WHEN backs are pressed against the wall, attack is a traditional line of defence.

Alternatively, when physical threats are not an issue, retrenchment and denial are highly favoured. The more grandee the back, or challenging the charge, the more obstinate the posture.

‘Crisis? What crisis?’ remains the riposte that will forever be associated with former UK Prime Minister Jim Callaghan batting away the ‘winter of discontent’ which finally froze out his Labour government in 1979.

Though he may not actually have uttered the words, the Sun newspaper’s mocking headline summed up a characteristic denial of the obvious by those in authority from King Canute to contemporary climate-change sceptics, and it’s catching.

Obduracy pays. Can this be the motive behind the petulant attempts by shamed MPs to refute – sorry chaps, the word is actually ‘deny’ – fabricating false expense claims, to say nothing of their recourse to ancient statute to place themselves ‘above the law’ in order to evade moral and legal censure?

We hear many references to the word ‘hubris’ in relation to the arrogant, often deceitful behaviour of those who wield power or influence. It’s a strange, somewhat ‘recherché’ term. Roughly translated, it stands for ‘my ego, right or wrong’, often conveniently reinforced by a stout wrapping of pseudo-conscience or religious principle.

We’ve certainly been able to observe a supreme display of such obfuscation and hypocrisy played out in the Queen Elizabeth II Conference Centre in Westminster as holders of some of the highest elected political offices in the country respond to questions about the lead-up to the most divisive and discreditable adventure in recent British history.

Perhaps not surprisingly, there exists something of a popular appetite for an antidote. Indeed, we’ve recently been treated to a finger-wagging media frenzy to rival the pitiless spectacle of the Coliseum. Alongside the serial goading of bankers and political figures called to account over their professional and personal excesses, there has been a spate of moralising exposures of footballers playing away from home, the handicapping of a golfing icon and relentless censuring of ‘glamour’ models who swap silicone for parental responsibility.

All done in the best possible taste! It’s a less than veiled way of ‘getting back’ at those who’ve been exposed breaking the unwritten bond of trust. Now, whether this is enough to satisfy the spectator blood-lust is for those with their own personal agendas to judge. In the event, many who do undergo the glare of such hostile media exposure can rely on short memories and the pursuit of tastier victims to escape the traditional fate of the ‘thumbs down’, though, in the court of public opinion, the sentences can remain precariously suspended.

I suppose it all derives from the belief that those who court the public eye surrender a very large chunk of their own being to those who put them there – particularly if their elevation has been due to popular acclaim. What price popularity? We made you, we own you, we may not be able to control you, but we reserve the right to knock you down when we’re disappointed with you.

It’s all a matter of degree, of course. It’s safe to say that pitching your country into an illegal, costly war far outweighs spreading your towel on a deckchair in Tenerife for an extra couple of days or even self-imposed exile while your former playmates pull the wheels off your toys in their nursery.

But holidays – forget them. Like policemen, school teachers or priests, politicians are always expected to be on duty, or at least, are expected to be publicly accessible. When they disappear, like kids who miss roll call, they’re due punishment. Moreover, there’s a measure of guilt before charge, against which mitigation receives harsh dismissal.

Defence calls for fine judgment and thick skin. For a politician who goes ‘gladiatorial’, the stakes can rise out of all proportion. Whether in an unguarded fit of pique you tell your constituents that your holiday plans are none of their business, or proclaim ‘Je ne regrette rien’ from the draw-bridge of your publicly sponsored ornamental duck house, the chances are that not only will you be howled to the ground, but all your fellow pond dwellers will also be vilified as willing cohabitants. Furthermore, any brownie points earned for past good conduct can easily evaporate.

So now we’ve been introduced to ‘Blubbergate’. From former political masters of spin to maturity-challenged pop stars, the confessional TV interview has offered an opportunity for compassion harvesting. It’s risky, though. Believe me, there’s no such thing as ‘the sympathy card’. Ill-judged overspills of emotion are tantamount to crying on the scaffold.

At best, it amounts to voyeuristic window-dressing. At worst, it risks deflecting attention from the ‘real’ job and could result in humiliation. In essence, it only rewards good acting. No high-profile interview is truly spontaneous, because when playing for such high stakes, no interviewee – nor their mentors – is prepared to ‘go into the ring’ without knowing, even rehearsing, what they’ll be asked about. The bond of trust gets ever weaker.

But, you see, there is another way. In the midst of the flurry of costly and humiliating publicity fanned by rivals and the graveyard humour brigade alike, the beleaguered president of Toyota Motors, and indeed his senior managers worldwide, publicly admitted there were problems with a range of their cars.

They apologised and speedily organised a fix for all affected customers. Now, you could ask: ‘Did they bow, or were they forced to nod?’ Frankly, it’s immaterial. By comparison with all the institutional Houdinis, flat-earthers and bare-faced Pinocchios, a simple ‘Sorry, I got it wrong’ is a welcome as the sunshine in spring.