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Mind the gap: how charities are mopping up after the government’s failure to care

Under austerity, charities are regularly having to substitute for government. We live in a twenty-first century Britain where poorer citizens are back to relying on handouts to live.

“Twelve bags, mainly men’s and baby’s clothes. All washed and clean,” Dawn Wilson lists, pleased, as she checks through the latest donations collected from her local area.

Wilson, in her forties, has been co-running the Durham Socialist Clothes bank for three months now. She’s a full-time carer for her disabled husband and is characteristic of what is emerging as a makeshift frontline service up and down the country: volunteers, often on benefits or low wages themselves, filling in the gaps now being left by the state.

Wilson tells me she formed the idea for the bank with a friend last year after seeing a woman crying in a local shoe shop.

“This mother was saying to her young son, ‘it’s your sister’s turn, I’m sorry son’. It spurred us on to do something to help, to help people on benefits or who’ve been sanctioned or are homeless,” she says.   

With help from regional union funding, Wilson and friends began running the clothes bank out of their local community centre in October 2014. By mid-December, they were handing out around a hundred and fifty bags of clothing, with toys on top for Christmas, and seeing over a hundred people through the door in a day.

“We thought we’d be starting with two tables,” Wilson says. “But it’s just ballooned.”

Demand is so high that they are now looking for a permanent storage facility for the donations (Wilson currently uses her house and garage). Two more, separate north east clothes banks – one in Teeside and one in Stanley – are due to open in the coming month, she tells me.

Clothes banks are perhaps the latest stage of what the “safety net” has become under austerity. A few years ago, not many of us would have believed that food banks – at last count, having fed a million people – would be entrenched into our towns and cities on a national scale. The reality is they are now only one part of a much wider trend of charity substituting for government: a twenty-first century Britain where poorer citizens are back to relying on handouts to live.

The clothes bank in Durham

Since coming into office, the coalition has presided over “a dramatic decline in support for some of the most vulnerable groups in society”, as researchers behind an extensive study put it last month (pdf). Benefits are being cut and sanctioned at the same time as crisis funds are being removed. This is turning out to be a lethal two-tier loss of state support: where policies like the introduction of the bedroom tax, the removal of council tax exemption for the poorest, and failing reforms to disability benefits push people into financial crisis as ongoing abolition to local welfare funds removes where they can go for emergency help.  

“People haven’t got money for rent, gas, or food, never mind clothing. That comes way down the list,” Wilson tells me. “It’s a mixture of people who come to us but mostly they’re unemployed, disabled, homeless…but also ones who are employed and struggling on child tax credits. Zero hour contracts are a nightmare, as they don't know when their next money’s coming in.

“I remember, we saw a pregnant girl,” she says. “Twenty-six weeks pregnant but she’d been without money for over ten weeks because she’d had her benefits sanctioned. We put a plea out for her and we got her a lot of baby things. Clothing, a buggy, things like that.”

It’s telling of the scale of the problems leading people through the doors that the title “clothes banks” only goes some way to describing the needs being met by services like the one Wilson runs. These banks are keeping people warm (there are bags of jumpers, hats and winter coats in what Wilson tells me are for all ages and sizes) or fed. But there are bigger items, notably often for children and babies: buggies, car seats, and cots. Shampoo bottles and nappies sit on other tables. Boxes of tampons wait for women who can’t afford to buy their own.

“We find a lot of people are embarrassed to ask for help,” Wilson says. “We have this one woman in her seventies… She got so upset that she had to ask for help. Her pension just didn't go far enough due to her heating bills.”

 

***

 

“Wherever possible we prefer to give money so that people can feel that they have some autonomy and control over their own life,” Jemima Hunt* tells me over email, writing from her London home. “I’ve always said that if we gave a family money for food and they bought cake as well as fruit and vegetables then that should be their choice.”

Hunt, 35, is the founding member of the Biscuit Fund: a charity project that gives small grants, advice, and gifts to “people who are struggling and at their wit's end”. Hunt herself relies on disability benefits due to having severe chronic fatigue syndrome and anxiety and much of the work is done from bed.

Hunt tells me she had the idea for the project in 2013 when, seeing a friend was struggling, she put a plea on social media for help. She raised £100 in around ten minutes and had what she calls a “eureka” moment. Formed with a few people who had offered help in Hunt’s original post, the Biscuit Fund has now assisted just fewer than 250 people, providing anything from money to help pay the bills to delivering a washing machine.  

What is particularly striking is the way the fund actively seeks out its recipients. Forty-six volunteers – from Newcastle to Cornwall – now keep an eye on their own communities through local papers and trusted officials as well as scouring online, from bedroom tax forums to disabled advisory groups, for people who need help. It clearly meets what are basic practical needs but, each time I talk to Hunt, it’s the emotional impact of the donations that is most evident. (Hunt tells me one recipient who was given a new fridge invited her father over simply to “admire it”. Another took a photo of herself with her donated oven.) The aim, she says, is to offer “a reminder that there are people who care”. 

“I’ve never seen the Biscuit Fund as a political project,” Hunt explains. “It’s purely an exercise in hope and bringing a sense of relief. It’s deeply upsetting that there’s a need for us to exist, but while that need is there we will be here.”

The majority of people the fund finds in need have disabilities or health problems and are struggling on benefits or low wages, or are one of the many who have encountered the sudden loss of money that comes with a growing sanction system – or, as Hunt says, are a combination of each as they “frequently roll into one giant issue”.  

“One quite poignant case for me was a gentleman who’d previously had substance abuse issues and had several quite serious heath issues,” she tells me. “He’d managed to get clean specifically so that he could have contact with his daughter [and] it was to be the first Christmas in a long time that she spent with him, but due to a sanction he was struggling for food. In fact he was missing meals so that he could feed her when she visited twice a week.”

The Biscuit Fund team sent the man some shopping, and then another food order “so he could do a full Christmas dinner with his daughter”, along with a couple of stocking fillers for her and a few baubles.

He reported that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been excited about Christmas and that he’d been dreading it because he couldn’t provide her with the kind of Christmas they had both dreamed of,” Hunt says. “Apparently they had an absolutely wonderful Christmas together.”

“It still often amazes me, though, how little it can cost to help someone and restore a bit of hope,” she adds. “Quite frequently, we’ve had cases where the client has actually been considering suicide… Once in a while, something as insignificant as £50 can actually…restore a bit of faith in humanity.” 

Sarah Timothy*, 35, is a previous recipient of the Biscuit Fund and, after being touched by the help she received, their newest volunteer. Her gratitude beams from her.

“They’re the reason I’m still here today and able to help others who are now how I once was,” she tells me from her flat in a small town she asks to keep anonymous. “I was blown away by them. They offered me that tiny glimmer of hope which I very much had thought impossible at the time to have.” 

Timothy, who has emphysema, mobility problems and agoraphobia, is classed as a vulnerable adult. She lives in supported housing with the help of nurses who visit her daily but after being attacked in her home by a man known to her in February 2014, had to move to the first flat available. The floors had been left without carpet, the curtains needed replacing and there was no oven or washing machine. Timothy found herself in a situation familiar to many on a fixed or low income: forced to live hand to mouth and when a crisis hits, there are no savings or spare money to fix it.

“I tried all things [to get help] but I met with a brick wall each time,” she tells me. “The DWP were little support and every agency I approached said no. I did try a lot of places and each time I’d go back to the lady and she’d say ‘No, they can’t help.’ I did honestly try everyone, I even rung the council for help. Every suggestion was met with a ‘no’.”  

Timothy was eventually given a no-interest Budgetary Loan – a government pot designed to pay for essential items such as household equipment or furniture – for £113. It had cost £150 for removals alone and, by nature of a loan, she now has to pay it all back to the social fund. She tells me her application form still had a slot for Community Care grants on, despite the fact these were abolished in April 2013 as part of the “reforms” to local welfare funding.

Often, these charitable services end up as a last resort for those in crisis

“I’m on benefits and disabled so I had no means of buying an oven or anything,” she tells me. “I had to either choose to eat or keep warm and I chose to stay warm and live on Cuppa Soups.”

“When you’re at rock bottom already, it becomes a mundane task daily to battle to get simple things you need to live,” she adds. “I don’t know why in emergencies like this urgent help can’t be given by the DWP.”

It gives some insight into the extent the coalition has tampered with people’s ability to access “urgent help” that 75 per cent fewer financial awards were made in 2013/14 than before the Community Care Grants and Crisis Loans were abolished. Recent research into the impact of the coalition’s changes concluded that the ability of low-income households to access emergency financial assistance on a repeat basis has now been “virtually lost” in many areas.

Not content at that, the government is currently in a battle to abolish the funding for local Welfare Assistance funds. This, despite warnings from the Keep the Safety Net campaign – backed by a national network of over 100 voluntary sector organisations and local councils – that the government getting its way would be a “present” to loan sharks and further force low-income families to turn to charity.

It was the kindness of strangers and sheer coincidence, rather than structured governmental support, which allowed Timothy to wash her clothes and eat hot food again. Upset, she wrote a post on social media about her situation and a volunteer from the Biscuit Fund happened to spot it. Three days later, a brand new oven and washing machine arrived at her door.

“I remember I sat and cried when they said they’d help,” she tells me. “I hadn't eaten well for weeks or been able to even wash my clothes. At first I kept thinking that it maybe wasn’t true. I still didn’t believe it until they were actually delivered.”

“I do find it hard having to fight for simple needs,” she adds. “The basics, as well. Not luxuries.”

 

***

 

Rob Graham, 45, spent two and half years helping to meet these “simple needs” in his local area. He was one of the original volunteers at “NG7”, an independent food bank in one of the most deprived areas in Nottingham. This was a large-scale operation: table after table of toilet rolls, food tins and crates of fresh fruit and veg given out to people referred by multiple agencies, from refuges to the local Citizen’s Advice Bureau. Since the bank opened in 2012, 45 volunteers helped run the service – including Graham’s three teenage children – feeding over 5,500 people. After holding a final Christmas session, it closed its doors in December.  I ask Graham what happened.

“Unlike the Trussell Trust we chose [from the beginning] not to set up a referral arrangement with the DWP. We created our own referral arrangements with specific organisations…where we could be sure that alongside us providing food there was in place some support to address the issue that had created the food crisis,” he explains. “We started with a clear ethos to be 'a service of last resort', not an alternative for the local authority or the DWP to use instead of their own funds.”

But Graham and others at the bank soon began to be contacted by workers from the local council.

“We spent significant time signposting staff from Nottingham City Council Family and Community Teams from across the city,” he says. “It was individual workers in these teams who informed us of how they were advised to use food bank referrals by their management and felt pressure to not use internal funds.” 

This pattern of using the bank to fill in for statutory services ties in with the Freedom Of Information (FOI) requests that the NG7 volunteers made.

“A mere £68,000 was handed out in emergency hardship payments in 2013/ 2014,” Graham explains. “Our FOI request clearly shows that the council have not addressed the issue of access to emergency hardship support through its local welfare assistance programme, especially around those people who have been sanctioned by the DWP.”

Some of the supplies offered by the NG7 food bank

Graham tells me it reached the point where he and other volunteers were “regularly overwhelmed” by phone calls from support agencies and Nottingham County Council to the extent that in March 2014 they stopped accepting them. 

“[We ended up leaving] a voice message which signposted workers or potential service users to where they could find immediate advice,” he says.   

The experience of the NG7 food bank highlights the lurking fear at the back of any discussion of these expanding charitable services: that this may be exactly what the government wants. It is not clear whether the slow entrenchment of food banks and charitable services are the product of an active attempt to draw back the state or simply the tacit approval of a lack of action.

By the end of 2014, the Institute for Fiscal Studies was stating that “colossal” cuts – both current and those still to come – mean it would be justified to ask whether the government was planning "a fundamental reimagining of the role of the state", changing it “beyond recognition”. It is difficult, as we watch carers open clothes banks and the chronically ill deliver food parcels, to not recall David Cameron’s 2010 promise: a shift “from state power to people power.” Perhaps the “big society” has come to life.

It has been just over a month since the NG7 food bank stopped its service and Graham tells me, as the funding for welfare assistance schemes is planned to come to an end this year, he fears things will only get worse.

I'm aware that some voluntary sector groups, mainly charities, are looking to extend their work into food banks,” he says.Without critical challenges from food banks or campaign groups, councils and the DWP can continue to utilize these free resources unfettered.” 

