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.
David Cameron is like a hollow Easter egg, with no bag of sweets inside. He’s nothing. He’s no one (Charlie Brooker in Comment Is Free)
*sigh* I can’t help it. Even though he is apparently a misshapen lump, his writing is so dreamy!
And now: Webcameron