Is Cameron a statesman or a showman?

The truth is that David Cameron caught a break over Libya. But next time he may not be so lucky

Some good news for Nick Clegg. He has an admirer. Now the bad news. His fan is sitting 2,000 miles away in the West Bank town of Ramallah.

"If I was living in Britain I'd vote for Clegg," says Dr Husam Zomlot, deputy commissioner for international relations for Fatah. "I'm still what you call left-wing, but obviously after what the Labour government did I couldn't support them." He smiles, "I'm speaking in a personal capacity, of course."

In a few hours he is preparing to depart for a visit to London and other European capitals. He will be travelling in expectation, not just hope.

"We're looking to Europe to help us move the process forward. Britain, Germany and France are key." Is Britain now seen to be playing a positive role from the Palestinian point of view? "Absolutely. Cameron and Hague have come a long way. They're prepared to take an independent line from the United States. This is very important."

The product of the Bullingdon Club and the product of the PLO executive committee have found common cause.

Ever be a diplomat

In the centre of Jerusalem, Mark Regev, official spokesman for the Israeli prime minister, Binyamin Netanyahu, has a different perspective on David Cameron's role in the search for regional peace.

"To be honest, I'm not really that up to speed with current UK policy, or changes from the stance of the previous UK administration," says Regev. "You're better off putting that question to one of my colleagues in the foreign affairs ministry."

Contrast with his response on the status of other allies. "Prime Minister Netanyahu and Prime Minister Papandreou are on the phone constantly. We have an excellent relationship with the Cypriots, who are an important regional partner. We are developing our links with eastern European states like Bulgaria."

Regev's ignorance of UK policy is, of course, diplomatic. Other Israeli officials are more blunt: "What do we think when we hear the British Prime Minister referring to Gaza as a prison camp? It won't surprise you to learn we don't find it helpful."

Statements of intent

When Tony Blair said in the wake of September 11, "the kaleidoscope has been shaken. The pieces are in flux", he wasn't kidding. If you view Iraq as Blair's nemesis, and his departure the beginning of the end of the Labour government, the reordered image in which a Tory PM is praised in Ramallah and subtly snubbed in Jerusalem is uneasy on the eye but was foreseeable.

On one level, this strange state of affairs is simply the fruition of a stance trailed by William Hague as far back as 2006. Any article written by the then shadow foreign secretary headlined "We should not be afraid to criticise Israel" would send a signal. That it was written at precisely the moment Hezbollah was sending 4,000 Katyusha rockets slamming into Israeli cities, and Tel Aviv was pledging "a very painful and far-reaching response", represented a clear statement of policy intent for a future Tory government.

There is also the political reality on the ground. The peace process has stalled, the Netanyahu coalition has neither the wit nor the political capital to restart it, and Downing Street clearly feels there is little to be lost in ruffling the feathers of a lame-duck administration.

But there is another factor. Cameron simply cannot help approaching foreign affairs like a bull in search of a china shop. It may be unfashionable to say this at a time when he is being widely feted as the Lion of Benghazi. But though his instincts on Libya were right, his policy implementation has been lousy. Lest we forget, it was his Foreign Secretary who informed the world a no-fly zone was unnecessary, except perhaps over Caracas.

It was Cameron himself who marched the troops up the hill in his initial statement to the Commons, only to have his spokesman spin them back down again 24 hours later. Britain's Prime Minister failed to get even the principle of a military response inserted into the EU's Libya communiqué, didn't talk to the US president for nine full days in advance of the tabling of the no-fly resolution, and had to rely on the Arab League to convince the US that they had the necessary cover to take a resolution to the UN.

The truth is David Cameron caught a break over Libya. Next time he may not be so lucky. And next time is fast approaching.

Play it big?

Let us return to Dr Zomlot. His visit is not to exchange pleasantries. It's part of a concerted push for full EU recognition of a Palestinian state, regardless of the status of the peace process, when the Obama deadline for resolution expires in September.

On present form, Cameron may be inclined to pitch to the gallery. Recognition would be a bold gesture. And our Prime Minister has a taste for the big political play.

