An oldie but a goodie opinion piece on David Cameron by Guardian columnist Charlie Booker. It was written three years ago, but arguably more relevant now with Cameron poised to take 10 Downing St. Also, one can’t but help make comparisons with John Key. Enjoy!
David Cameron is an idiot. A simpering, say-anything, dough-faced, preposterous waddling idiot with a feeble, insincere voice and an irritating tendency to squat near the top of opinion polls. I don’t like him. And I’ve got a terrible feeling he’ll be prime minister one day. Brrr.
These are unthinking snap judgments, based on little more than his media profile – but since he appears to consist of little more than a media profile designed to appeal to unthinking snap judgments, that seems fair enough. On that basis, let’s stick to gut instincts, shall we?
There is nothing to him. He is like a hollow Easter egg with no bag of sweets inside. Cameron will say absolutely anything if he thinks it might get him elected. If a shock poll was published saying 99% of the British public were enthusiastic paedophiles, he would drive through the streets in an open-top bus surrounded by the Mini Pops. He’s nothing. He’s no one.
It’s notoriously tricky to find out much about his past, in the same way that Morgan Freeman and Brad Pitt found it tricky to find out much about the serial killer John Doe in the movie Se7en. He’d managed to erase his entire existence, even slicing the skin off his fingers to avoid leaving prints. Ever seen a close-up of Cameron’s fingertips? Of course not. Think about it.
The apparently self-penned bio on Cameron’s website begins, “I was born in October 1966,” and then leaps straight forward to 2001, missing out the decades he spent as a guffawing, top-hatted toff in between. The infamous photo of Dave posing alongside his posho chums from the Bullingdon Club in an expensive royal blue tailcoat is one of the few clues we have. It looks like precisely the sort of photo a detective might end up studying in a murder mystery, one where a group of friends accidentally killed a prostitute during a drunken, stormy night, and collaborated on a cover-up. I’m not saying the Bullingdon boys kill prostitutes. I’m just saying I wouldn’t be surprised. And that’s his fault, not mine. He’s gone out of his way not to mention his blue-blooded carousing, because he knows it would make the average citizen puke themselves into a coma, and one side-effect of this is that he seems shifty and suspicious.
Every time I look at Cameron, I’m reminded of video-game characters: not the loveable, spiky ones like Sonic or Mario, but the bland, generic dead-eyed avatars you can “create” for use in a tennis game or a tedious Tolkienesque adventure. You start with a bald clone, then add features drawn from a limited palette – eye colour, one of three noses, an optional goatee beard and so on – and invariably end up with an eerily characterless zombie straight out of the boardgame Guess Who?. Simulated choice, as opposed to genuine variety. It is easy to build a Cameron lookalike. Just simulate the smuggest estate agent you can think of. Or some interchangeable braying twit in a rugby shirt, ruining a local pub just by being there. Easy.
Naturally, I’m biased. I’ve instinctively hated the Tories since birth. If there was an election tomorrow, and the only two choices were the Nazis or the Tories, I’d vote Tory with an extremely heavy heart. In descending order of vehemence, my objections to the Tory species stem from a) everything they do, b) everything they say, c) everything they stand for, d) how they look, e) their stupid names and f) the noises I imagine they make in bed. I once overheard two posh people – almost certainly Tories – having sex in a hotel room. It was grim. The woman kept saying, “Fuck me, Gerald,” in a cut-glass accent, which was funny, but Gerald himself soon wiped the grin off my face with his grunting, which wasn’t really grunting at all, but instead consisted of the words “oh” and “ah” crisply orated aloud, like Sir Laurence Olivier reading dialogue off a card at an early rehearsal. I didn’t stick around long enough to hear the climax, but I imagine the words “gosh”, “crumbs”, and “crikey” probably put in an appearance.
And here is why that’s relevant: Cameron almost certainly says “crikey” at the vital moment. Go on, picture it. Right now, in your mind’s eye. You know it’s true. If nothing else in this puerile one-sided hatchet job has convinced you, that’s reason enough not to elect him, right there.
In summary, then: he is a idiot. But you knew that anyway. In fact the only reason I have written this is because it is going to be printed in a newspaper, which means his advisers will have to photocopy it and include it in some official internal press file, where it will sit alongside all the unnecessarily positive coverage he has generated for himself. It gives me a pathetic, childish, self-indulgent thrill, and in today’s world of cookie-cutter choicelessness, that’s as good as it gets. So nyahh nyahh, Dave, you fair-weather, upper-crust guff-cloud. Nyahh nyahh.
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The Conservative party
The Conservative party is an eternally irritating force for wrong that appeals exclusively to bigots, toffs, money-minded machine men, faded entertainers and selfish, grasping simpletons who were born with some essential part of their soul missing. None of history’s truly historical figures has been a Tory, apart from the ones that were, and they only did it by mistake. To reach a more advanced stage of intellectual evolution, humankind must first eradicate the “Tory instinct” from the brain – which is why mother nature is gradually making them less sexy with each passing generation. The final Tory is doomed to spend his or her life masturbating alone on a hillside, which, let’s face it, is the way things were supposed to be all along.