“When we initially opened there were only five food banks in the city,” he adds. “Now there are thirteen.

Back in Durham, Dawn Wilson is finishing sorting the piles of donations. There will be another session in a few days.

“It's heart breaking to see people on their knees and not getting the help,” she tells me. “We do shed a few tears.

“It's a sad state of affairs,” Wilson adds. “This government has a lot to answer for.”

*Some names have been changed

You can donate to The Biscuit Fund here: www.biscuitfund.org

Frances Ryan is a journalist and political researcher. She writes regularly for the Guardian, New Statesman, and others on disability, feminism, and most areas of equality you throw at her. She has a doctorate in inequality in education. Her website is here.

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David Cameron's fatal insouciance

Will future historians remember the former prime minister for anything more than his great Brexit bungle?

On 13 July 2016, after a premiership lasting six years and 63 days, David Cameron left Downing Street for the last time. On the tarmac outside the black door, with his wife and children at his side, he gave a characteristically cool and polished parting statement. Then he got in his car for the last journey to Buckingham Palace – the picture, as ever, of insouciant ease. As I was watching the television pictures of Cameron’s car gliding away, I remembered what he is supposed to have said some years earlier, when asked why he wanted to be prime minister. True or not, his answer perfectly captured the public image of the man: “Because I think I’d be rather good at it.”

A few moments later, a friend sent me a text message. It was just six words long: “He’s down there with Chamberlain now.”

At first I thought that was a bit harsh. People will probably always disagree about Cameron’s economic record, just as they do about Margaret Thatcher’s. But at the very least it was nowhere near as bad as some of his critics had predicted, and by some standards – jobs created, for instance – it was much better than many observers had expected. His government’s welfare and education policies have their critics, but it seems highly unlikely that people will still be talking about them in a few decades’ time. Similarly, although Britain’s intervention in Libya is unlikely to win high marks from historians, it never approached the disaster of Iraq in the public imagination.

Cameron will probably score highly for his introduction of gay marriage, and although there are many people who dislike him, polls suggested that most voters regarded him as a competent, cheerful and plausible occupant of the highest office in the land. To put it another way, from the day he entered 10 Downing Street until the moment he left, he always looked prime ministerial. It is true that he left office as a loser, humiliated by the EU referendum, and yet, on the day he departed, the polls had him comfortably ahead of his Labour opposite number. He was, in short, popular.
On the other hand, a lot of people liked Neville Chamberlain, too. Like Chamberlain, Cameron seems destined to be remembered for only one thing. When students answer exam questions about Chamberlain, it’s a safe bet that they aren’t writing about the Holidays with Pay Act 1938. And when students write about Cameron in the year 2066, they won’t be answering questions about intervention in Libya, or gay marriage. They will be writing about Brexit and the lost referendum.

It is, of course, conceivable, though surely very unlikely, that Brexit will be plain sailing. But it is very possible that it will be bitter, protracted and enormously expensive. Indeed, it is perfectly conceivable that by the tenth anniversary of the referendum, the United Kingdom could be reduced to an English and Welsh rump, struggling to come to terms with a punitive European trade deal and casting resentful glances at a newly independent Scotland. Of course the Brexiteers – Nigel Farage, Boris Johnson, Michael Gove, Daniel Hannan et al – would get most of the blame in the short run. But in the long run, would any of them really be remembered? Much more likely is that historians’ fingers would point at one man: Cameron, the leader of the Conservative and Unionist Party, the prime minister who gambled with his future and lost the Union. The book by “Cato” that destroyed Chamberlain’s reputation in July 1940 was entitled Guilty Men. How long would it be, I wonder, before somebody brought out a book about Cameron, entitled Guilty Man?

Naturally, all this may prove far too pessimistic. My own suspicion is that Brexit will turn out to be a typically European – or, if you prefer, a typically British – fudge. And if the past few weeks’ polls are anything to go by, Scottish independence remains far from certain. So, in a less apocalyptic scenario, how would posterity remember David Cameron? As a historic failure and “appalling bungler”, as one Guardian writer called him? Or as a “great prime minister”, as Theresa May claimed on the steps of No 10?

