Politics is the art of looking for trouble, finding it

Host: The parliament building loomed like a tired old god — grand, cracked, and magnificent in its decay. The moonlight fell across its pillars, turning every shadow into a memory of speeches long past. Somewhere inside, the echo of arguments, promises, and half-truths still lingered, whispering through the corridors like restless ghosts.

Host: Jack leaned against the stone balustrade outside the chamber doors, his tie loosened, his face drawn from hours of debate. Jeeny approached slowly, a folder in her hands, her steps soft against the marble, but her eyes alive — always alive — with that quiet fire that refused to die, even here.

Host: The air smelled faintly of cigarettes, old paper, and disappointment.

Jeeny: “Ernest Benn once said, ‘Politics is the art of looking for trouble, finding it everywhere, diagnosing it incorrectly, and applying the wrong remedies.’” She looked at him pointedly. “I think he might have been talking about this building.”

Jack: smirking, exhaling smoke into the night air “Or about you. You never met a crisis you didn’t want to heal with hope.”

Jeeny: “And you never met one you didn’t want to dissect with cynicism.”

Host: He chuckled — a sound not of amusement, but of fatigue. The city lights shimmered in his eyes, cold reflections of a world he no longer believed could be fixed.

Jack: “Hope’s not a strategy, Jeeny. It’s a slogan. The people out there don’t want dreams — they want solutions. But politicians? We don’t solve. We manage decay.”

Jeeny: “No. You perpetuate it. You feed the same sickness and call it order. Benn was right — you find problems, misread them, and drown them in bureaucracy.”

Host: The wind stirred, carrying the faint sound of distant sirens and a single church bell. Jeeny set the folder down on the stone, her fingers brushing over its papers as if weighing their worth.

Jeeny: “I walked through District 9 this morning. The shelters are full, the schools half-empty. They don’t need more diagnosis, Jack. They need someone to care enough to get it right.”

Jack: “You think caring is a cure? You can’t legislate empathy. You can’t budget your way to justice. You have to choose the least bad option and live with the blood on your hands.”

Jeeny: “That’s not politics, Jack. That’s surrender disguised as realism.”

Host: His jaw tightened, the muscles flickering under the dim light. He turned to her, eyes sharp, voice low.

Jack: “You want honesty? Politics isn’t about truth. It’s about survival. You compromise to stay in the room because the moment you don’t — someone worse takes your seat. You think that’s noble? It’s ugly, Jeeny. But it’s the only way to keep the machine from eating itself.”

Jeeny: “The machine’s already eating us. Every wrong remedy — every misdiagnosis — it’s one more meal for the beast. And you keep feeding it because you’re too afraid to shut it down.”

Host: The moon slipped behind a cloud, dimming the courtyard. For a long moment, they stood in near-darkness, voices and breaths the only signs of life.

Jack: “You want to believe politics is evil because it comforts you. But it’s not evil, it’s entropy. Everything falls apart. We just slow it down.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. You accelerate it. Every time you tell yourself that nothing can change, you make it true. You make cynicism a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

Host: A car passed by the gates, its headlights sweeping across the columns, briefly illuminating their faces — her defiance, his weariness.

Jack: “You think reform is easy? You think if we just ‘diagnosed’ it right, as you say, people would suddenly agree? They don’t want cures; they want comfort. They don’t elect doctors, Jeeny. They elect storytellers.”

Jeeny: “Then tell better stories! Stop pretending the people are too stupid to see truth. They’re not. They’re just tired of being lied to.”

Host: Her voice cracked on that last word, and the sound echoed faintly — fragile, human, real. Jack looked down, his fingers tapping against the stone, a nervous rhythm of guilt.

Jack: “You still think truth sells, don’t you? That honesty wins elections. It doesn’t. Fear does. Always has.”

Jeeny: “Then stop selling fear. Start selling faith — not in gods, but in us.”

Host: The silence between them thickened, dense as fog. Rain began to fall, light at first, tapping softly on the marble railing. Jeeny tilted her face upward, letting it strike her skin like a cleansing ritual.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder how it got this bad? How the art of governance became an industry of excuses?”

Jack: “Every day. But the truth is — the people stopped wanting answers. They just want someone to blame. So we became that someone.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to remind them we’re not gods — just humans with pens.”

Host: Jack gave a faint, hollow laugh, rubbing his temples.

Jack: “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not simple. It’s right.”

Host: The rain came harder now, pooling on the stone, blurring the reflection of the building behind them. Its columns, once symbols of power, now looked like prison bars.

Jack: “You’re an idealist, Jeeny. That’s why you’ll never last here.”

Jeeny: “And you’re a realist, Jack. That’s why you already died here.”

Host: That line struck him — clean, surgical, unavoidable. He looked at her as though seeing her for the first time in years. The fire in her eyes reminded him of the man he used to be, before compromises became commandments.

Jack: “You think we can fix it?”

Jeeny: “Not all at once. But maybe we can start by diagnosing correctly. Maybe we stop pretending everything’s fine when it’s bleeding.”

Jack: after a long pause “You sound like you still believe in the people.”

Jeeny: “I do. Because even when they’re wrong, they still feel. Politicians forget how to do that.”

Host: The storm gathered strength, thunder rolling over the skyline. Jeeny picked up her folder, shielding it from the rain.

Jeeny: “You once told me politics was about compromise. I think it’s about conscience. Maybe we can have both — if we remember who we’re supposed to serve.”

Jack: “And who is that, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: softly, without hesitation “The ones who can’t afford to stand here arguing.”

Host: Her words lingered in the air, carried by the wind toward the city, toward the streets where the real politics happened — unseen, unpaid, unthanked. Jack’s shoulders dropped, the old armor cracking just a little.

Jack: “Maybe Benn was right. Maybe politics really is about misdiagnosing everything. But maybe the cure starts when someone like you refuses to stop trying.”

Jeeny: “Then try with me.”

Host: He nodded — small, uncertain, but real.

Host: The rain slowed. The moon returned, pale and forgiving. The two stood beneath the ancient columns, soaked but unbroken, and for a moment, the whole rotten machinery of politics felt lighter — as if somewhere between their doubt and belief, something human still breathed.

Host: And as they turned to leave, their footsteps echoing in the empty hall, the truth hung behind them like the last word of a long argument:

Host: That politics, for all its noise and corruption, only becomes art again when someone dares to care more about the cure than the career.