Dear UK, I’m your chilled-out Greensill guardian angel. Love, DC | John Crace

David Cameron was trapped in a nightmare. All he’d wanted to do was pass on good news to the government

There was at least a symmetry in seeing David Cameron do to himself what he had done to the country. This was Dave’s worst nightmare. It wasn’t his involvement with Greensill Capital – Sam had always told him never to trust a man who calls himself Lex – that he minded being picked over. Though God knows that was bad enough. What was hardest to bear was having his neediness exposed. The 56 phone calls, texts, emails and WhatsApps: each one increasingly desperate. The man who couldn’t take no for an answer. Call me, Dave.

Cameron had begun his two-and-a-half-hour session before the Treasury select committee with a written statement. Something designed to mitigate the criticism that he knew was was incoming. He wasn’t a bad man, he said, looking thoroughly embarrassed and wishing he was anywhere but on the end of this Zoom call. He had always abided by the rules.

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