And across the Atlantic, another old codger, Thomas "Tip" O'Neill, longtime speaker of the US House of Congress, coined and lived by some other sage advice: all politics is local. No wonder O'Neill served for 34 years in the house.
Sweep your own backyard all the time, and - most important - know when to leave.
Politicians ignore this simple piece of advice at their peril. History is littered with such victims. Like punch-drunk boxers, most politicians never know when to depart.
Mikhail Gorbachev, realising the Communist Party had no future, concocted a heap of clichés he called perestroika and/or glasnost in an attempt to prolong its life and his own career. Boris Yeltsin, his protégé, was to humiliate him publicly and force him to retire. Yeltsin seemed to learn from his mentor's mistake. The world woke up one morning to discover he had handed power over to Vladimir Putin, a KGB apparatchik. Putin, too, seems to have arranged a perfect hand-over, picking one Dmitry Medvedev this week to succeed him. Such a neat hand over doesn't happen that often.
Nearer home, P W Botha, after suffering a stroke, decided to give up his party leadership but kept the presidency, creating what the comrades have come to refer to as two centres of power. It was the chance the party was waiting for. A palace coup was inevitable.
When the game is up, even your most trusted political soulmates tend to avoid you. They start thinking about their own careers; whether any association with you could negatively affect their future. You cease to be the man or woman in their lives. They avoid eye contact; they become uncomfortable in your company. They stop living in the present - your presence. They're consumed by a future without you.
It's even more difficult if you happen to be the type who surrounds himself with yes-men. They aren't likely to confront you with the truth. Yes-men are often good-for-nothings - courtiers to you, the king - and they know nobody will have them once you're gone. Their fate depends on your survival.
It is said that Margaret Thatcher, on realising that the party was slipping away from her after she had barely managed to see off an obscure backbencher in a leadership contest, sought some reassurance from her cabinet ministers. Instead, they, one after the other, bluntly told her it was time to go, otherwise the party's prospects would be in jeopardy. The game was up. The lady who, 11 years earlier, had confidently walked into office reciting the reassuring words of St Francis of Assisi, was in tears as she stumbled, alone, out of 10 Downing Street. Politics can be a cruel game.
Those who resist the inevitable run the risk of besmirching their record and jeopardising their achievements. Because of the acrimonious nature of their departure, they tend to leave an unpleasant or bitter memory behind, with nobody to defend their legacy, or their party in such disarray because of all the infighting to dislodge the incumbent that a successor struggles to nurse it back to health.
After Thatcher's forced removal, for instance, John Major, her successor, was expected to lose the next election. He barely squeaked home - thanks mainly to the incompetence of the opposition.
Democracy is a great leveller. It's about people putting you on a pedestal; and then pulling you down, when they've had enough of you. When that moment arrives, quietly collect yourself and leave. Don't feel sorry for yourself. You'll be the better for it.
e-mail: fmeditor@fm.co.za
Ranking the Analysts 2009
