You went and ballsed it all up, didn't you David Cameron. You had done so well until now. Well, well-ish.
You had united and modernised your party and led it to the first Conservative majority in nearly two decades. You had overseen a tough and controversial government austerity programme, but at least the economy was growing strongly again. You had pushed through a progressive social agenda by extending the right of marriage to gay couples. You had even fought off Scottish independence, keeping the UK together despite the swell of nationalism north of the border.
For all the criticisms that could be levelled at you, and there are many, you had done all right in the end. Sorry: you had so nearly done alright in the end.
Because with the calamitous EU referendum, you have curled out a veritable dung mountain on top of your own legacy. Now you're out of the prime minister's job, dragging along the heap of steaming, stinking legacy chained to your ankle. So where next, Mr Cameron?
Luckily for you, your years of experience as a slick PR man before becoming an MP have trained you well for polishing turds and painting lipstick on pigs. So all is not lost. Like a skilled potter, you could spend the rest of your life smoothing the crap-mound into a fine-looking vase; writing memoirs, touring the broadcasters as a pundit, perhaps barnstorming from the Lords in a never-ending defence of your prime ministership until the public gets used to the stench and forgets the whole Brexit thing.
Although, the economic and financial predictions about the impact of a vote for Brexit now look scarily prescient amid the economists warnings and market wobbles. If your own pre-Brexit warnings of World War Three were also prescient, by the time the public has forgiven and forgotten, we'll all be living out a real-life Threads as feral wildlings gnawing for sustenance on radioactive cockroach shells anyway.
But between now and the nuclear apocalypse, you should also find time to remember which pubs you left your children in. By now, the poor kid is probably a regular ghoul in some dark corner of a faceless Wetherspoons; supping two pound pints, eating microwaved "gourmet" burgers and boring the bar staff about why Article 50 must be invoked immediately else it be a betrayal of British voters.
Of course, it's also worth taking the time to search through Papa Cameron's old files. We know from the Panama Papers that the wily old City dog liked shuffling money around sunny offshore tax havens. There could be a few million champagne tokens in a secret Caribbean trust, hidden from the taxman and the wife, a nice little retirement package for you. Though if you do find anything, I wouldn't tell HMRC if I were you. What they don't know can't hurt them. Or the public purse.
Your record on peace in the Middle East isn't quite as impressive as Tony Blair's. But you have touted yourself as the "heir to Blair" and made a fine job of Libya after the ousting of the tyrant Colonel Gaddafi. Libya now only has three rival governments, a civil war, and rampaging jihadists to contend with. Surely a role as a peace envoy is on the cards? If that sounds like too much sweeping up and gunfire, then fair enough. Extracurricular entertainment may also be a problem; you don't tend to find many pigs in Islamic societies.
Maybe something less grand is required. You've been busy on the world stage for several years now, making tough decisions like, do I plead with Angela Merkel or beg her for what I need? Life was probably better as a humble backbench MP for rural Oxfordshire, cutting village fete ribbons, posing with lambs, and pretending to be eurosceptic so your constituency party selects you as their candidate. Easy money, really.
Whatever you choose to do, Mr Cameron, in your well-earned retirement from frontline British politics, know that the country is right behind you. Behind you sinking like a captainless Titanic, fading into the distance as you cling to a piece of flotsam, abandoning the doomed vessel.