The Curious Art of Winning an Election and Losing a Nation

There was a time when British politics was admired for its stability. Governments came and went, Prime Ministers changed, yet the institutions remained intact, and public confidence, while never perfect, remained broadly stable.

Those days now feel increasingly distant.

With Keir Starmer’s departure, arguably a form of political suicide, Britain has managed to produce seven Prime Ministers in ten years: David Cameron, Theresa May, Boris Johnson, Liz Truss, Rishi Sunak, Keir Starmer, and now, inevitably, someone else. The only truly consistent presence in recent years has been Larry, the Downing Street cat. One begins to suspect that Number 10 has become less a seat of government and more a temporary lodging for ambitious politicians passing through on their way to political irrelevance.

Starmer was supposed to be different. That, in truth, was his entire appeal. No politician has been more overestimated than this salon socialist. That said, one must give him credit, and this is said without envy, for at least one genuine skill: he could tie a tie better than most. In modern politics, that too counts as competence, and in some cases it appears to be the only one.

Starmer was sold as a kind of political cure-all. Westminster spoke of seriousness, the BBC spoke of stability, and the political class spoke of renewal. In the end, it turned out to be nothing more than a change of packaging. The contents remained the same.

After years of Conservative drama, scandal and self-destruction, Labour presented itself as the party of reason. No grand ideological experiments. No circus acts. No unnecessary drama. Just competence, professionalism and stability. The British electorate was led to believe that normality had finally returned. Instead, many voters concluded that they had merely exchanged one disappointment for another, and at this point it becomes clear that even British humour and patience have their limits.

But when a medicine no longer works, or works less and less, people eventually increase the dose or turn to something stronger. Nigel Farage and Reform UK are the beneficiaries of precisely this effect.

What is remarkable is that Starmer himself helped to accelerate this. A man who came to office in order to halt the populist surge has ended up convincing millions that even Nigel Farage now appears to be a conceivable alternative. That is rather like a pub serving beer that tastes like dishwater, and customers then trying to solve the problem by drinking from the toilet instead.

The problem was never that Starmer’s opponents disliked him. Opposition is a normal part of any democracy. The problem was that increasing numbers of his own voters began asking uncomfortable questions. What had happened to the promises? What had happened to the principles? What had happened to the certainty with which so many commitments had been made before polling day? Did Starmer really believe that this personal and political reckoning would never catch up with him?

A politician can survive criticism, as Margaret Thatcher demonstrated repeatedly and decisively. What he cannot survive indefinitely is the accusation that he came to power under one set of assumptions and governed under another. This is a problem now facing many European governments, including Germany, although Germany cannot learn from the United Kingdom unless it actually wants to.

History is full of political ironies, but few are as striking as years spent warning voters about Nigel Farage, only to end up giving him an ever-growing base of support. In Germany, the political Pinocchio Friedrich Merz claimed he would halve the far-right AfD. Instead, the party doubled its support within two years.

At this point the crisis ceased to be purely political and took on a deeper dimension.

In Britain, no Prime Minister is judged solely against his predecessor. Whether he wishes it or not, every head of government stands in the shadow of a long line of historical figures. Winston Churchill still casts a long shadow over British politics. Measured against that standard, Starmer would probably not even have been trusted to order Churchill’s cigars.

Across Britain, millions of people increasingly felt that a gap had opened between official narratives and their everyday experience. They looked at their communities, their high streets, their economic prospects and public services, and compared what they saw with what they were being told by politicians, broadcasters and commentators. The street was showing one reality, while the BBC was often describing another.

People saw the country outside their front doors. Political commentators appeared to see a different country altogether. And both sides could not possibly be right at the same time. Those who consumed only the BBC at times lived in a very different Britain from those who simply opened their front doors each morning.

Once that perception takes hold, trust begins to erode. And trust, unlike economic growth or inflation, cannot simply be managed through political announcements.

The result of this growing disillusionment is now visible in the rise of Reform UK.

The most remarkable feature of the Starmer era may not lie in any achievements of his government. It is rather the fact that a man elected, among other things, to halt the populist surge ultimately ended up accelerating it.

The rise of Reform UK should not be seen primarily as a triumph of Reform UK itself. It should be seen as an indictment of the political establishment that made such a rise possible in the first place.

For years, voters were told that their concerns were unfounded, exaggerated or based on misunderstandings. Yet voters have an irritating habit: they insist on trusting their own experience. And when enough citizens conclude that nobody in authority is listening, they eventually look for someone who appears willing to do so.

The question Britain now faces is not whether Starmer has failed. Political careers fail every day. The real question is whether the political class understands why he failed. If the answer is no, the next Prime Minister may discover what the previous six have already learned.

Public patience is not infinite. Nor is public trust.

Britain certainly hopes so.

After six Prime Ministers in ten years, hope is no longer the political currency it once was. Perhaps the next occupant of Number 10 will prove them wrong. Perhaps one should simply make Larry the next Prime Minister and restore a greater share of power to the Crown.

One thing must, however, be said in Starmer’s favour: his final speech was considerably shorter than Fidel Castro’s. Sometimes one simply has to take what one is given.