Gordon Brown has never met a disaster he didn’t like, except one.

Terrorist attacks, global financial meltdown (and death of a beloved celebrity voice of a generation of course) – nothing seems to warm the cockles of our ambulance chasing Prime Minister more than people getting frightened and irrational, turning to the Dear Leader for strength and certainty.

These days I can’t shake the impression of Brown as being the nation’s love-smitten stalker, eager to exploit whatever crisis comes up in order to insinuate himself into our lives, to be needed and loved because of the lengths he’s willing to go to in order to prove his love and devotion. You can’t ignore me, he implores. You need me.

So the BBC’s Desperately Exciting Lead Story of Brown’s Terribly Important Cobra Conference Call … from poland no less, about the terrible nightmarish crisis of a couple of people with flu and the thing that’s not a pandemic and isn’t going to engulf is all in doom and death, is the quintessential Brown. When disaster strikes in your life, there’s Brown, hand outstretched, asking if we’re ready to accept his love.

If that doesn’t creep you out, there’s the less obvious and slightly more ominous side of this: The implication that if you don’t accept Brown’s love then death, mayhem and poverty await. Sure, you could never love Brown, but perhaps… just perhaps… you could do worse, right? I mean, he’ll look after you.. and… would it really be so bad? Really? I mean, if it’s choice between death and poverty or just giving up and marrying the stalker?

And some of us… we take the sweets, and the gifts, and the favours, even though we can’t stand the man and we know we’ll never love him like he loves us. Others are more certain: Look, we say. Just fuck off, you weirdo.

Me? I hate these disasters. I hate the way Brown uses these moments of weakness in the public to assume the character of caring Father of the Nation. How other people’s misfortune invariably turns in the best headlines he ever gets.

There’s only one disaster Brown doesn’t like, and that’s the personal disaster that’s befallen his ambitions for the Premiership. To have never reached the position of Prime Minister would, in retrospect, have been the ultimate kindness – one he doesn’t deserve. No, he’s someone who’s bullied his way into a job he’s not remotely suited for and it’s his destiny to suffer the consequences  - in gut wrenching slow motion, to be cringed over and regretted for the rest of his life. “Be careful what you wish for” has never been so salient.