The morning after that, the picture took up the whole front page of the Sun.

We poured money into bumping every post we could find about it on Facebook, extending its reach, drenching it in attention. On Twitter, the #EdEats memes began to run into the high tens of thousands. And Ed — bless him.

Do you know what Ed said?

“If you want a politician who thinks that a good photo is the most important thing, then don’t vote for me.”

Which obviously the public heard as:

“Blah blah blah blah, don’t vote for me.”

Immediately after the election, I went to stay with my folks. I explained that I’d been working for the Tories on social — that I’d been in daily contact with HQ — and I could just feel the question coming up, the question about the actual doing. I tried to explain that I’d curated an image that was instrumental in the Tory victory, which just got me some muffled comment about working in a museum from Dad. No, I didn’t take the picture; no, I didn’t make all those silly remixes of it; no, I didn’t call the newspapers and tell them all to run it. It bugs me that they will never understand how the world works, when it seems so obvious to me.

Dave, on the other hand — I was surprised by how fully Dave understood it. Say what you like about him, he’s one sharp cookie when it comes to marketing.

“It really doesn’t matter about the picture, does it?” he said when we finally met. “It doesn’t matter if it’s important or funny or well made. It’s about people they know. They just care about what people they know are doing.”

Bingo, Dave. That’s pretty much everything you need to know about the internet. The internet is a poster for a film that never ends. The film itself, the content, is irrelevant. It’s not even playing. All that’s there are connections, references, delivery methods. That’s the cognitive leap you need to make to understand the modern world, a leap my parents and Ed Miliband will never make.

Dave asked me if I’d be free in a few weeks for a little project. Nothing big, he said, just a quick promo. We identified a food brand that would be good for Dave.

Our research told us it needed to be a brand people felt guilty or uncomfortable about buying into, but which they bought anyway, in a jaded, inevitable sort of way. I didn’t mention this to Dave.

We met up just before the flight in a secure lounge (there’s a limit to how far the PM will take the whole Easyjet thing), had a very quick drink and boarded. I was one row back from the action, sitting next to the Pringles PR guy. Obviously a lot of the other passengers were security and staff, but we’d identified key seats for any LSN (Likely Social Nexus) YouTube or Vine users. Back in the office we had eight staff watching those social accounts, ready to start seeding and bumping.

We took off — no announcements about turning your phone off on this flight — and the drinks trolley came round. The two LSNs in front of me were served their drinks before the PM. I checked with Pringles Guy, and gave the nod.

Moments, later, Dave hunkered forward for a moment and, with a soft pop, began to enjoy his crisps in full view of the LSNs. There was a nerve-wracking moment of inactivity before one of the young men in the seats in front of me realised what he was looking at. His phone appeared in his hand almost instantaneously.

Two hours later, Dave’s car collected him from the runway in Faro and we waited around to get the plane straight back to London. I checked in with the office. Some nice movement already.

Just then, one of the senior Tory staffers spotted me and beckoned me over to where she was sitting with her laptop. As I hung up my call she showed me her browser, with the main pages for three national newspapers. That morning, they’d been fretting about a story about a south London hospital being closed down. But now, across all three sites, there was Dave, who is really Just Like You and Me, sitting on a regular Easyjet flight and downing his Pringles like a champ.

“Amazing,” she said, shaking her head in a mystified way that reminded me rather unfortunately of my mother.

And then: “let’s meet up next week. I want your ideas on Jeremy Corbyn: can we catch him eating caviar? Or making his kids eat gruel or something? I dunno, just ideas.”

It doesn’t sound like she gets it. Still, perhaps I can have a word with Dave, and maybe we’ll find someone who does.

I made my excuses and headed off into the airport. There was just time for a bite to eat.