Party, but it’s not working effectively enough? Then become a member and lend a hand. But be prepared to invest a bit of time that you’ll have to take from other activities. Be prepared to make certain sacrifices. Time that you would have otherwise devoted to your family, your friends, your hobbies, or your work.
In earlier days I’d sometimes ramble on about what it would be like to found a party and become minister of culture. I’d make sure I could have my own comedy show with the public broadcasters, then admit to corruption and resign from ministerial office—but continue with the TV show. Even with my friends I kept starting off on this track, over and over, until they said, “So why don’t you do it, instead of just talking about it? Why don’t you just found a party?” And so that’s what I did. The craziest, wackiest party that ever sawthe light of day. I posted it on Facebook and created a blog in which I circulated surrealist prose on social issues. One article attracted some attention, and so it happened that the media dropped by and asked me for interviews.
So I went to the tax office and entered the Best Party as a not-for-profit organization. That’s how you apply to found a political party. The whole thing took about an hour and cost 5,000 krónur, or about 30 euros.
As the Best Party had only just seen the light of day, the media paid me a certain, slightly patronizing interest. At first I must have been a kind of comic relief for them. I tried to use this to draw attention to myself, pulling out of an interview, giving impossible replies, or coming out with totally absurd statements. The political conditions in the country were, as far as I could see, completely out of control. One scandal followed the next. Public funds were being squandered on poorly planned, dubious projects. Politicians vied with each other to keep the citizens happy and promised economic stability, reliability, and responsible use of taxpayers’ money. One hundred percent transparency. Meanwhile, the financial system had long since swelled into a giant monster that grew bigger and rolled on relentlessly.
I won’t deny that the prospect of a steady job with a fixed salary—instead of never-ending, poorly paid drudgery—has played no small role in my political commitment, but I hoped to kill two birds with onestone: to have a job, and to commit myself to a good cause at the same time. And I was sure I wouldn’t be a worse mayor than my predecessors. Many assumed that this would mean I’d cross comedy off my list of activities. But I can’t say this has happened. I’m as much a comedian as I ever was. That’s what I am, it’s part of my personality. Comedy is neither my hobby nor my day job—it’s my life.
THE CAMPAIGN
Half a year before the elections for the city council on May 29, 2010, the first opinion polls were published. The Best Party got zero-point-something percent. The public TV station interviewed me, and I didn’t make anything of it. I laughed and said that, after all, it was still just the beginning—the run-up to an epoch-making victory. At that time I was acting as court jester at Reykjavík City Theatre for a pittance and at the same time writing a play.
Some politician had uploaded a yawn-inducing, tedious monologue onto YouTube. I looked at it. The whole thing was incredibly bogus and embarrassing, so I decided to do something similar. As a backdrop I chose a theater poster that was stuck behind the desk where I worked—the announcement of an American stage comedy from the fifties. With the morose face of the female lead in the background, my confused election twaddle took on a downright surreal quality.
At about the same time I was the guest on a popular talk show. With my TV make-up on, I met a woman who greeted me kindly. I greeted her back.
“We’ll be meeting on the campaign trail!” she exclaimed to me in a jocular tone of voice.
“Yes, we will,” I replied. When she’d
In earlier days I’d sometimes ramble on about what it would be like to found a party and become minister of culture. I’d make sure I could have my own comedy show with the public broadcasters, then admit to corruption and resign from ministerial office—but continue with the TV show. Even with my friends I kept starting off on this track, over and over, until they said, “So why don’t you do it, instead of just talking about it? Why don’t you just found a party?” And so that’s what I did. The craziest, wackiest party that ever sawthe light of day. I posted it on Facebook and created a blog in which I circulated surrealist prose on social issues. One article attracted some attention, and so it happened that the media dropped by and asked me for interviews.
So I went to the tax office and entered the Best Party as a not-for-profit organization. That’s how you apply to found a political party. The whole thing took about an hour and cost 5,000 krónur, or about 30 euros.
As the Best Party had only just seen the light of day, the media paid me a certain, slightly patronizing interest. At first I must have been a kind of comic relief for them. I tried to use this to draw attention to myself, pulling out of an interview, giving impossible replies, or coming out with totally absurd statements. The political conditions in the country were, as far as I could see, completely out of control. One scandal followed the next. Public funds were being squandered on poorly planned, dubious projects. Politicians vied with each other to keep the citizens happy and promised economic stability, reliability, and responsible use of taxpayers’ money. One hundred percent transparency. Meanwhile, the financial system had long since swelled into a giant monster that grew bigger and rolled on relentlessly.
I won’t deny that the prospect of a steady job with a fixed salary—instead of never-ending, poorly paid drudgery—has played no small role in my political commitment, but I hoped to kill two birds with onestone: to have a job, and to commit myself to a good cause at the same time. And I was sure I wouldn’t be a worse mayor than my predecessors. Many assumed that this would mean I’d cross comedy off my list of activities. But I can’t say this has happened. I’m as much a comedian as I ever was. That’s what I am, it’s part of my personality. Comedy is neither my hobby nor my day job—it’s my life.
THE CAMPAIGN
Half a year before the elections for the city council on May 29, 2010, the first opinion polls were published. The Best Party got zero-point-something percent. The public TV station interviewed me, and I didn’t make anything of it. I laughed and said that, after all, it was still just the beginning—the run-up to an epoch-making victory. At that time I was acting as court jester at Reykjavík City Theatre for a pittance and at the same time writing a play.
Some politician had uploaded a yawn-inducing, tedious monologue onto YouTube. I looked at it. The whole thing was incredibly bogus and embarrassing, so I decided to do something similar. As a backdrop I chose a theater poster that was stuck behind the desk where I worked—the announcement of an American stage comedy from the fifties. With the morose face of the female lead in the background, my confused election twaddle took on a downright surreal quality.
At about the same time I was the guest on a popular talk show. With my TV make-up on, I met a woman who greeted me kindly. I greeted her back.
“We’ll be meeting on the campaign trail!” she exclaimed to me in a jocular tone of voice.
“Yes, we will,” I replied. When she’d
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