If Downing Street lecterns could talk, what would they say? Just one thought to occupy the mind while waiting for Sir Keir Starmer to take the short stroll towards his fate on Monday morning.
Give the man his due: he gave commentators a weekend to prepare their instant analysis while he and the family popped down to Chequers for one last game of croquet.
His is to be a civilised, almost leisurely exit, with the new PM not due to rock up until August. No Pickfords lorry round the back, tooting its horn, for Sir Keir.
But back to those lecterns. With eight Prime Ministers forced out the door in the last 20 years, some with their own personalised lecterns, there must be quite a collection of the things in the Downing Street basement by now. One imagines them coming to life, Bagpuss-style, when another defenestration is in the air.
What is it with that non-wood lot they must say, kicking another one to the kerb? It’s not as if they have talent to burn.
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By their resignations shall ye know them. Blair did it on his own terms in his Sedgefield constituency. Brown, Mr Stoic. Cameron stunned yet managed to hum a little song as he sauntered to the door. May’s gulping sobs. Boris and his Attenborough talk of herds moving. Liz Truss making less sense than the lettuce she had been compared to. Rishi’s elegant sorry; and now Starmer’s sputter. Came in like a lamb and out like a narked civil servant.
Only May went full Tiny Tears, though it was touch and go with Starmer for a bit. His wife Victoria looked furious, barely able to look at the massed ranks of media across the street. If Labour is a family - and you’ll be hearing a lot of such guff in the coming days - the rest of them should not expect a card from the Starmers this Christmas.
Starmer had droned on about what he had done for the country, his face saying all the while, “And how have they repaid me?” Well, I think he got a couple of nice suits and some specs out of it, which is more than most of us. And there was stuff about questions and answers, how the party had asked if he was the best person to lead them into the next general election. The answer was the opposite of the National Lottery slogan: “It’s defo not you.”
The wobble at the end reminded us what a brutal business our politics has become. Imagine having to resign not just with the whole office looking on - not much of a turnout from the Cabinet on the pavement - but knowing your children will see this some day (tonight it will be World Cup and pizza if Sir Keir and Lady Vic have any sense).
For the lecterns, it had been another dear diary day. There will be more to come. Now, King of the North Andy Burnham. What do we think lectern-wise, something oak and elegant, or industrial chic? Given the state of UK finances, best make it Ikea, lad.
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