Bogglingly, Andy Burnham didn’t even wait to become prime minister before organising yesterday’s ludicrous photo of him standing in Westminster Hall, backdropped by hundreds of fawning Labour MPs, like Dorothy surrounded by the munchkins. Or like the bit in Return of the Jedi where the detestably cutesy Ewoks worship C-3PO as a god. Actually, the Westminster Hall visual was even naffer than the Ewoks singing their abysmal Yub Nub song of triumph at the end of that movie. Maybe it’ll sell a lot of soft toys.
Is there Andy Burnham merchandise yet? It feels as though it could be in the post. A decade ago, at the peak of the SNP’s powers, the party sold a whole diffusion line called the “Nicola signature range”, which included covetable items such as onesies, teddies and shopping bags, presumably ideal for filling with £2,600 salt and pepper grinders, or multiple gaming console gifts for any motorhome visitors.
But back to the supposed prime-minister-in-waiting, whose team, we learn from selected briefings, now feel Keir Starmer’s overly prompt departure means Andy’s “not going to be close to being ready”. Aww. We’ll have to see how long Burnham can credibly sell the idea that he is just a relatable guy this event has happened to, as opposed to because of.
We’ve had sufficient transfers of power in the past decade to get a feel for their aesthetics, and the style of this one is decidedly twee. Maybe they’ve all been getting a bit more that way each time, as though the yawning lack of substance, intellectual heft and high performance in our politics can be disguised by the right kind of affectation or cosy joke or vibe. In related disappointments, this is why we have to hear endless bullshit about the Downing Street cat and how many prime ministers he has outlasted. Perhaps the only thing more tedious is being told – apparently as a way of really putting things into perspective – how many prime ministers this or that journalist’s nine-year-old has seen.
It goes without saying that even this is the better end of the discourse that we may be in line for in the weeks to come. Like me, you’ll be amazed Polymarket isn’t offering a formal market on this yet, but I would estimate we are in 90% danger of a broadsheet outlet publishing an article headlined: “Whisper it, but I have … feelings for Andy Burnham. And I know I’m not alone.” Back in the pandemic, some people thought that not being alone was understating it, and that we were, actually, a nation that universally wanted to shag Andy Burnham. “Suddenly, inexplicably,” decreed Vogue, “we all fancy Andy Burnham.” The Andy Burnham Capsule Wardrobe – is that a thing? Certainly wouldn’t rule out it becoming one before he takes office.
Anyway: the journey south. Because of either (a) theatre or (b) the fact that there literally aren’t any changing facilities of any type in Manchester, Burnham boarded his train wearing his professional outside uniform of dark jeans and T-shirt, and changed into his prime minister costume in the train loo. Yet it’s the crazed focus on that particular train journey that I keep coming back to. Trains are, after all, in the news for another reason at the present moment, not that you could tell that for much of yesterday. The BBC showed live helicopter shots of Burnham’s train making its progress towards London. Most outlets noted that the train was late, and suggested Burnham could get delay repay. At Euston, a GB News camera chasing to find him had the feel of horror-movie found footage, or at the very least one of those reports where a reporter chases someone in violation of trading standards. Once Burnham had managed to get himself into a taxi, the Sky News helicopter broadcast overhead shots of his journey from Euston to Westminster. People kept saying, apparently as some kind of humblebrag, that this was all “very British”.
And perhaps it was, given that not particularly far north, also on the rail tracks, lies the site of the worst British rail disaster in almost two decades, which occurred only on Friday evening but seems already to have been shaded into the background by the comfortably familiar delirium of another changing of the guard in SW1. Obviously, the arrival in the capital of a man likely to be the next prime minister is a matter of interest, but the wall-to-wall frenzy had the unfortunate effect of reminding one that it should not even be the biggest public transport story of the day.
But so all consuming is the Westminster conversation, despite 90% of it being froth and frenzy, that many have already looked away from the horror of the collision, as one train travelling towards the capital crashed into another that was stationary, just outside Bedford. A driver is dead, and eight people are in critical condition, while a further 45 are badly injured and remain in hospital, despite the multiple failsafes that are supposed to be in place across the modern train and signalling network. The stories that have emerged from the crash scene from ordinary travellers are horrifying. What happened to these poor people? How on earth could it happen? How quickly do events that would previously have dominated pass into the rear-view mirror? I guess all our trains of thought run on dopamine now – and perhaps that’s a big reason why we never seem to arrive anywhere better.
-
Marina Hyde is a Guardian columnist. Her new book, What a Time to be Alive!, is out in September (Guardian Faber Publishing, £20). To support the Guardian, order your signed copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply
-
Do you have an opinion on the issues raised in this article? If you would like to submit a response of up to 300 words by email to be considered for publication in our letters section, please click here.
