There is a video going around that shows a massive military hovercraft startling Russian holidaymakers who were enjoying a brief spell of frivolity before returning to the dark clouds of their moribund existence. The craft emerges from a tsunami of sea spume to park itself on the beach like something out of a seafaring sequel to top Hollywood blockbuster Independence Day. It is as though one of the larger Canary Islands uprooted itself from its rocky base and, volcano erupting, invaded the sands of an idyllic Cyrillic coastal retreat.
The looks on the faces of the people who witnessed this sci-fact phenomenon are, coincidentally, the exact same ones of stunned amazement and horror that David Cameron produced on the physogs of the unsuspecting beach goers that surrounded him when he whipped his top off on a spit of sand in Cornwall this week.
At first the locals did not realise what was happening and youngsters rushed to fetch water in their gaily coloured plastic buckets to keep the stranded beast moist, while concerned adults hatched plans to push it back out to sea and Japanese fishermen sought out their harpoons. Even the RSPCA attended but couldn't find anyone to sue.
In the same way that only Churchill could pull off being a well loved leader while smoking a magnate's cigar, so it is exclusively Russian premier Vlad the Insaner who can divest himself of his clothing and retain the respect of his citizenry. That he maintains the love of his people under threat of imprisonment and death was probably not lost on Cameron as he surveyed the ridicule heaped upon him by this nation's unrestrained press.
Like many a victim of the paparazzi lens, he has only himself to blame. With wanton disregard for the sensibilities of the innocent sunbathers near by, and ignoring the very real possibility that people may have just had their lunch, the Prime Minister struggled to manoeuvre himself out of his formal wear and into the confines of his bathing suit with just a Walt Disney cartoon towel to hide his vast modesty. It looked like Mickey Mouse was eating a narwhal.
The bright pink hue of the titanic expanse of his hairless body testified to the unnerving truth that the man who is charged with leading the country is not even smart enough to avoid sunburn in Cornwall, where the afternoon sun is as milky and inoffensive as cow juice.
As the stunned holiday goers shielded the eyes of their most nervous children and fought to maintain their composure lest they frighten their dogs, they recalled the other times that the PM had been caught supposedly unawares by the cameras of the Fourth Estate. The resulting pictures were almost all of him doing some form of exercise. He would be filmed jogging or playing a game with racquet and ball. These staged photo ops would be used to underline the youthfulness and vigour that he sought to associate himself with in the eyes of the people. He has spoken many times of his love for running and tennis and stated that keeping fit is a key personal goal.
With the evidence of his success in that regard splayed for all to see on the sands of Polzeath we can pop that goal in the pigeon hole of unrealisable dreams alongside balancing the budget, keeping the old buffers on the back benches happy and winning by a landslide at the next general election.
As is often the case when a celebrity gets papped in the almost altogether, recriminations flew shortly afterwards. Downing Street let it be known that it was very cross. The press had an entire street that was upset with it.
No.10 contacted editors to tell them what an egregious and unprovoked intrusion into Desperate Dave's privacy this had been. Functionaries remarked at how unexpected and untoward were their actions in publishing such an intimate and private series of pictures.
This might wash if the PM were squeezing himself into his cozzie in the confines of his bedroom, or if he were not the man who is currently the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, First Lord of the Treasury, Minister for the Civil Service and Leader of the Conservative Party. If you are any of those things, then you should at least have someone to tell you that changing into your shorts under a child's towel and getting your moobs out in public might attract a little attention.
Officials complained that Dave had posed for the press at the start of the holiday and that he did not expect to be the subject of their surveillance while enjoying what was, after all, only his fourth holiday this year!
If only there was an ironic example of how the security services under his command had spied and pried and insinuated itself into our lives so thoroughly that we had no privacy left to call our own.
If only there was a recent case of a journalist, or their boyfriend for instance, being apprehended at the government's behest while passing through an airport and interrogated about their personal life for the maximum nine hours allowed without bringing charges...
Would it not be somewhat comforting to discover that the citizens of this country were being photographed and recorded and their every movement and communication stored and scrutinised while inside and outside their own homes? For then we could side with Dave and feel that we are truly all in this together.