In the past week, two very different stories have highlighted our innate desire to generalise people, to raise them up as heroes, ciphers for the things we believe in, then bring them crashing down when they no longer keep to those high standards we probably don’t reach ourselves.
There can’t be many compassionate people who haven’t been saddened by the news about Brendan Cox, husband of murdered MP Jo Cox. Whatever happened at Harvard back in 2015 – and it must have been fairly bad, even though he denies the more serious allegations – it’s depressing indeed that he has now stepped aside from two charities he set up following his wife’s ghastly murder at the hands of a disgusting, sad little fascist. Cox’s dignity and calls for restraint following his wife’s murder came when the country seemed riven with division, and probably prevented more serious unrest. Should he step aside now, because of a stupid, drunken incident? Has he gone from saint to sinner with one mistake and is he now forever to be condemned?
Far more probable is that Brendan Cox was never a saint – just an ordinary, caring guy we hoisted aloft for our own benefit, perhaps selfishly – to make us feel better about ourselves and our divided nation.
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