Soon after I took office, the dark forces of the Icelandic political scene began to sharpen their claws. Much of what I’ve done in office has been the focus of criticism; my person and every word that came out of my mouth was derided and mocked. When I refused to receive the officers of a German warship, this was interpreted not as the statement of a committed pacifist, but as an insult to a friendly nation.
I have fought all my life to be allowed to change my name. There are various personal reasons for this. I was born Jón Gunnar Kristinsson, but not since my childhood have I actually been called by that name. My early years are associated with painful memories. Since I was fourteen I’ve called myself Jón Gnarr. Jón Gunnar Kristinsson was a neglected little boy who was thought to be backward. Jón Gnarr, on the other hand, is an optimistic, creative, sincere, and courageous adult. Due to the rigid Icelandic laws on individuals’ names, I could never succeed in getting my name officially changed. This too has been exploited by my political adversaries, who, as a matter of principle, call me Jón Gunnar Kristinsson or Jón G. Kristinsson.
At first I was afraid that this group would pounce on my family and take apart my private life—an extremely disturbing idea. But strangely enough, that never happened. At most indirectly. Of course, it still hurts my family when nasty stories are spread about me.
An example: In the third year of my term in office, I spent my summer holidays in Norway. I was there for two weeks visiting my sister who lives with her husband and children there. I get to see her all too seldom. Meanwhile, back home in Iceland, the SUS, the youth organization of the Independents, had started a manhunt for me, and the Conservative mouthpiece Morgunblaðið printed the same message on its front page, declared that I was missing, and also started searching for me. It was all pure harassment, of course. They knew very well that I was just on holiday. I didn’t think I owed anyone an explanation.
My job keeps me on the go right round the clock, such that I can hardly find the time to see my own children and close relatives. I’m already out of the house when my youngest gets up and starts getting ready for school, and when I come home in the evening he’s already getting ready for bed.
When my father died, my mother moved into a nursing home. Shortly before Christmas 2010, when I’d been in office for just seven months, she got pneumonia, and then went downhill fast. She died on the first day of the Christmas holiday. At this moment my whole life imploded. I was chronically exhausted, worn out and worn down by the constant hostility. I felt as if I was falling to pieces inside. I would like to have simply vamoosed, crawled into some hole, pulled the earth over me, and disappeared.
What came next was sadness, pain, and depression. Nevertheless, I somehow managed not to show it outwardly. In reality, I was constantly on the verge of collapse, but this was one favor I didn’t want to do for my enemies, and that idea kept me afloat. I threw myself into my work with zeal, and took each day as it came. When I was overcome with longing for my mother, I took her make-up things out, put on her lipstick, and painted my fingernails with her nail polish.
It was clear from the beginning that this job would in the long run ruin my health. Constant strain, stress, and lack of sleep can all permanently weaken the immune system. I’ve ended up in the hospital twice, and my migraines aren’t getting any better. For social contacts outside of work, in any case, I have little time and energy, and the few hours’ free time that remain mine, I spend with my family. Still, so far I’ve never been unhappy, just tired. Boundlessly tired, not to say pretty much at the end of my tether.
The world of television fascinated me from an early age. Even as a child I was completely familiar with it and have always raved about certain movies and series. But since I’ve been mayor, this has completely vanished from my life. Since then, TV has been more or less a no-no, as I simply lack the time to watch it.
Also, I sometimes begin to wonder whether, after all these complex tasks and responsible decisions, after all the deaths in the family, the smear campaigns and permanent hostility, I’ll ever be able to do comedy again.
I’m often asked where and how I actually chill out, how I recharge my batteries. The answer: I spend an hour every day just by myself. This time is sacred to me. Then I take the dog for a walk and listen to something relaxing.
I’ve gotten involved in a complicated project and I’m still in the thick of it. At the moment I can’t look back and assess the overall picture, the scope of the whole. But I’m working on it day by day, and if I’m honest, I know I’ve been counting the days right from the start.
I’m often asked if being mayor has changed me in any way. Whether this position has made me a different person. The answer is a plain and simple no. It’s really not changed me at all. Of course, I’ve become more mature, have learned on the job, and understand a few things better than before. But as far as my character goes, that’s not changed in the slightest. I’m neither frustrated nor offended nor bitter, and don’t bear anyone any grudges. Not even those who have made my life difficult.
What most distinguishes the office of mayor, more than anything else, is fatigue. I’ve never been so tired in my life. And I already got tired quite frequently. My youngest son was very ill in his early years, and during that time I was in a state of constant worry and never got much sleep. But never before have I experienced such abysmal, leaden fatigue as in this job. A weariness that pervades the whole body. That spreads everywhere, in the toes, in the heart and brain, in the arms, in the dick. Fatigue in the ears, in the eyes. In the skin.
After a few months in office, I had the spontaneous idea of having the coat of arms of the city of Reykjavík tattooed on my underarm—as visible proof that I took my job seriously and identified completely with my city. But apparently I had been a little remiss in terms of hygiene, with the result that the tattoo promptly got infected. For a while I gritted my teeth, pretended there was nothing wrong, and hoped it would heal up by itself. But then, at a conference in Sweden, I collapsed with severe pain and a high temperature and ended up in a Stockholm hospital with blood poisoning and a harsh infection. I flew home, where I was admitted to the state hospital and put on a drip, with antibiotics being fed directly into the vein. The doctor spoke of acute stress, and said something like that could easily cripple the entire immune system.
Of course, being mayor also has a very direct impact on my private and family life. As these jobs always do. My working day usually lasts from eight to five, in the evening emails have to be answered, reports read, and the weekends are given up to receptions and various other commitments. Apparently, there are politicians who like to show up in public with their children. I myself try to limit this to an absolute minimum. I take my youngest son with me if it’s something really fun and exciting, or if he asks specifically. But here in the city administration, for example, there’s nothing of interest for him.
Sometimes I am overcome by boundless sadness and despair, and then, much to the displeasure of my staff, I give in to my unrestrained self-pity. My head feels like it’s just about to burst, and I have the feeling I’ve gotten myself into something that I will never understand, not even partly. Then I long for my old life. It’s far from easy to retain your optimism and sense of humor.
I’ve already set up all kinds of things in my life—I’ve invented, written, and concocted plays, skits, TV series, and books—but I think the Best Party is just about the most brilliant thing I’ve managed to do so far. I have shown courage, inventiveness, and creativity. Where this energy comes from, I don’t exactly know. I’m always happy when my person or the city of Reykjavík get good press in foreign media, because then I feel that what I’m doing here has a deeper meaning. I do not believe in God or an afterlife. But I’m a damn tough representative of our species. If I were an animal I’d probably be a polar bear. Perhaps I am directly descended from the Neanderthals. Maybe I just have a Neanderthal gene that keeps me moving.