No one can claim they were not forewarned. The recent local elections had always been earmarked as a moment of grave peril for Keir Starmer if the outcomes proved as dire as anticipated. And indeed they did. Yet nobody had foreseen the sheer magnitude of drama that would accompany it. While Conservatives have historically been unflinching in discarding a leader they consider expendable, Labour MPs appear uncertain whether their regicide constitutes tragedy or comedy—or perhaps a blend of both.
Monday: A Day of Reckoning
The action commenced on Sunday when former minister Catherine West declared she would challenge Starmer. Then she decided to wait and see. Eventually, West announced she would not stand against him after all. Chaos ensued. Keir was determined to hold on, insisting he deserved more time. Meanwhile, over 100 of his MPs, including several ministers who resigned, demanded he step down. His transgression? Being rather mediocre.
With Reform UK favourites to win the next general election, the stakes had never been higher. Yet neither of Keir's two main contenders—Angela Rayner seemed to have vanished—was prepared to emerge. Andy Burnham because he was marooned in Manchester without a Westminster seat, and Wes Streeting because he did not want to appear as the one who wielded the knife, even though everyone knew his intentions. It was an unresolved standoff, one that proved unsustainable.
Tuesday: The Self-Awarded Prize
You know how it goes. You work hard and no one seems to notice. Most of us have been there. We just endure and hope our day will come. But not everyone. Some possess greater control over their lives. Take Florent Montaclair, a French academic. Frustrated by his lack of recognition, he decided to grant himself an award. And Florent thought big. He did not merely go to the high street, purchase a trophy, and have his name engraved. In 2016, he announced to the world that he had become the first French recipient of the "Gold Medal of Philology"—the study of language in historical contexts, to you and me—an honour he claimed was equivalent to a Nobel Prize.
He even cited Umberto Eco as a previous winner. And everyone believed him. So much so that a prize-giving ceremony was arranged at the French National Assembly, with MPs, government ministers, and Nobel laureates among the guests. Florent was now a legend in his own lifetime. There was just one problem: there was no "Gold Medal of Philology" before Montaclair decided there was. Nor was there an Institute of Philology that Florent claimed administered the prize. Astonishingly, no one noticed.
There was even a prize-giving the following year when Florent awarded the medal to American academic Noam Chomsky, who flew to Paris for the ceremony. The alleged charade only came to light relatively recently when Florent apparently included the medal on an application for a promotion. If only he had quit while he was ahead. But what an example to us all. Keir Starmer could probably use an ego boost right now. So why does he not get Mark Rutte to award him a fictitious "medaille d'honneur" for services to NATO? It would cost the secretary general nothing, and he would surely receive something in return.
Wednesday: State Opening Surrealism
One Westminster tradition I wholeheartedly endorse is that political sketch writers are always guaranteed a seat in the press gallery of the House of Lords for the state opening of parliament. But even though I have had a front-row seat for the last 12 years, I still find the occasion surreal. This year, the Labour benches were far from full, and a Lords official asked everyone to spread out to hide the gaps. The Tory benches were crammed. Near the back was Chris Grayling—a reminder that a peerage is often a reward for having been useless at your job.
The chamber is awash in crimson and ermine, apart from the law lords who are in black and gold. In the corner of the chamber, there is a TV so everyone can watch the king and queen make their way from the palace in a horse-drawn carriage. For reasons that still escape me, the crown, sceptre, and orb all have to make the same journey in a separate coach. Only the Brits… Shortly before the start, the chamber goes quiet and the procession begins. Led by the Fitzalan Pursuivant Extraordinary, the Rouge Croix Pursuivant, the Maltravers Herald Extraordinary, and others too absurd to mention, all dressed in ridiculous costumes. Who knew these jobs even existed? What do they do for the rest of the year? And is there a careers service where people can apply to become the Clarenceux King of Arms?
Then the king and queen appear, their velvet trains clasped by a host of posh boys who have been let out of school for the day. Behind them are more royal flunkeys, including the Air and Space Commander, the aptly named Air Marshal Allan Marshall. Everyone sits down and we wait for Black Rod to go and fetch the MPs. Once they are at the doors of the Lords, the king reads out the speech in a voice that suggests he would far rather be doing something else. Once he has finished, he heads straight home. The whole thing is done and dusted inside 15 minutes. Quite mad.
Thursday: A Fatal Surgical Error
It is every patient's worst nightmare. I have had at least 10 general anaesthetics in my life so far, and every time I have been about to go under, I have had the same thoughts. What if I do not ever come round? My father died on the operating table after heart surgery. What if, when I do come round, I find the surgeon has made a hideous mistake and they have operated on the wrong knee?
For William Bryan, a 70-year-old man from Florida, the worst did happen. Like my dad, he died on the table. Only while my father died because his heart was in worse shape than the pre-operation scans had indicated, Bryan died because the surgeon, Thomas Shaknovsky, allegedly removed his liver instead of his spleen. The kind of error that even the non-medically trained can see is bound to be fatal. Shaknovsky is now facing criminal proceedings in the US and has described how he is "forever traumatised" by his patient's death. Hmm. Imagine how Bryan's family must be feeling.
I mentioned this case to a couple of doctors last weekend, and they were gobsmacked. They had no idea how any trained surgeon could mistake the two organs. Firstly, the liver is about four times the size of the spleen; secondly, you approach them from different sides of the abdomen. Then there is the basic plumbing. Surely someone must have noticed the surgeon's mistake. Or was there a culture of fear and no one dared speak out of turn?
Needless to say, none of this has done my hypochondria—never far from the surface—much good. Especially as I am rapidly approaching the business end of life. So far, so good. My heart surgeon has pronounced himself pleased with my progress since my angioplasty following a heart attack two years ago. No breathlessness, no chest pains, and four sessions a week in the gym. I am hoping to keep it that way for a while yet.
Friday: Spurs' Relegation Battle
Even though I have long since kicked my Panini sticker habit, by this time in the year I would normally be wasting time thinking about the upcoming World Cup. Making a note of the dates of England's qualifying games, working out possible opponents in the knockout stages, and picking teams for Westminster's fantasy football league. Not this time. Partly because a World Cup in the US seems more of a money-making enterprise for FIFA than a celebration for the fans, but mainly because my football horizons have narrowed down to the next nine days. More specifically, the last two Spurs matches of the Premier League season, which will determine whether we are relegated or not.
Our fate is in our hands as we are two points clear of West Ham with a better goal difference, but somehow that does not give me any real confidence. It would be totally in character for Tottenham to blow it. There is a joke going round the Spurs fans' group. One of our games is at a ground with rubbish owners where we have not won in years; the other is away to Chelsea. And Spurs have no one to blame for the situation we are in but themselves. The most pleasure they have given this season has been to the fans of other clubs.
Everyone is really enjoying our predicament—imagine the LOLs of building the best stadium in the country only to go down to the Championship—and Chelsea and Everton will be trying their hardest against us even though they have nothing much to play for. Both games will be like cup finals. Two friends who support Chelsea have separately told me that relegating us would be the highlight of their season. Spurs used to be a team that neutrals could love. Now we are the enemy, the butt of everyone's jokes. So it is going to be a tense and lonely period. Think of me. And when it is all over, why not come to my London show at the Leicester Square Theatre on 10 June? We will all need a laugh. And by then we may even know if Keir will still be hanging on.
