourself in for? What have you set in motion? Get yourself out of it, pronto. Otherwise it’s going to be a mega-disaster for you, your family, and your whole life. Or are you going to spend the next four years hanging around on stupid talk shows while people slag you off for being such a miserable failure?”

After the interview I was completely floored. I felt like I’d been violated. There was a roaring in my ears, everything was spinning in front of my eyes, and my thoughts and feelings were running wild. Finally I took my wife into my confidence and told her I was on the
verge of throwing in the towel. She said that whatever I decided, I could always count on her. “Just do what’s right for 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. My
mental 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 a
serious 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.”