Poor Francois Hollande. Like a twice-divorced bride, he only wanted a simple ceremony – none of the flash of his predecessor. So, as he was to be inaugurated as President of France, Frank decided it would be proper man-of-the-people if he were to do it as an homage to Top Gear's "Star in a Reasonably Priced Car" feature. He got into a hatchy little £25,000 Citroen hybrid, poked himself through the sunroof and waved at the crowds as his toytown motorcade made its way down the Champs Elsyee. Too bad it started raining. And that the Champs Elysee is quite long. Especially when you're driving down it in the open top of an open-topped car in lashing rain. Soaked to his hind, still waving, his grin now locked into a half-dead, shit-eating rictus, Dutch Frank and his very damp, reasonably-priced eco-friendly Citroen finally made it to the Elysee Palace. There was no time to see how The Stig did because, immediately after, and while still soaked, he had to fly off to Berlin to talk to Angie Merkel about how either of them was going to get through this Greek thing without shooting themselves in the face through sheer frustration.
But not before his plane was hit by a really big metaphor – in the form of a bolt of lightning.This has left no one in any doubt as to how future historians will start Chapter 17 of their books on the Great Euro Crisis Of 2009 To 2014. “Hollande,” they will say, “Had to turn back. It was an early setback which only fortified the steely resolve that came to define his bold presidency which saved Europe." Or: "It was an act of haplessness that came to define his beleaguered presidency and is a key factor in why this book is printed on cow intestines ever since we went back to an entirely agrarian economy.” Delete as applicable.
As the Euro again lurched from comedy to calamity like a drunk, pederastic clown at a six-year-old's birthday party, Europe's third-most important leader has adopted his usual position on the sidelines. Here, he deployed his usual cunning tactic: shouting at the Euro to jolly well get on with it. “Either they make up or they break up,” was the sound bite Cameron fed to the House Of Commons: a usefully compact way of affirming his impotence in the face of matters that don't concern him, like a eunuch with an expert grasp of double penetration.
Then again, if you believe what you read, some of Dave's best work involves doing nothing. This weekend, we learned that Dave is something called a "chillaxing champ". “If there were an Olympic gold medal for chillaxing,” an unnamed aide told his new biographers, “he would win it.” To which Quango can only confirm that, yes, it is indeed a pity that the International Olympic Committee has yet to recognise the locker-room neologisms of estate agents from Clapham as real sports. "Chillaxing gold to Britain's David Cameron," they might say. "He chillaxes in the morning. He chillaxes in the evening. He chillaxes at supper time." Chilllax chillax chillax. No matter how many times you say it, it never stops making you want to put cigarettes out in an E4 presenter's eyes, does it?
Unlike his more uptight predecessors, Elliott and Hanning's new biography reveals that the PM is able to turn off completely when he wants to. On Sundays, he plays snooker. He plays tennis. He watches crap films with his kids. He tends the vegetable patch. He has a very healthy ability to distinguish between me-time and The United Kingdom Of Great Britain And Northern Ireland-time.
Snipes have decided that this is laziness. More than anything, it is good politics. Like Obama, Cameron seems determined to woo lady-votes by playing the New Man: spending plenty-nuff time with his kids, regardless of how much of the Free World he has to run.
For years, Obama's enemies have lined up to call him lazy for his ironclad rule to schedule family time into his job. In truth, all of our fates depend upon him doing so. Global leaders spend all day having their bottoms Dysoned by some of the world's most talented toadies. It's only when your daughter is a dick to you that you realise you're not immortal. And so maybe you should put down the red telephone and hold off on bombing Syria for a wee while. The greatest check against dictatorship is not parliament or a free press, it is Barry O being told in a small, tear-stained voice: “I hate you. I said I wanted a 3DS, not this piece of crap.”
Of course, that's not to say it can't work the other way: it was during Chelsea's first flush of puberty that Bill Clinton started dropping missiles on Serbia out of sheer exasperation at what he was having to put up with. And when a President realises that the best way to discipline a child is not by smacking but by threatening to bomb a small country, the jig is pretty much up for world peace. See the remarkable correlation between Chelsea's “But everyone else is getting their belly-buttons pierced” phase and Bill's 1998 decision to incinerate a factory in the Sudan. She didn't ask a second time.Follow Gavin on Twitter: @hurtgavinhaynesIllustration by Sam Taylor: @sptsamPreviously: Quango - David Cameron Will Never Be HipAnd that's that for Quango. It's been fun but all the politics has finished. Goodbye!
