The Dawn of David Cameron

At a time when the relief maps of most politicians’ souls can only be expressed in negative figures, Josh Russell is surveying the deep dark abyss that is David Cameron

It’s getting worse and worse. I can’t even make it through a whole night anymore. It starts with a gut like millstones, grinding last night’s lasagne into so much greasy flour. Drenched in my own sweat, I flop about like a humpback beached in a shallow brackish estuary. Branches tap at the window, their leaves whispering the word ‘change’ with each gust of wind. There is the stench of pre-packaged charm, charisma that has died a slow death choked in plastic. My throat makes a fist. My sphincter trembles like a nervous Chihuahua. Even now I can feel the shape of the knowledge lay heavy in my brain, a coarse breezeblock wedged squarely between the frontal lobes. It’s out there. Waiting.