Cameron is the biggest political loser of the Olympics

Booed by the crowds and overshadowed by Boris, the PM has not had a good Games.

It's not hard to identify the political winners of the Olympics. Boris Johnson, who never missed an opportunity to make a populist intervention, and whose named was chanted by thousands during that extraordinary speech in Hyde Park, is now spoken of as a potential prime minister by both the left and the right, and is increasingly viewed as a threat by Labour.

Beginning with the Queen's skit with James Bond (the highlight of the Olympics ceremony for voters, according to polling by YouGov), the royal family has seemed more at ease with itself than for decades. The BBC's coverage has reminded us of the virtues of public broadcasting, whilst the armed forces, filling the void left by G4S, have renewed their bond with the public.

But who are the losers? Tory MP Aidan Burley's curt dismissal of Danny Boyle's ceremony as "leftie multi-cultural crap" did little for his career prospects, and with a slim-ish majority of 3,195 in Cannock Chase, a seat that Labour held from 1997-2010, he is unlikely to be returned at the next election. Mitt Romney's suggestion that the UK was unprepared for the Olympics, inaccurate as it turned out, damaged his reputation at home and abroad, with Boris openly mocking a supposed ideological ally ("There's a guy called Mitt Romney who wants to know whether we're ready"), David Cameron quipping that it's easy to run an Olympics in "the middle of nowhere" (a reference to Romney's management of the 2002 Salt Lake City Winter Games), and Carl Lewis concluding that "some Americans just shouldn't leave the country".

The biggest loser, however, is the current occupant of 10 Downing Street. Rather than enhancing Cameron's reputation, as some Tories hoped, the Olympics have diminished it. The cringemaking photo posted by the No 10 Twitter feed of the PM watching the boxing at home while wearing a Team GB polo shirt looked like what it was: a desperate final attempt to reap some political benefit from the Games. Rather than serving as the proud leader of a successful nation, Cameron has spent more time fending off criticism of the government's school sports policies and dismissing fears that the Olympics have reduced economic activity. As Prime Minister and the leader of a party that won just 36 per cent of the vote at the last election, Cameron was never likely to survive the Games unscathed. But what makes the negative press coverage even more galling is the adoration for the prince across the Thames - Boris. While the crowds cheer for Boris, they boo for Cameron. For the first time since he became Prime Minister, conservative commentators are asking how long he can continue. After two weeks in which Britain has rarely seemed happier, few could have imagined a less happy end to the Games for Cameron.

David Cameron watches the boxing: "a desperate final attempt to reap some political benefit from the Games".

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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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