As you may have noticed, David Cameron is not human. Many great artists have wrestled with their muse to try to capture and distil the essence of the British prime minister. Through moonlit, insomniac nights, they beg the goddess of the arts to disclose the elusive mots juste that can most perfectly describe that strange, glassy stare and glistening skin. In a mood of existential anguish, they endlessly contemplate one of art’s greatest imponderables: is he a fish in a condom, or just a lizard?
Maybe Angela Merkel will find out for herself tonight. In fact, that is what she should do. During those long, wearying talks, in which the two leaders try to hash out the “tensions” between their “opposing visions of Europe”, the chancellor should persistently ply Cameron with her best Rhenish, spiked with a potent wooze-inducing drug of her own infernal formula, all the while distracting him with sympathetic, soothing noises about how she agrees Germany is much nicer really, but at least England has better telly.
When he flops down and passes out all snuggled up on the camper bed she’s set up in the spare room, she should creep in at night, gently pull back the eiderdown, and finally learn the truth.
Hopefully, she can then use whatever diabolical secret she finds to blackmail Cameron into agreeing to the financial transaction tax. This is appropriate, because it’s a ploy Robin Hood would’ve used. But this probably won’t happen. More likely they will just talk about this and that, decide they have opposing visions of Europe, and go their separate ways – Merkel none the wiser as to Cameron’s true composition, and the Robin Hood tax no closer to fruition.
