QUENTIN LETTS: No10’s gleaming black door appeared to hypnotise Sir Keir
Sir Keir Starmer, alighting from his prime ministerial Audi just after 12.30pm, approached 10 Downing Street with a slow, heavy tread.
The rain-spattered street, in a dank echo of Blairism, had been packed with flag-waving Labour activists. Lady Starmer shimmered beside him, slender in red. Hundreds of camera lenses were gawping and whirring at the couple from the far pavement where the press pack was assembled in tiers.
Yet for Sir Keir it was that gleaming black door that drew his eyes, beckoning after all these years.. It seemed almost to hypnotise him.
The Starmers posed outside the steps of No 10 before they crossed the coveted threshold
The Starmers greeted the parade of activists, albeit with rather less frenzy than happened in 1997.
Then Sir Keir stood at the lectern and made a short speech, delivered with noticeably measured speed.
‘This great nation… national renewal… the return of politics to public service… public service is a privilege… a mission of national renewal.’
Well, you know the type of thing. They all say it.
The most interesting line was that he intended his government to be ‘unburdened by doctrine’. He also paid tribute to Rishi Sunak for having been our first British-Asian PM. That felt maybe just a little patronising.
The Starmers posed outside the steps of No 10 and then came the moment for the plunge. The door, operated by a burly commissionaire on the other side, seemed to take an age to swing open.
Finally, Sir Keir could cross the coveted threshold. Whereupon he was greeted, oh, by the bearded, hand-wringing figure of Sir Simon Case, Cabinet Secretary. It may not take Sue Gray long to get rid of him!
It had been at midday, with thunder clouds lumbering over Buckingham Palace, that Sir Keir was shown into the King’s presence. The election winner took a few steps across the swirly brown carpet, bowed to the Monarch and accepted his commission. Confirmation that Sir Keir was our new prime minister came at 12.18, which by my reckoning means they had time for at least one gin and tonic each. Not that our sober new premier would entertain such frivolity.
It had been a morning for brollies, galoshes and, if you were a royal equerry such as Commander William Thornton, aiguillettes – those gilt ropes that, if pulled, ring a bell in the kitchens. The King’s principal private secretary Sir Clive Alderton was also fluttering around, deploying small talk, making himself indispensable.
While Sir Keir was in with the King, Labour image-benders set to work in Downing Street. Party activists were lined up, given flags and told when to wave them. You could see these Starmerites sizing up the citadel, drinking in No 10’s blue-brick facade, the beds of municipal begonias, the intimacy of this tree-shaded cul-de-sac.
Sir Keir stood at the lectern and made a short speech while the street was packed with flag-waving activists
A toddler in a white anorak chased after her spin-doctor parents. A babe in arms became the election’s youngest political prop. An old man with a grey shirt and beer belly stood with hands in pockets. Young wonks fussed about their gelled hair.
In America they wait weeks for a new administration to arrive. Here, we move faster. Stings a bit but maybe it hurts less that way.
Jeremy Hunt was first to leave Downing Street not long after nine o’clock. Having narrowly retained his Surrey seat, he made a short speech at the election count saying ‘this may seem like a tough day but it isn’t. Brave Ukrainians are dying every day to defend their right to do what we did yesterday. Don’t be sad. This is the magic of democracy’.
Best speech of the night. Sure enough, Mr Hunt was now taking his leave of No 11 with his wife, their three children and their labrador Poppy. Poppy looked proud to be included and wagged her tail as she hopped into the waiting Ford Transit minibus with the rest of her family.
Rishi Sunak left an hour later. He did so decently, with dignity, no tears. His wife Akshata stood behind him in a dress of jazzy chevrons. Unlike at the start of the election campaign, when he was drenched by a downpour, the rain held off for him.
He said sorry – to the nation, to his party – but he was proud of having stabilised the economy and the union. He wished Sir Keir well. ‘In this job, his success will be all our successes. He and his family deserve the very best of our understanding.’
Translation: it’s a brutal undertaking, Sir Keir, and I don’t entirely envy you your coming tests. Then it was off to the Palace to be greeted by Sir Clive, whose gift for the mot juste at such awkward times is a thing of marvel.
Prime ministers go and the come, yet Larry the cat endures. No 10’s veteran mouser spent a hectic morning snoozing outside the front door. His hackles had gone up a little when Poppy the labrador appeared.
There is talk of the Starmers acquiring a dog. But Sir Keir and his Lady will have to get that one past Larry first and it could be their first defeat.