But not automatically the right one. The collapse of negotiations was not necessarily viewed as harmful by the Palestinians, in particular Hamas. Recognition would not of itself kick-start that process, very possibly the reverse. And recognising a state governed by a political authority that has consistently postponed elections, in the face of opposition from what, inconveniently for Israel's critics, remains the Middle East's only true functioning democracy, would hardly fit the spirit of the "Arab spring".

David Cameron has survived his first significant foreign-policy trial, but he's done so by the skin of his teeth. Those to come will require statesmanship, not showmanship. His reaction to premature calls for Palestinian statehood will test whether he possesses it.

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The dog at the end of the lead may be small, but in fact what I’m walking is a hound of love

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel.

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel. I seem to have become a temporary co-owner of an enthusiastic Chorkie. A Chorkie, in case you’re not quite up to speed with your canine crossbreeds, is a mixture of a chihuahua and a Yorkshire Terrier, and while my friend K— busies herself elsewhere I am looking after this hound.

This falls squarely into the category of Things I Never Thought I’d Do. I’m a cat person, taking my cue from their idleness, cruelty and beauty. Dogs, with their loyalty, their enthusiasm and their barking, are all a little too much for me, even after the first drink of the day. But the dog is here, and I am in loco parentis, and it is up to me to make sure that she is looked after and entertained, and that there is no repetition of the unfortunate accident that occurred outside my housemate’s room, and which needed several tissues and a little poo baggie to make good.

As it is, the dog thinks I am the bee’s knees. To give you an idea of how beeskneesian it finds me, it is licking my feet as I write. “All right,” I feel like saying to her, “you don’t have to go that far.”

But it’s quite nice to be worshipped like this, I have decided. She has also fallen in love with the Hovel, and literally writhes with delight at the stinky cushions on the sofa. Named after Trude Fleischmann, the lesbian erotic photographer of the Twenties, Thirties and Forties, she has decided, with admirable open-mindedness, that I am the Leader of the Pack. When I take the lead, K— gets a little vexed.

“She’s walking on a loose lead, with you,” K— says. “She never does that when I’m walking her.” I don’t even know what that means, until I have a think and work it out.

“She’s also walking to heel with you,” K— adds, and once again I have to join a couple of mental dots before the mists part. It would appear that when it comes to dogs, I have a natural competence and authority, qualities I had never, not even in my most deranged flights of self-love, considered myself to possess in any measurable quantity at all.

And golly, does having a dog change the relationship the British urban flâneur has with the rest of society. The British, especially those living south of Watford, and above all those in London, do not recognise other people’s existence unless they want to buy something off them or stop them standing on the left of the sodding escalator, you idiot. This all changes when you have a dog with you. You are now fair game for any dog-fancier to come up to you and ask the most personal questions about the dog’s history and genealogy. They don’t even have to have a dog of their own; but if you do, you are obliged by law to stop and exchange dog facts.

My knowledge of dog facts is scant, extending not much further beyond them having a leg at each corner and chasing squirrels, so I leave the talking to K—, who, being a friendly sort who could probably talk dog all day long if pressed, is quite happy to do that. I look meanwhile in a kind of blank wonder at whichever brand of dog we’ve just encountered, and marvel not only at the incredible diversity of dog that abounds in the world, but at a realisation that had hitherto escaped me: almost half of London seems to have one.

And here’s the really interesting thing. When I have the leash, the city looks at me another way. And, specifically, the young women of the city. Having reached the age when one ceases to be visible to any member of the opposite sex under 30, I find, all of a sudden, that I exist again. Women of improbable beauty look at Trude, who looks far more Yorkie than chihuahua, apart from when she does that thing with the ears, and then look at me, and smile unguardedly and unironically, signalling to me that they have decided I am a Good Thing and would, were their schedules not preventing them, like to chat and get to know me and the dog a bit better.

I wonder at first if I am imagining this. I mention it to K—.

“Oh yes,” she says, “it’s a thing. My friend P-J regularly borrows her when he wants to get laid. He reckons he’s had about 12 shags thanks to her in the last six months. The problems only arise when they come back again and notice the dog isn’t there.”

I do the maths. Twelve in six months! That’s one a fortnight. An idea begins to form in my mind. I suppose you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out what it is. But no. I couldn’t. Could I?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism