A chicken that loses its head can still, for a short period, run around and flap its wings: the illusion of life sustained by residual nerve impulses. After the downfall of Morgan McSweeney – our de-facto prime minister – this is the phase Britain’s government has now entered. Those who have worked closely with Keir Starmer emphasise his lack of politics, while his own aides privately boast that he is merely their frontman. McSweeney was the head, and the head has gone. There will be some flapping about in every direction. Starmer’s director of communications, Tim Allan has stepped down, the Scottish Labour leader, Anas Sarwar, is calling for Starmer’s resignation and the question of whether and when he will go is still open. But this political project is all over.
This was not supposed to happen, at least according to conventional political wisdom. Before his collision with real power, Starmer was sold as competence incarnate: a figure committed to public service, presiding over a team of adults in the room who would spare us from the psychodramas of the Tory era. They had, we were told, discovered an electoral elixir. Ruling out significant tax rises on wealthy elites, attacking the welfare state and bashing migrants placed them in the fabled centre ground and would appeal to mainstream public opinion.