Neither. The answer, I think, is that it would not remember him at all.

***

The late Roy Jenkins, who – as Herbert Asquith’s biographer, Harold Wilson’s chancellor and Jim Callaghan’s rival – was passionately interested in such things, used to write of a “market” in prime ministerial futures. “Buy Attlee!” he might say. “Sell Macmillan!” But much of this strikes me as nonsense. For one thing, political reputations fluctuate much less than we think. Many people’s views of, say, Wilson, Thatcher and Blair have remained unchanged since the day they left office. Over time, reputations do not change so much as fade. Academics remember prime ministers; so do political anoraks and some politicians; but most people soon forget they ever existed. There are 53 past prime ministers of the United Kingdom, but who now remembers most of them? Outside the university common room, who cares about the Marquess of Rockingham, the Earl of Derby, Lord John Russell, or Arthur Balfour? For that matter, who cares about Asquith or Wilson? If you stopped people in the streets of Sunderland, how many of them would have heard of Stanley Baldwin or Harold Macmillan? And even if they had, how much would they ­really know about them?

In any case, what does it mean to be a success or a failure as prime minister? How on Earth can you measure Cameron’s achievements, or lack of them? We all have our favourites and our prejudices, but how do you turn that into something more dispassionate? To give a striking example, Margaret Thatcher never won more than 43.9 per cent of the vote, was roundly hated by much of the rest of the country and was burned in effigy when she died, long after her time in office had passed into history. Having come to power promising to revive the economy and get Britain working again, she contrived to send unemployment well over three million, presided over the collapse of much of British manufacturing and left office with the economy poised to plunge into yet another recession. So, in that sense, she looks a failure.

Yet at the same time she won three consecutive general elections, regained the Falklands from Argentina, pushed through bold reforms to Britain’s institutions and fundamentally recast the terms of political debate for a generation to come. In that sense, clearly she was a success. How do you reconcile those two positions? How can you possibly avoid yielding to personal prejudice? How, in fact, can you reach any vaguely objective verdict at all?

It is striking that, although we readily discuss politicians in terms of success and failure, we rarely think about what that means. In some walks of life, the standard for success seems obvious. Take the other “impossible job” that the tabloids love to compare with serving as prime minister: managing the England football team. You can measure a football manager’s success by trophies won, qualifications gained, even points accrued per game, just as you can judge a chief executive’s performance in terms of sales, profits and share values.

There is no equivalent for prime ministerial leadership. Election victories? That would make Clement Attlee a failure: he fought five elections and won only two. It would make Winston Churchill a failure, too: he fought three elections and won only one. Economic growth? Often that has very little to do with the man or woman at the top. Opinion polls? There’s more to success than popularity, surely. Wars? Really?

The ambiguity of the question has never stopped people trying. There is even a Wikipedia page devoted to “Historical rankings of Prime Ministers of the United Kingdom”, which incorporates two surveys of academics carried out by the University of Leeds, a BBC Radio 4 poll of Westminster commentators, a feature by BBC History Magazine and an online poll organised by Newsnight. By and large, there is a clear pattern. Among 20th-century leaders, there are four clear “successes” – Lloyd George, Churchill, Attlee and Thatcher – with the likes of Macmillan, Wilson and Heath scrapping for mid-table places. At the bottom, too, the same names come up again and again: Balfour, Chamberlain, Eden, Douglas-Home and Major. But some of these polls are quite old, dating back to the Blair years. My guess is that if they were conducted today, Major might rise a little, especially after the success of Team GB at the Olympics, and Gordon Brown might find himself becalmed somewhere towards the bottom.

***

So what makes the failures, well, failures? In two cases, the answer is simply electoral defeat. Both ­Arthur Balfour and John Major were doomed to failure from the moment they took office, precisely because they had been picked from within the governing party to replace strong, assertive and electorally successful leaders in Lord Salisbury and Margaret Thatcher, respectively. It’s true that Major unexpectedly won the 1992 election, but in both cases there was an atmosphere of fin de régime from the very beginning. Douglas-Home probably fits into this category, too, coming as he did at the fag end of 13 years of Conservative rule. Contrary to political mythology, he was in fact a perfectly competent prime minister, and came much closer to winning the 1964 election than many people had expected. But he wasn’t around for long and never really captured the public mood. It seems harsh merely to dismiss him as a failure, but politics is a harsh business.

That leaves two: Chamberlain and Eden. Undisputed failures, who presided over the greatest foreign policy calamities in our modern history. Nothing to say, then? Not so. Take Chamberlain first. More than any other individual in our modern history, he has become a byword for weakness, naivety and self-deluding folly.

Yet much of this picture is wrong. Chamberlain was not a weak or indecisive man. If anything, he was too strong: too stubborn, too self-confident. Today we remember him as a faintly ridiculous, backward-looking man, with his umbrella and wing collar. But many of his contemporaries saw him as a supremely modern administrator, a reforming minister of health and an authoritative chancellor who towered above his Conservative contemporaries. It was this impression of cool capability that secured Chamberlain the crown when Baldwin stepped down in 1937. Unfortunately, it was precisely his titanic self-belief, his unbreakable faith in his own competence, that also led him to overestimate his influence over Adolf Hitler. In other words, the very quality that people most admired – his stubborn confidence in his own ability – was precisely what doomed him.

In Chamberlain’s case, there is no doubt that he had lost much of his popular prestige by May 1940, when he stepped down as prime minister. Even though most of his own Conservative MPs still backed him – as most of Cameron’s MPs still backed him after the vote in favour of Brexit – the evidence of Mass Observation and other surveys suggests that he had lost support in the country at large, and his reputation soon dwindled to its present calamitous level.

The case of the other notable failure, Anthony Eden, is different. When he left office after the Suez crisis in January 1957, it was not because the public had deserted him, but because his health had collapsed. Surprising as it may seem, Eden was more popular after Suez than he had been before it. In other words, if the British people had had their way, Eden would probably have continued as prime minister. They did not see him as a failure at all.

Like Chamberlain, Eden is now generally regarded as a dud. Again, this may be a bit unfair. As his biographers have pointed out, he was a sick and exhausted man when he took office – the result of two disastrously botched operations on his gall bladder – and relied on a cocktail of painkillers and stimulants. Yet, to the voters who handed him a handsome general election victory in 1955, Eden seemed to have all the qualities to become an enormously successful prime minister: good looks, brains, charm and experience, like a slicker, cleverer and more seasoned version of Cameron. In particular, he was thought to have proved his courage in the late 1930s, when he had resigned as foreign secretary in protest at the appeasement of Benito Mussolini before becoming one of Churchill’s chief lieutenants.

Yet it was precisely Eden’s great asset – his reputation as a man who had opposed appeasement and stood up to the dictators – that became his weakness. In effect, he became trapped by his own legend. When the Egyptian dictator Gamal Abdel Nasser nationalised the Suez Canal in July 1956, Eden seemed unable to view it as anything other than a replay of the fascist land-grabs of the 1930s. Nasser was Mussolini; the canal was Abyssinia; ­failure to resist would be appeasement all over again. This was nonsense, really: Nasser was nothing like Mussolini. But Eden could not escape the shadow of his own political youth.

This phenomenon – a prime minister’s greatest strength gradually turning into his or her greatest weakness – is remarkably common. Harold Wilson’s nimble cleverness, Jim Callaghan’s cheerful unflappability, Margaret Thatcher’s restless urgency, John Major’s Pooterish normality, Tony Blair’s smooth charm, Gordon Brown’s rugged seriousness: all these things began as refreshing virtues but became big handicaps. So, in that sense, what happened to Chamberlain and Eden was merely an exaggerated version of what happens to every prime minister. Indeed, perhaps it is only pushing it a bit to suggest, echoing Enoch Powell, that all prime ministers, their human flaws inevitably amplified by the stresses of office, eventually end up as failures. In fact, it may not be too strong to suggest that in an age of 24-hour media scrutiny, surging populism and a general obsession with accountability, the very nature of the job invites failure.

***

In Cameron’s case, it would be easy to construct a narrative based on similar lines. Remember, after all, how he won the Tory leadership in the first place. He went into the 2005 party conference behind David Davis, the front-runner, but overhauled him after a smooth, fluent and funny speech, delivered without notes. That image of blithe nonchalance served him well at first, making for a stark contrast with the saturnine intensity and stumbling stiffness of his immediate predecessors, Michael Howard and Iain Duncan Smith. Yet in the end it was Cameron’s self-confidence that really did for him.

