Andy Burnham yesterday got himself clear of the magic number – the 323 Labour MPs who had to support him to make any leadership challenge mathematically impossible. Half a week had gone by in limbo, his endorsements standing at 322, everyone knowing he was the next prime minister, nobody able to call it anything more than “likely”. What were those last MPs waiting for? Maybe they were just in it for the atmospherics.
You can’t run a coronation like a slam dunk; it needs choreographed suspense, a sense of ceremony. In an ideal world, the last names would have arrived in the form of a wax-sealed letter, carried by a horse or a bird.
