Going to Pizza Express is a very usual thing for me to do, unlike Prince Andrew. I grew up in the branch on Notting Hill Gate. Family lunches, children’s birthdays, first dates and political summits all took place around its tables. In 2005 David Cameron and I went there for dinner to take stock of his campaign for the Tory leadership. My phone went off. It was the chancellor, Gordon Brown. He wanted to know whether I, as his shadow, would skip a key vote as he couldn’t make it. I politely said we should let the whips arrange the pairing. I held the phone to David’s ear as Gordon shouted that he’d ‘never been treated with such disrespect’ in all his 22 years in parliament. Then he hung up on me. Tucking into our American Hots, the two of us chuckled and decided: we can definitely beat this guy.
David Cameron was called DC by his staff in private memos because ‘Prime Minister’ was too stuffy and ‘Dave’ was too casual.
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