At the foot of the staircase of Number 10 I’m looking at the portrait of Spencer Perceval, the only British prime minister to have been assassinated, when up pops the present incumbent, larger than life. Literally. Taller, bigger, meatier, a more substantial presence than I’d remembered from a glimpse of him tooling around on his bike in west London. David Cameron is loaded with what the ruling classes of Britain used to call “bottom”: a reassuring soundness that, so the theory goes, will stand the country in good stead in times of strife.
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