Future historians will probably be arguing for years to come whether he really needed to promise an In/Out referendum on the UK’s membership of the EU, as his defenders claim, to protect his flank against Ukip. What is not in doubt is that Cameron believed he could win it. It became a cliché to call him an “essay crisis” prime minister – a gibe that must have seemed meaningless to millions of people who never experienced the weekly rhythms of the Oxford tutorial system. And yet he never really managed to banish the impression of insouciance. The image of chillaxing Dave, the PM so cockily laidback that he left everything until the last minute, may be a caricature, but my guess is that it will stick.

As it happens, I think Cameron deserves more credit than his critics are prepared to give him. I think it would be easy to present him as a latter-day Baldwin – which I mean largely as a compliment. Like Baldwin, he was a rich provincial Tory who posed as an ordinary family man. Like Baldwin, he offered economic austerity during a period of extraordinary international financial turmoil. Like Baldwin, he governed in coalition while relentlessly squeezing the Liberal vote. Like Baldwin, he presented himself as the incarnation of solid, patriotic common sense; like Baldwin, he was cleverer than his critics thought; like Baldwin, he was often guilty of mind-boggling complacency. The difference is that when Baldwin gambled and lost – as when he called a rash general election in 1923 – he managed to save his career from the ruins. When Cameron gambled and lost, it was all over.

Although I voted Remain, I do not share many commentators’ view of Brexit as an apocalyptic disaster. In any case, given that a narrow majority of the electorate got the result it wanted, at least 17 million people presumably view Cameron’s gamble as a great success – for Britain, if not for him. Unfortunately for Cameron, however, most British academics are left-leaning Remainers, and it is they who will write the history books. What ought also to worry Cameron’s defenders – or his shareholders, to use Roy Jenkins’s metaphor – is that both Chamberlain and Eden ended up being defined by their handling of Britain’s foreign policy. There is a curious paradox here, ­because foreign affairs almost never matters at the ballot box. In 1959, barely three years after Suez, the Conservatives cruised to an easy re-election victory; in 2005, just two years after invading Iraq, when the extent of the disaster was already apparent, Blair won a similarly comfortable third term in office. Perhaps foreign affairs matters more to historians than it does to most voters. In any case, the lesson seems to be that, if you want to secure your historical reputation, you can get away with mishandling the economy and lengthening the dole queues, but you simply cannot afford to damage Britain’s international standing.

So, if Brexit does turn into a total disaster, Cameron can expect little quarter. Indeed, while historians have some sympathy for Chamberlain, who was, after all, motivated by a laudable desire to avoid war, and even for Eden, who was a sick and troubled man, they are unlikely to feel similar sympathy for an overconfident prime minister at the height of his powers, who seems to have brought his fate upon himself.

How much of this, I wonder, went through David Cameron’s mind in the small hours of that fateful morning of 24 June, as the results came through and his place in history began to take shape before his horrified eyes? He reportedly likes to read popular history for pleasure; he must occasionally have wondered how he would be remembered. But perhaps it meant less to him than we think. Most people give little thought to how they will be remembered after their death, except by their closest friends and family members. There is something insecure, something desperately needy, about people who dwell on their place in history.

Whatever you think about Cameron, he never struck me as somebody suffering from excessive insecurity. Indeed, his normality was one of the most likeable things about him.

He must have been deeply hurt by his failure. But my guess is that, even as his car rolled away from 10 Downing Street for the last time, his mind was already moving on to other things. Most prime ministers leave office bitter, obsessive and brooding. But, like Stanley Baldwin, Cameron strolled away from the job as calmly as he had strolled into it. It was that fatal insouciance that brought him down. 

Dominic Sandbrook is a historian, broadcaster and columnist for the Daily Mail. His book The Great British Dream Factory will be published in paperback by Penguin on 1 September

Dominic Sandbrook is a historian and author. His books include Never Had It So Good: A History of Britain from Suez to the Beatles and White Heat: A History of Britain in the Swinging Sixties. He writes the What If... column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 25 August 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Cameron: the legacy of a loser