“Your country needs you,” he announced to cheering crowds at the Tory conference, “To shut the fuck up and do as you’re told. Your country needs you to step up onto the firestep, climb over the parapet and march steadily forward into no man’s land with nothing more to protect you than a touching faith in the wisdom of your betters.”
In just a few years, promised Mr Cameron, Britain would surely become a land fit for heroes. Unfortunately, he warned, the intervening period would necessarily involve human suffering and sacrifice on an unprecedented scale, with the survivors emerging from their squalid holes, shell-shocked and bitter, to pick up the threads of their former lives as best they could.
“Already I hear the voices of a few RMT cowards urging you to march in the opposite direction, i.e. to the TUC Centre on Tottenham Court Road on the 23rd,” he sneered. “If their consciences are really so bothered, give these shirkers a white feather – to be printed in tomorrow’s soaraway ‘Sun Bull’, courtesy of that great patriot Horrupio Botmurdley – and ask them what exactly they think their objectionable friend Gordon Brown would have done if, God forbid, he was still prime minister.”
“Rest assured,” he promised, “The sacrifices demanded of you today will be regarded by future generations with unmitigated horror, ensuring that such futile carnage on an industrial scale will never be allowed to happen again. These will truly be the cuts to end all cuts.”
“If our lord Cameron is not a great man,” commented one blue-blooded Tory delegate later, “He is, at least, a great poseur.”
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