Cameron should seize the internationalist mantle he renounced last week

As the PM's failure to attend the UN showed, Downing Street seems asleep on the job when it comes to elevating him into the statesman role he craves and the country needs.

In one of last week’s more painful transitions, broadcasters cut from the end of Ed Miliband’s speech to Labour Party conference to President Obama speaking to the United Nations. One of the Labour activists I was with winced and muttered "and next up, the Gettysburg Address". 

In reality, the contrast between the two did Labour no real harm, thanks to the Prime Minister’s inexplicable decision to renounce one of the key reputational benefits of incumbency by skipping the annual meeting of world leaders in New York. Picture the despair in Labour’s ranks if right-leaning papers had been able to draw the parallel between a Cameron flanked by the most powerful people on the planet and Ed Miliband surrounded by cheerleaders from Labour’s rank and file. The Tories had a chance to attack Ed Miliband as not just "a red", but an irrelevance, and I know which would have hurt the more.

The Labour leader’s key conference test was to look like a credible Prime Minister in waiting and it is one he passed thanks both to his ambitious sweep of popular policy promises and the curious leadership vacuum left by his opposite number.  The Conservative Party’s attack machinery has since been working round the clock on contrasting David Cameron and Ed Miliband, but Downing Street itself seems asleep on the job when it comes to elevating the Prime Minister into the statesman role he craves and the country needs.

One reason for that perhaps lies in the PM’s own confusion about what he wants to project about Britain on the world stage: he can’t seem to work out whether we’re broken or brilliant. After the London riots he lamented a society that was in parts "not only broken, but frankly sick", while at the G20 last month he described a nation which couldn’t have "a prouder history, a bigger heart or greater resilience". Labour used to accuse Cameron of "talking Britain down" but his passionate defence of our global influence in St Petersburg revealed his increasing confidence in asserting that Britain can still punch above its weight.

Under Cameron, traditional 'realist' Conservative foreign policy has been replaced with a strong streak of conscience, evident in his continued commitment to aid and his willingness to intervene in Libya and attempts to do so in Syria. To his great credit, that has not been an easy path for the PM, with disquiet on his backbenches, amog his grassroots and across the Conservative press. The trouble is that he is unwilling to follow through on the detail and the delivery – the two things which make a foreign policy really work.

His mishandling of the timing and whipping of the Syria vote has been exhaustively covered but it is far from a one off. I have written before about the Prime Minister’s relaxed approach to this part of his job and we see it again in his absence in New York last week. Not only did he sit out global negotiations to resolve the worst humanitarian catastrophe since Rwanda, he also missed discussions on his own report, completed as Co-Chair of the Secretary General’s High Level Panel on global development.

That too fits a pattern – he also managed to stand up his two fellow co-chairs at one of only three meetings they were supposed to have and insulted two presidents by sending Justine Greening, a minister who – even before she skipped the Syria division – was so regularly missing in action she was dubbed "the scarlet pimpernel of the Tory Party" by Conservative commentator Iain Dale.

It all adds up to a pretty depressing picture for those of us who wish the Prime Minister well in his efforts to make Britain a force for good in the world. Between Cameron’s unwillingness to do the hard yards and Labour’s dampening of expectations about Britain’s role and obligations, it is difficult to see how our global leadership is to be maintained.

Labour used last week to set out its stall for the next general election with a clear steer that they want a cost of living contest. That is the right overall frame, but the opposition can’t afford to leave foreign policy a completely blank sheet. Plenty of voters agree with the Prime Minister’s more optimistic analysis that this is a brilliant country with a unique set of levers at its disposal to make the world a better place. Millions more think that how a party secures Britain’s interests and influence is a defining question of fitness to govern and that neither the government nor opposition have yet given Britain enough to go on when making that choice.

If he wants to eclipse Miliband’s Brighton performance, Mr Cameron would be wise to spend a portion of his conference address today seizing the internationalist mantle he voluntarily renounced last week.

Kirsty McNeill is a former Downing Street adviser. She tweets @KirstyJMcNeill

David Cameron goes through the final details of his speech before delivering it at the Conservative conference in Manchester. Photograph: Getty Images.

Kirsty McNeill is a former Downing Street adviser. She tweets @KirstyJMcNeill

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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