I was having a scroll on X when I came across an interesting scene. The Prime Minister, cramped in the back of the van, had been cajoled into playing The Smiths on an electric guitar by a Ukrainian soldier in camouflage. For those with a high tolerance for twee, it was touching: war heroes joined for an impromptu jam session by an international brother in their struggle, a British PM no less.
Clearly the entire scene had been contrived. What had been presented on social media as a spontaneous moment of affection from a Ukrainian trooper was fully orchestrated
Andy Burnham played a bit of ‘Rusholme Ruffians’ from Meat is Murder, the choice of a Smiths connoisseur. Most politicians would kill for such a great video op, baby kissing of course being very passé. On any other day, I’d have scrolled past very quickly. Why waste thirty seconds cringe-watching? Yet the video brought back a conversation I’d had earlier that day, standing next to that very van in Kyiv.
It was Ukrainian Independence Day. Apart from those wearing traditional Vyshyvanka shirts, a smattering more of blue-and-yellow flags (a difficult feat given there’s probably already one per square metre), and a couple of road closures, it felt much like any other day in the city. My friend and I were on our way to visit St Michael’s monastery for the purpose of seeing a very fluffy cat I had met on my last visit (the gilt and baby blue monastery isn’t bad either). On our way, we came across a babushka playing a melancholy song on a piano in a bandstand. A few soldiers watched on, some unpacking equipment from a van for a later event.
At a distance, I heard English being spoken to one of the soldiers in the van by a smartly dressed man and woman. Unlike other countries, you’re always a bit surprised to hear your countrymen in Ukraine, given the country doesn’t exactly scream Jet2 weekender. I discovered they were with the British government, having assumed Irish at first given the man’s accent. He took on the speaking role, but with polite discomfort. Both had nervous and forced smiles. They were not enjoying the conversation and seemed intent on giving as little information away as possible.
My presence was unwelcome: I was an unaccounted-for element, and privy to something I should not have seen. Eventually it clicked. ‘Is Andy Burnham coming here later today?’ I asked, having seen photos of the PM in his polo shirt arriving in Ukraine that morning.
‘I couldn’t possibly comment’ was the quick response in the playing-at-politics manner that junior civil servants speak (Ian Richardson he was not). I was mildly amused but didn’t much care. Yet something seemed amiss. Brits sometimes dislike talking to you abroad, but usually because they think they’re too cool and begrudge you breaking the illusion of their being the only Brit out there. My mind cruelly jumped to the ill-fitting suit and light brown shoes of the man – there was no chance of that. I thought little of it until I saw the video of Burnham strumming away. The guitar session was ‘impromptu’, according to Music Radar. No, it wasn’t.
Clearly the entire scene had been contrived. What had been presented on social media as a spontaneous moment of affection from a Ukrainian trooper was fully orchestrated, played out to make Burnham look likeable. The world’s weakest gotcha it may be, but it speaks to how confected the Burnham Mancunian everyman image is. As mayor of Manchester, he pushed the bee symbol hard. Many Mancunians can’t recall it being that common in the 2000s. In doing so, Burnham was trying to construct a new identity as if rebranding a football club, but also pretending its significance had always been as enormous. It has a similar feeling to the overuse of the word ‘craic’ in Ireland or the haka in New Zealand – it all becomes a bit embarrassing and played out. Going too far to confect a hinterland or character ends up making you seem desperate, even if it has strong foundations. Keir Starmer may be a big Arsenal fan; Andy Burnham may be a big Smiths fan, but you don’t need to tell everyone at any given opportunity.
Our brief crossover also proves I must have some kind of kismet with Labour leaders. The last time I encountered one was 2021 when I filmed Keir Starmer in lockdown having a jolly evening drinking beers and eating curry in the building next to my university house. I was deeply angered at the hypocrisy then. This time I can forgive Andy. The reason being that every time a foreign dignitary turns up in Kyiv, those in the city breathe a sigh of relief. They know that the dignitary’s presence brings a reprieve from the bombing and a night of uninterrupted sleep. Russia doesn’t want to alienate visiting foreign leaders by bombing while they’re in town. There had been talk on Telegram of a busy night around Independence Day. One friend texted ‘Tomorrow guys you must to hide’ [sic]. That night everyone slept well: long may it continue.
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