The dreadful truth is that when people come to see their MP they

Boris Johnson, with his peculiar mix of wit and cynicism, once declared: “The dreadful truth is that when people come to see their MP they have run out of better ideas.” At first glance these words may seem flippant, but they strike at a profound reality of politics and human struggle. When a man or woman arrives at the door of their representative, it is rarely in triumph—it is in exhaustion. It is the last appeal, the final resort, the moment when the individual, having wrestled with life’s injustices, brings their burden to the seat of power. The dreadful truth lies in this: that the machinery of governance is often sought only when all other avenues have been closed.

This phrase also reveals something of the ancient tension between rulers and the ruled. For the people expect their leaders to hold wisdom, to offer solutions beyond the grasp of common citizens. Yet too often leaders are not magicians, but men and women bound by the same frailties, the same limitations of imagination. Thus the words of Johnson ring with a weary irony: when the crowd gathers to see their elected official, they do so not because they believe him a fountain of genius, but because they are stranded, abandoned by circumstance, desperate for even the faintest hope of remedy. It is less the majesty of government they seek, and more the mercy of being heard.

History is rich with such moments. Consider the Great Depression of the 1930s, when masses of Americans, stripped of work and dignity, turned at last to their leaders in Washington. Franklin D. Roosevelt did not wave away their troubles with a single solution, but by hearing their cries and responding with the New Deal, he gave shape to their desperation. They had indeed “run out of better ideas,” for no individual could rebuild a shattered economy. Yet by appealing to power, they found relief—not perfect, but enough to kindle hope. Thus Johnson’s cynical remark reveals both the weakness of man and the strange necessity of governance: that when people cannot solve their plight alone, they turn to those set above them.

There is also a shadow within these words. For if people reach their representatives only after every other effort has failed, it means that trust in leadership has diminished. It means the bond between the citizen and the state has weakened, until it is no longer the first recourse, but the last. Think of the protests in South Africa during apartheid, or the marches in America’s civil rights era. When the oppressed could no longer endure, when all petitions and appeals had been ignored, they came not in hope but in desperation, forcing their leaders to reckon with truths too long denied. To stand before power in such times is not an act of faith, but of necessity born of despair.

Yet hidden within Johnson’s quip is also a spark of resilience. For when people run out of better ideas, they have not yet run out of courage. To seek out one’s MP, to knock upon the door of power, is still an act of persistence, a refusal to surrender entirely. It is a recognition that though the road has been hard, and solutions scarce, there remains at least one more avenue to try. Thus, though the statement is laced with irony, it also honors, however unwittingly, the stubborn will of the human spirit.

The lesson for us is this: do not wait until you have exhausted every breath before raising your voice. Engage with power not only when in desperation, but also in hope. Democracy is not meant to be a last resort, but a living bond between people and those who represent them. If leaders seem distant, summon them nearer with your words, your votes, your presence. If governments falter, remind them of their duty—not in despair alone, but in the daily work of accountability.

Practically, this means speaking up early and often. Attend meetings in your community, write letters not only in anger but also in counsel, participate in the shaping of policies before they harden into injustice. Do not see your leaders as saviors to be called upon only at the last moment, but as servants whose ears must be trained by constant dialogue. And when, at last, you must stand before them in desperation, let your presence be not only a cry for help, but a testimony of truth, a reminder that leadership is meaningless without the people it serves.

For indeed, the dreadful truth is that men often approach power in despair. But the greater truth is that power itself exists because of the people, and it is their voices—fierce, persistent, unyielding—that shape the destiny of nations. Let us, then, not wait until we have run out of ideas, but speak, act, and strive, so that leadership becomes not a last hope, but a living partnership between rulers and the ruled.