Madeline Grant

The legacy of the Victorians is everywhere; we depend on them for our sewage disposal, our railway networks, much of our infrastructure and housing stock. Even the hooded eyelids of our Royal Family mark them out as descendants of Victoria herself. The right often dwells on how far we’ve fallen from Victorian greatness – painting modern Britain’s existence amongst the physical debris of Victoriana as akin to living in the ruins of a superior civilisation, like mud-smeared Visigoths prowling around the remains of the Colosseum. Less discussed is how the Victorians are still very much with us.  ‘In the UK, both people must say “yes” to sex’, scolds one of the posters, which were handed out to asylum seekers. ‘This is called consent’.

The Clacton by-election was finally over. Even by the standards of August news stories, it had grown pretty stale pretty quickly. The result was never in doubt, nor were the entrenched responses of the key players. Reform figures took to the airwaves to insist all questions about Nigel Farage’s finances had been answered by the ballot box. Those who opposed him took to the airwaves to insist the opposite was true. Back at the count, the media were having to make do with increasingly contorted attempts to pretend Binface was amusing In Clacton itself, Mr Farage was essentially playing a game of cat and mouse with the media circus.

It’s amazing how far a prime minister can get just by not being Keir Starmer. There’s considerable political success to be had in simply reversing his stupidest policies, from digital ID to scrapping jury trials, and today, for now at least – assisted suicide – which Mr Burnham announced he wouldn’t be taking forward until social care is in better shape.  The most kamikaze-shaped policy of the Starmer government, the Chagos surrender, still technically remains on the books. Whether Burnham will have the balls or nous to do a full-scale scrapping of his predecessor’s deranged programme remains to be seen.  Burnham is helped by the contrast in his tone – Starmer invariably sounded like an impatient undertaker when announcing policy.

Big Ange is back. From a sketchwriter’s point of view I have to say that this is marvellous news. Rayner is actually an exceptionally old-fashioned politician. She’s akin to the union barons of the past, or perhaps even more accurately, to the Democrat mob bosses who ran Chicago or New York from the middle of the 19th century. I can picture her turning No. 10 North into a sort of Tammany Hall operation where she dishes out service contracts to choice clients with gay abandon.  Rayner’s way of conducting herself might echo the ‘beer and sandwiches’ sleaze of the past, but it has a more grating side.

The Liberal Democrat party of Russia and the Liberal Democrat party of the United Kingdom are not, on the face of it, natural bedfellows. Google declares that the latter’s main policies are ‘healthcare reform, the replacement of Ofwat and closer integration with Europe’. The former’s main policies are the shooting of political opponents, the deportation of all Chechens and something they ominously term ‘imperial reconquest’. However, as unlikely as it may seem, they are not without their similarities. Both have been accused – not without some justification – of being neither liberal nor democratic.

A brass fanfare; a wide establishing shot of five men in three-piece suits, seated in a library of leather-bound tomes – this is Harold Macmillan doing informal. The scene is from a 1959 party political broadcast, which purports to show a ‘relaxed chat’ between Macmillan and four of his ministers, all of whom he refers to by their cabinet titles. Almost everything about it is artificial (including quite possibly the claim that it took place the day after the parliamentary recess). Watching it now is a reminder of two things, perhaps contradictory. First, that prime ministers have always played a clever and not entirely authentic game when it comes to informality; second, how far we’ve fallen. Can you imagine the equivalent today?

As coronations go, this was a particularly flat one. Instead of Zadok the Priest we were treated to New Order. To nobody’s surprise Andy Burnham was unveiled this afternoon as Leader of the Labour party to a select audience of lanyard-wearing goons, cronies and Neil Kinnock.  First we were subjected to Lucy Powell, who had the distinction of being sacked by Keir Starmer for being too incompetent. In a cabinet which includes Rachel Reeves that’s no mean feat. ‘It’s kinda non-uniform day,’ babbled Powell, who is astonishingly the Deputy Leader of the governing party of a G7 power and not Deputy Idiot of a village somewhere. The Russians and the Chinese must be crapping themselves.

‘You’ll miss him when he’s gone!’ Lots of people have said this to me. It’s true I have had the dubious privilege of sketching Sir Keir Starmer for almost the whole of his career as leader of the opposition and Prime Minister. He has grown to be a constant feature of my life, a sort of perma-presence in the background, the person round which my week necessarily has to gravitate. And now, the moment for his departure has finally arrived: today was the final PMQs for Sir Keir Rodney Starmer. It was the final gentle squeal of that good Knight. Starmergeddon. Good afternoon, good evening and Meep Meep.

Sir Keir Starmer was away this week. Nothing new there of course; indeed, it seems the thing which will change least when he finally leaves No 10 will be his presence in Parliament. So today we had what might well be David Lammy’s final outing as Deputy Prime Minister. The Tories had done their customary rummage down the back of the sofa for someone to face him and pulled out James Cleverly. With attention diverted away from the party leaders, these are always good occasions for Members of the House of Commons to demonstrate just how crashingly unimpressive many of them are. Today’s offering was a veritable casserole of mediocrity.  Lammy and Cleverly were unimpressive themselves, clattering at each other in lumbering fight about early release of prisoners.

He probably won’t want to hear this but there is an air of General De Gaulle about Nigel Farage. De Gaulle came to define French politics through a mix of deliberate play-acting as being anti-establishment, a narrative of his own sacrifice and a series of exceptionally well-coordinated tantrums. Now, if that doesn’t sound familiar, I don’t know what does. Nobody could ever accuse Mr Farage of being under-dramatic Farage possibly hoped today was a ‘De Gaulle’s style moment. As the General was wont to do, Farage decided to circumnavigate the official investigations and the media and instead to broadcast directly to the general public.

‘What’s Big Ange up to?’ was a question Sir Keir Starmer had to ask himself basically every day of his premiership. The fact that the bigger threat came from a totally different Mancunian doesn’t mean that tracking Ange’s manoeuvres was a bad idea. Inevitably, having helped defenestrate her former boss, she’s now angling to work out the next job she’s going to be sacked from. In aid of this, she’d taken to the airwaves, standing in for the cursed James O’Brien slot on LBC.  This was Big Ange’s sunshine radio roadshow – it being her stated aim to be ‘really optimistic’, to shine a light on some ‘good news stories’ (for which read: policies she’d come up with). This was not an even-handed radio session.