Guardian Review
What kind of relationship did Tony Blair have with fruit? From Peter Stothard, who shadowed Blair for his book 30 Days , we learned much about its vital role in the approach to the Iraq war. "Tony Blair looks down at the fruit bowl, takes a green apple and chews it very slowly." And David Cameron? What characterises his fruit-eating style? We are obliged to Dylan Jones, who spent a year following the Tory leader around for Cameron on Cameron , for evidence of a revealing difference between his approach and that of the last Labour leader. "As he quickly munched his way through a banana and then an apple," Jones noted, as Cameron prepared for PMQs last year, "the traffic thundered down the Embankment . . ." It's the little details that are so telling, isn't it? That, at least, is the principle behind fly-on-the-wall books in which a journalist is given privileged access to a politician, for much of which - since one cannot be asking questions all the time - the fly simply observes what the politician does, in order, as Jones puts it, "to get to the very heart of what makes him tick". More blessed even than Stothard, Jones spent a whole year as a fly, during which, excitingly for him, Cameron went from being written off as the latest Tory leadership embarrassment to being hailed as prime minister in waiting. But anyone wondering how much this extraordinary transformation is due to Cameron's talents, and how much he owes to the successive failures of Gordon Brown, would be advised to wait for a different book. This is partly Cameron's fault, since, in 2007 when he agreed to this experiment, it was plainly his intention to reveal nothing to Jones that was not already obvious or guessable from his extensive public appearances. It says much, in fact, for the man's prodigious self-confidence that, even at this early and unglamorous stage in his career, he anticipated public interest in more than 300 pages of Cameron trivia, table-talk, and non-personal personal habits: "I've got digital radio," he volunteers, "and they're incredibly easy to turn to stations and get wonderful reception . . . " Of course, Jones is more culpable for writing it down. Even if expectations of a fly on a wall are invariably low, since the insect in question will have been thoroughly vetted for loyalty and discretion, Jones compounds this inherent unreliability by being, as soon becomes evident, a hopelessly devoted groupie. More than insights, revelations and policy detail, Jones simply wants Cameron to love him back. "I think you acquitted yourself very well on Jonathan Ross," wheedles this most besotted of bluebottles; "You're very powerful when you are speaking in the House;" "You seem more confident than you've ever been." Not that this torrent of unconditional smarm makes the book valueless. Any journalist who has ever wondered, after some futile set-to, whether flattery might not elicit more revealing answers from a politician than interrogation will find the question decisively answered in Cameron on Cameron . "One thing that the public admired you for," Jones oozes, on the subject of Derek Conway, "was the swiftness with which you dealt with irregularities . . ." When Cameron, instead of blushing, just swats him away - "I don't do these things on a whim" - Jones sounds desperate: "It was meant to be a compliment!" "Well, good," Cameron allows, with an unmistakeable air of, "don't let it happen again". If there is any theme unifying this offputting heap of old Q&As, stale opinion polls, picked-over cuttings and unilluminating detail, it is a kind of doomed non-buddy story, not so much Sideways as Completely Tangential , replete with unshared references, crushed pleasantries and whatever is the opposite of banter - retnab? To begin with, one's sympathies are all with Cameron, as Jones, who has turned to the right in middle age (think of him as Alf Garnett trapped inside a metrosexual body) unctuously comes on to him in cars, trains, prisons - really, some of the most inappropriate places - seeking evidence of a brotherly bond. "Have you seen the film Children of Men with Clive Owen?" he pleads, not pausing for his cornered quarry to answer. "It's set twenty-odd years in the future . . . " For Jones, even if he is always going to be beta double minus to Cameron's alpha male, there must have seemed reason to hope: even if they'd watched different films, the GQ executive and the quondam TV PR speak the same, watercooler patois, featuring "long tails" and "big asks". Gradually, however, Cameron's ungenerous stock responses awaken a twitch or two of sympathy for his hapless fan. Lacking both the will and the journalistic equipment to respond to yawnsome blandness with renewed demands for clarification (how, for crying out loud, will a Cameron government enforce the end of "top-down state control"?), Jones the style writer retreats, under stress, to doing what he does best: spotting brands. "There was the white perforated kitchen roll", he records, in a desperate, extended description of the Cameron kitchen, "the John Lewis kettle, the Bodum cafetiere, the Fairy Liquid, the sticky jars of Marmite, the Waitrose marmalade and the plastic jars of sea salt." Someone else will have to ask Cameron, the author and object of this dull, faintly insulting PR exercise, if he thinks it benefited his own brand. Is it possible that his behaviour never departs, as this account suggests, from being a study in conscious, utterly businesslike composure? And if it did, could we rely on Jones, Cameron's bizarre choice of Boswell, ever to tell us? It's hard, in the end, to decide which of the two comes across as more untrustworthy. To order Cameron on Cameron for pounds 11.99 with free UK p&p call Guardian book service on 0870 836 0875. Caption: article-cameron.1 Not that this torrent of unconditional smarm makes the book valueless. Any journalist who has ever wondered, after some futile set-to, whether flattery might not elicit more revealing answers from a politician than interrogation will find the question decisively answered in [David Cameron] on Cameron . "One thing that the public admired you for," [Dylan Jones] oozes, on the subject of Derek Conway, "was the swiftness with which you dealt with irregularities . . ." When Cameron, instead of blushing, just swats him away - "I don't do these things on a whim" - Jones sounds desperate: "It was meant to be a compliment!" "Well, good," Cameron allows, with an unmistakeable air of, "don't let it happen again". For Jones, even if he is always going to be beta double minus to Cameron's alpha male, there must have seemed reason to hope: even if they'd watched different films, the GQ executive and the quondam TV PR speak the same, watercooler patois, featuring "long tails" and "big asks". Gradually, however, Cameron's ungenerous stock responses awaken a twitch or two of sympathy for his hapless fan. Lacking both the will and the journalistic equipment to respond to yawnsome blandness with renewed demands for clarification (how, for crying out loud, will a Cameron government enforce the end of "top-down state control"?), Jones the style writer retreats, under stress, to doing what he does best: spotting brands. "There was the white perforated kitchen roll", he records, in a desperate, extended description of the Cameron kitchen, "the John Lewis kettle, the Bodum cafetiere, the Fairy Liquid, the sticky jars of Marmite, the Waitrose marmalade and the plastic jars of sea salt." - Catherine Bennett.
