And yet, with a few days to reflect on the brouhaha that has surrounded Ms. Brick’s cry for attention, I am left a little bereft. In fact — to paraphrase a rather more enlightened scribe — I am even beginning to wonder that if Samantha Brick had not crowbarred her way into the public eye this week, it would have been necessary for someone to invent her.

Let’s turn back the clock by a week or so. A chap with a red briefcase presented a shambles of a budget to the House of Commons, and the press were up in arms. What followed was a series of gaffes that left the Conservative Party with a dearth of credibility and the sort of poll figures to drain the blood from the staunchest of Cameroons.

With an approval rating of -27, lower even than Gordon Brown on the eve of the 2010 election, David Cameron has endured more scrutiny than ever by the fourth estate. Accusations of being “out of touch”, “too posh” and even “too rich” were wheeled out once again as every journalist and coffeehouse-nuisance grasped to summarise. This is nonsense; as Bagehot points out in another excellent column, the public at large do not have a problem with “poshness” at all. The Royal Family are more popular than I can remember, for example.

No, I contend that in reality, what we are all fed up of is this notion of being “all in this together”. Tax-cuts for the rich, welfare cuts for the poor and disabled, cash for access; how many more examples do the public need that the current political class holds the rest of us in contempt? All the while, Cameron mugs along on TV about “compassion” and doing his best to appear “one of us”. The problem is, no-one’s buying it and the poll figures should be enough evidence that the conceit and condescension has reached a tipping point.

Thank goodness, then for Samantha Brick. The Pasty-scoffing Proletariat has it’s Emmanuel Goldstein. More than enough has been said about her vanity and conceitedness, and yet more columns have been filled with comment on the hideous reaction she received in some quarters, so there is no need for me to add to it. What does tickle me, though, is that Social Media is probably the closest we’ll ever come to experiencing a real-life Two Minutes Hate.

One unremarkable woman provided all the catharsis we ever needed, and “Call me Dave” and his Coalition cronies are given a free pass to privatise your grandmother.

Last week I did a rare thing: I went to the cinema to see a film about which I had done no prior reading. That film was Limitless, which from its poster appeared to be some kind of high-tech thriller with Bobby De Niro and Bradley Cooper (Wedding Crashers and The Hangover). Immediately I was reminded of another film: 2001′s The Score, an Edward Norton vehicle that tells the tale of an upstart whizz-kid and an ageing career criminal – played by De Niro, hence my initial association – as they plan the perfect heist. Would Limitless offer the same high-octane thrills and narrative twists, the same convincing on-screen relationship between two male leads at either ends of their acting careers? I was more than hopeful.

The action starts, as with most modern Hollywood fare, at the dénouement of another, mostly-untold story. Struggling writer Eddie Morra (Cooper), cuts an emaciated, dejected figure as his long-suffering girlfriend (Abbie Cornish) calls a moratorium on their relationship in a New York diner. His is the well-worn story of the middle-class urbanite with nothing to show for the ten years since he graduated. Writer’s block, the sting of failed relationships and a generally unkempt appearance at once makes sympathetic characters of Eddie and the girl who dreamed of better.

Eventually, the director tires of revelling in Eddie’s wallowing state (though not, it has to be said, until we are treated to a glorious shot of him eating day-old pizza crust while perched upon the toilet). Taking a break from the still-blank screen of his word processor, he seeks inspiration in the manner of Hemingway and heads to the bar. No sooner does he take a sip, however, than he is reacquainted with his former brother-in-law, Vern, a reformed drug-dealer who works for Big Pharma these days. Vern gives him a sample of a new designer drug called “NZT”, which he claims can provide Eddie with all the necessary inspiration to finish his novel and get his life back on track.

So far, so Faustian. Does Eddie decline Vern’s offer in adherence to an ‘authentic’ life, or does he take a chemical short-cut to realise his potential a little sooner? We know what comes next. Eddie takes the pill.

This is the point where a leap of faith is required. The NZT tablet’s advertised effect is to “unlock 100% of your brain”, based on the pseudoscience you read everywhere about humans only using 20% in everyday life. Accept it, move on. Don’t worry about the displaced involuntary functions or the necessity of a conscious/subconscious boundary, this guy is going to write a novel.

Boy does he. That same afternoon, he placates (then seduces) his landlady, gets a sharp new haircut, deep-cleans his apartment and – oh yes! – writes several hundred pages of manuscript in a single sitting. His thoughts organise themselves onto the page, half-heard conversations from decades ago are recalled in an instant, every piece of information he has ever processed is at his fingertips. He hands his half-complete manuscript over to his amazed publisher and the drug gradually wears off. Eddie struggles for a little to continue some of his early momentum, but with a deadline looming and a foggy head he goes looking for another dose.

Eddie makes his way to Vern’s apartment and leaves with a stash of NZT, a few grand in cash, an address book, and more than a few revelations about what he may have let himself in for. Well-stocked with medication and a feeling of indestructibility, our hero proceeds to play the stock market and become vastly wealthy, his “four-digit I.Q.” allowing him to exploit the Bull and the Bear like nobody else. Before too long, he attracts the attention of an intimidating Carl van Loon (De Niro), the all-powerful CEO of a massive energy conglomerate. Carl is immediately taken by Eddie’s ability to see the story behind the figures and hires him immediately.

It’s all going far too well, isn’t it? What’s more, it would appear that Eddie’s heightened cognition allows him superhuman stamina, confers the ability to fist-fight and women fall at his feet. Speaking of which, Lindy, his estranged girlfriend, is overwhelmed by this new Eddie and they reconcile. Vigorously. “Time to introduce some side-effects”, thought the director. Eddie develops headaches and his memory falters, his estranged wife (played by a weathered Anna Friel) emerges as a premonition of NZT withdrawal. If Eddie is to survive, he needs to come off the drug slowly or he will die from withdrawal.

If a slow and painful death seemed undesirable, it’s overshadowed by the emergence of a Russian mafiosa with a taste for the drug. His transformation from meat-head to erudite provides a little comic relief, especially when taking the edge of some rather visceral torture scenes towards the film’s climax. Eddie flees to Lindy and confesses the true reasons for his turnaround in fortunes. She recovers his medication at great personal risk before leaving him once again. Armed with his last few doses of NZT, he heads back to the Financial District and helps his new business associates close their deal. He pockets $40m and decides he’s going to spend a large chunk of it to deal with his tormentors.

It’s at this point that another film springs to mind: last year’s much-vaunted Inception. Praised by many for it’s straddling of breathtaking cinematography with a dedication to the teachings of Carl Jung, it nevertheless managed to irk me terribly through its convolution and laziness. Limitless is almost exactly parallel to Inception in this manner: so much time is dedicated to establishing the premise of what we are about to witness, but in the end we are left with a load of inconsistency and chaos that exposes the pseudo-intellectualism of the director for what it is. With time, flawed characters reveal themselves to be simply amoral, while carefully-constructed premises give way to disorder when it gets in the way of the action.

As the film wore on – and as you can sense from the way my tone has modulated, wear on it certainly did – I longed for a sense that there was more to this than a plodding series of set-pieces strung together with hand-wringing and personal struggle. I wanted a morality play, for Eddie to realise that his life was not his own, that his achievements were hollow. Maybe, in my darkest moments, I wanted Eddie to fall from grace. Surely the moral of this film was not going to be “cheat your way to the top”? Surely?

Sadly, it seems that Hollywood’s popcorn-selling, intelligence-insulting ways have once again reared their ugly head. Our drug-addled everyman prevails, and he defeats his Russian tormentor in a manner that will live long in the memory. Not a scene for the squeamish, nor for someone expecting a conclusion that makes any narrative use of two antagonists with superhuman intelligence. Holmes and Moriarty are no match for Bruce Willis and Alan Rickman these days, it would seem.

With his foes vanquished, it’s time for our chemically-constructed Übermensch to go back to building his legacy. Twelve months pass. Eddie’s book is a bestseller. Long-suffering Lindy has come back, and in the meantime Eddie has wielded his newfound intellect, wealth and clean-cut looks to pursue a career in politics. His momentum is such that even the Oval Office is in his sights. This cannot be it? Even with a constant supply of NZT at his disposal, he’ll be exposed eventually. His victory is not our victory.

Enter Carl van Loon, De Niro at his menacing best. His people have learned Eddie’s secret, shut down his secret production facilities and plan to extort him for their own political malfeasance. Maybe Eddie’s ascent to power is a Pyrrhic victory after all? Or maybe he will do the honourable thing and blow his unearned brains out, before any exploitation can occur? This is it, the big ending.

Apropos of nothing, we learn that Eddie has one last trump card. He’s not cornered after all! For reasons that are left unexplained, it emerges that Eddie has beaten his dependency on the drug. Something about his synapses, but no further justification is felt necessary for the audience. Powerless against the phenomena of Deus ex machina, Carl leaves under a cloud and Eddie’s triumph continues while the credits roll.