You could probably tell me about the first time you had sex (although I would prefer you didn’t). You probably couldn’t tell me about the seventh.
That’s not to say you didn’t enjoy it. It may, indeed, have been better – practice, as they say, makes perfect. But if familiarity does not, in this particular case, breed contempt, it does breed forgetfulness. The first time something happens is significant, subsequent iterations tend to be less so.
With the past decade having seen “lectern moments” from David Cameron, Theresa May, Boris Johnson, Liz Truss, and Rishi Sunak, Keir Starmer’s was less world-historical event, more background noise. Which made the slightly po-faced comments about the background noise during the speech (Beethoven’s Ode to Joy – a choice which could be interpreted in different ways) seem somewhat overwrought. People are unlikely to tell their children where they were when Sir Keir resigned, they are more likely to ask “Which one was he?”
The events surrounding the resignation made the speech itself less main course, more amuse bouche. It was, to the media and politicians, merely a morsel before the important business of the day – the arrival of Andy Burnham in London. Train-trackers were fired up, helicopters were deployed, journos were sent to Euston. They could take their time, the train was late.
Mindful of the fact that the new MP for Makerfield had shortly before been prevented from standing for Gorton and Denton, some of the historically minded reached back to Dumas’ account of the headlines reporting Napoleon’s return from Elba. Burnham’s selection for his new constituency was clearly the “cannibal has come out of his lair” stage (to Starmerites at least), but by the time he had been sworn in “His Imperial and Royal Majesty has made his entry into [Westminster Hall], amid His faithful subjects.” As the selfie attested.
To those with a more recent knowledge of history, (or a familiarity with the work of the Pet Shop Boys), it was reminiscent of Lenin’s Sealed Train, Manchester and Euston replacing Lake Geneva and the Finland Station.
History, they say, does not repeat, but it does rhyme. So we should be careful of fitting current events too tightly into the boxes of the past. Analogies often illuminate the knowledge of those who make them more than they do the situation they purport to describe. This is, of course, partly the point.
But it is hard not to feel we have all seen this before.
Prime Minister becomes unpopular. MPs panic and cast around for a saviour and, in a slightly mixed metaphor, rush sheeplike to the other side of the ship. It happened with May, it happened with Johnson, it happened with Truss. It has now happened with Starmer.
It happened to the Roman Emperor Galba too, when the praetorian guard killed him, rallying to his rival Otho to ward off the threat of his rival Vitellius. It happened to James II when Parliament turned to William of Orange. Politician becomes perceived as a threat to part of the political class, they see the way the wind is blowing and dump him. Wash, rinse, repeat.
The success of these maneuvers is, shall we say, mixed. Both for the state, and the regicides themselves. Over 100 soldiers claimed to have killed Galba, seeking a bounty from Otho. When he lost, Vitellius killed them all. Over him, Vespasian lurked – with legions battle-hardened in the Jewish Revolt. Once you legitimise the idea that an ambitious politician can make a play for the top job, you suddenly find you have a surprising number of ambitious politicians.
We learn from history, Hegel said, that we do not learn from history. Britain’s recent past could be offered as proof of this fact. Respite is always temporary. The saviour is always flawed. The slide begins again. No matter, we’ll find another. You’ve got to have hope. Even if it has a nasty habit of killing you.
We could critique this as a curiously modern phenomenon. Margaret Thatcher was able to bully her party into standing by her in her deep unpopularity in the early eighties until the Falklands came along to rescue her. But even she could not resist the tide of history forever. It was less than 48 hours after swearing to “fight on, fight on to win” that she admitted the game was up.
Instead, we should see it as merely a modern outlet for an ancient urge. People wish to protect what they have (many politicians are maxing out their earning capacity by sitting in Parliament), and people will take action when they feel it threatened. Continual opinion polling, and a volatile electorate bring more threats and make them more obvious. Add modern communications and opinion sampling and Rome would probably have had more than one “Year of the Five Emperors”.
If we want things to be different, not only would we have to elect new politicians, we’d probably have to elect a new people too.
Napoleon lasted 100 days when he returned from Elba. Burnham will probably last longer. But he too will meet his Waterloo. It’s who he is, it’s who his supporters are. And it’s who we are.
The cameras will be back in Downing Street soon enough. Not that anyone will remember.
Stewart Slater works in Finance. He is now also on Substack, where you are welcome to follow him.
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