Having gorged himself into a blissful state of gout on every single variety of artisan scotch egg that Chipping Norton has to offer, this weekend David 'Brexit will sort itself out' Cameron sought out new thrills at Wilderness Festival, Middle England's lush valley of tame electro bop, "tasty local eats" and tents that are already put up for you (a good thing tbh).
Once a (semi) respected world leader, Cameron's life post-politics has been diluted to that of a soft-chinned jester in a gingham Harrington jacket, grimacing for smart phone cameras while people wearing those naff 'Corbyn' Nike bootleg t-shirts snicker into their Instagram captions and group chats. David Cameron the man. David Cameron the object of digital derision.
"Dance for me, David. Dance for my likes."
Hands gripped to a glass of New World Chenin-Blanc and a bummed Marlboro Red (has he popped his collar? You're too right that he's popped that collar), Dave's mind is a whistling collage of Eton and PPE and Mummy and Daddy are very proud of you, David. Of big meetings and bigger nights spent hunched over critical economic policy. Of hubris and ridicule and now, stood in a field in Oxford while someone in a metallic wig and a Jeremy Corbyn patch roundly mocks you in a V.I.P tent, David, while all you were trying to do is close your eyes, inhale that tar and drift away... if only for a moment.
Look: it's David Cameron trying to be normal.
He must be stopped.