Cameron's tweeting of the G8's luxury menu shows his blind spot

The Prime Minister's decision to advertise the lavish dinner enjoyed by the leaders is the quickest way of reminding everyone that we're not "all in this together".

As polls regularly attest, one of the biggest obstacles to a Conservative victory at the next election is the perception that the party is both of the rich and for the rich. One recent survey found that 64 per cent believe that "the Conservative Party looks after the interests of the rich, not ordinary people", while Labour enjoys a 17-point lead over the Tories as the party most likely to treat people fairly.

So it is unclear why David Cameron thought it wise to tweet the luxury menu enjoyed by the G8 leaders last night. No one would expect the leaders to dine on gruel and water, but Cameron's decision to advertise their lavish reception, before breezily remarking, "I'll chair a discussion on tax, trade, transparency and Syria", shows a remarkable lack of tact. It reminds everyone, in just eight words, that "we're not all in this together" and provokes exactly the kind of questions he should seek to avoid: "how many food banks have you visited recently?" Neither Tony Blair, with his finely-honed political antennae, nor Gordon Brown, with his hairshirt Presbyterianism, would ever have committed such a faux pas. 

Cameron's tweet is a good example of what Conservative MP Sarah Wollaston recently described to me as "a kind of blindness". Referring to the social narrowness of his inner circle, she said: "it's a kind of blindness to how this looks to other people and why it matters to other people . . . It’s not just the message, it’s the messenger. This is something that they obviously don’t see; they don’t see something that, to me, seems pretty obvious."

Similarly, Cameron, having enjoyed a fine (and taxpayer-funded?) meal, sees nothing wrong with sharing this fact with an austerity-scarred public. If the Tories are ever to win again, their next leader will need to be someone who does. 

David Cameron welcomes Barack Obama during the official arrivals for the start of the G8 Summit at the Lough Erne resort near Enniskillen in Northern Ireland. Photograph: Getty Images.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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The footie is back. Three weeks in and what have we learned so far?

Barcleys, boots and big names... the Prem is back.

Another season, another reason for making whoopee cushions and giving them to Spurs fans to cheer them up during the long winter afternoons ahead. What have we learned so far?

Big names are vital. Just ask the manager of the Man United shop. The arrival of Schneiderlin and Schweinsteiger has done wonders for the sale of repro tops and they’ve run out of letters. Benedict Cumberbatch, please join Carlisle United. They’re desperate for some extra income.

Beards are still in. The whole Prem is bristling with them, the skinniest, weediest player convinced he’s Andrea Pirlo. Even my young friend and neighbour Ed Miliband has grown a beard, according to his holiday snaps. Sign him.

Boots Not always had my best specs on, but here and abroad I detect a new form of bootee creeping in – slightly higher on the ankle, not heavy-plated as in the old days but very light, probably made from the bums of newborn babies.

Barclays Still driving me mad. Now it’s screaming from the perimeter boards that it’s “Championing the true Spirit of the Game”. What the hell does that mean? Thank God this is its last season as proud sponsor of the Prem.

Pitches Some groundsmen have clearly been on the weeds. How else can you explain the Stoke pitch suddenly having concentric circles, while Southampton and Portsmouth have acquired tartan stripes? Go easy on the mowers, chaps. Footballers find it hard enough to pass in straight lines.

Strips Have you seen the Everton third kit top? Like a cheap market-stall T-shirt, but the colour, my dears, the colour is gorgeous – it’s Thames green. Yes, the very same we painted our front door back in the Seventies. The whole street copied, then le toot middle classes everywhere.

Scott Spedding Which international team do you think he plays for? I switched on the telly to find it was rugby, heard his name and thought, goodo, must be Scotland, come on, Scotland. Turned out to be the England-France game. Hmm, must be a member of that famous Cumbrian family, the Speddings from Mirehouse, where Tennyson imagined King Arthur’s Excalibur coming out the lake. Blow me, Scott Spedding turns out to be a Frenchman. Though he only acquired French citizenship last year, having been born and bred in South Africa. What’s in a name, eh?

Footballers are just so last season. Wayne Rooney and Harry Kane can’t score. The really good ones won’t come here – all we get is the crocks, the elderly, the bench-warmers, yet still we look to them to be our saviour. Oh my God, let’s hope we sign Falcao, he’s a genius, will make all the difference, so prayed all the Man United fans. Hold on: Chelsea fans. I’ve forgotten now where he went. They seek him here, they seek him there, is he alive or on the stairs, who feckin’ cares?

John Stones of Everton – brilliant season so far, now he is a genius, the solution to all of Chelsea’s problems, the heir to John Terry, captain of England for decades. Once he gets out of short trousers and learns to tie his own laces . . .

Managers are the real interest. So refreshing to have three young British managers in the Prem – Alex Neil at Norwich (34), Eddie Howe at Bournemouth (37) and that old hand at Swansea, Garry Monk, (36). Young Master Howe looks like a ball boy. Or a tea boy.

Mourinho is, of course, the main attraction. He has given us the best start to any of his seasons on this planet. Can you ever take your eyes off him? That handsome hooded look, that sarcastic sneer, the imperious hand in the air – and in his hair – all those languages, he’s so clearly brilliant, and yet, like many clever people, often lacking in common sense. How could he come down so heavily on Eva Carneiro, his Chelsea doctor? Just because you’re losing? Yes, José has been the best fun so far – plus Chelsea’s poor start. God, please don’t let him fall out with Abramovich. José, we need you.

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 27 August 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Isis and the new barbarism