The status theory of Andy Burnham

Tom Leicester

Buckingham Palace

Paddington vibes. That’s the phrase going through my head as I watch the last stragglers reach the finish line of the London marathon. Hopecore reggae – music that owes more to Ainsley than to Stormzy – plays through a tinny speaker amid colourful UK bunting. Stalls selling Yorkshire pud burritos and sticky BBQ ribs ply their trade. People with old money-coded names like Hugo and Isabella vibing in the afternoon sun. A bald man with Henry VIII physiognomy in shorts and a t-shirt drops an armful of pints, a ragged cheer of “Wahey” goes up. Anglo exuberance. I couldn’t help but grin.

Yet all the while, I hear the low roar of the Palestine march coming from Whitehall. I cast a nervous glance towards the Palace. Does Charles III, UK king, even feel safe here anymore? I look again on the Hugos and Izzy’s, living and loving, and I think how much those marchers must hate them. Understand how much they hate you, I feel like shouting. For these are the Nick aged 30s – if they would but know it. People in KPMG and EY, the Atlas of our reeling UK growth. The nucleus of the Anglo-Gaullism to come.

Once in 2024 when leafleting for Nigel Farage (I know, I know) I tried to explain to a retired electrician living in a bungalow in Clacton why these people had higher social status than he did and that he must try to swallow his natural feelings of envy, and he told me to go away. Now Clacton electrician wants to put an illegal immigrant processing centre next to Nick’s house share just because he voted for more illegal immigrants. Resentment-coded. This “High Twee” ticketed event was not my scene.

But as the steel drums ring out and the Nicks started bobbing and weaving, I fight the urge to countersignal. These are people besieged on all sides – by Boriswave and slopulism both. On my way out, a Boriswaver ritually humiliates me by making me wait eleven minutes for my Truffle Mayo smash burger.

Greene King pub, Russell Square

“Did you hear” asks Tom England, down from Hemel Hempstead. “St Dunstan’s College up in Cheltenham, that independent school founded all the way back in 1898, it’s going to close because of those new VAT changes.”

The mood at the impromptu Witan darkens considerably. Rear Admiral Horatio Raccoon shifts in his stool. “I sometimes wonder. With everything that’s going on… I mean we talk about the next election. But will UK even survive until then?”

Murmurs of agreement follow from the assembled Anglo poasters.

“They hate you,” says Robert Walpole Respecter, flatly.

“I mean,” continues Horatio Raccoon. “Tom, you know you’ve got this show, and you’ve got all this reach. I almost think, to be fair… that maybe you could actually just invite Keir Starmer onto your show. For an interview. I mean he’d probably say no but… to be fair… on the off-chance he did, you could really ask him about what he’s doing. You could really corner him, you know?”

Tom England gives a worldly snort. “Mate, waste of my time and yours, yeah. I mean if by some miracle, and I do mean a *miracle*, I could get that man on, he’d just give a politicians answer. Yeah? Like he wouldn’t even answer any of the questions. So what’d be the point.”

Horatio Raccoon nods gravely.

The conversation is interrupted by the arrival of our food.

“We are so back,” grins Politics Raven, as burger and chips are set down in front of him. He decides to lighten things up. “But to be fair, none of us expected Keir to start Mussolinimaxxing out of nowhere. Like, ‘Fuck you, I’m staying where I am, come on if you think you’re hard enough’ – almost admirable.”

Tucking into my UK beef and ale pie, I sense my moment. “The thing I just worry about is that if Keir goes,” I begin, “all of his successors. They’re just incompetent. I mean it’d be the same under Rayner, say, but without the competence. And I know she’s upper-normie coded, in a way, but think what she’d do as UK leader to the economy…”

Nods of approval. “Understand how much they hate you,” says Walpole Respecter.

Meanwhile Tom England has noticed that Horatio Raccoon ordered a Chicken Tikka Masala.

“Slop alert!” he hoots. “Slop. Slop detected.”

Horatio Raccoon smiles bashfully. Politics Raven chimes in with a pitch perfect recitation of Rowan Atkinson’s iconic sketch.

“I like… curry. But now that we’ve GOT the recipes,” he bellows.

“I can’t believe you’ve literally memorised that,” I chuckle. “Absolute scenes.”

Twenty minutes pass, Tom England has to leave to go interview Olly Gloucester on Restore. After the success of my remark on Keir’s competence, I decide to venture something else.

“Did anyone see Peter Mandelson’s WhatsApps where he talks about UK growth? Like he was literally the only one there with any competence. Cracked, to be fair.”

Politics Raven flashes a devilish smile. “The Dark Prince. It is known.”

Meanwhile, the 2013 hit single ‘What Does The Fox Say’ by the comic duo Ylvis has come on over the speaker. The iconic chorus plays as Horatio Raccoon lists the possible merits of the erstwhile Washington Ambassador and Baron Foy.

“Yeah I mean” says Horatio Raccoon.

‘Gering-ding-ding-ding-dingeringeding!’

“I mean, he did some good work”

‘Wa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pow!’

“He did do some good work, to be fair.”

‘Hatee-hatee-hatee-ho!’

“And like you say, you know, he was at least competent.”

‘Joff-tchoff-tchoffo-tchoffo-tchoff!’

I was glad that this “hot take” had gone down well, but I didn’t ultimately think that these –admittedly powerful – Anglo poasters really understood the Vibes of Dark Mandelson. It’s things like this that make me want to leave politics behind, and just Build.

As I drink the last of my Abbott Ale, the song draws to a close. It seems to belong to a more naïve world, before the Boriswave. But when you think about it, it was the last period where there was some genuine UK optimism.

The White Cross, Richmond-upon-Thames

I’m having a roast. In a country pub. And I can barely move for dogs. Immense Irish wolfhounds and Labradors barking and lying prone in the middle of the floor. I watch as a child grabs a biscuit from a mason jar of doggy treats on the pub counter and returns to her parents, beaming.

“Proper pork crackling – oh my days,” says a man in a bucket hat in his early thirties, waddling back to his table with three foaming pints of Guiness. As he takes his seat, a Big Headband sitting opposite cheekily yanks one of the glasses and ‘splits the G’ – there and then. “OooOOOoOooOhhhh,” the table roars.

Conversation turns to Formula One, age-gap relationships, and then, politics. As I ladle the last of my UK mash onto my plate, my ears perk up.

“I was thinking Zack Polanski for a time,” says the bucket hat man, “But the thing with Burnham, is that he’s just a cheeky Northern chap, right? Like actually just a sort of normal person. And I could live with that, to be fair.”

My heart rate speeds up. For this is upper-normie speaking. Status made flesh. I see Big Headband opening her mouth, and every nerve in my body seems to clench as I await her verdict.

“Yeah I mean, he’s done a good job in Manchester. So many of my mates have moved there since uni.”

There it is. The vibe has shifted. Actually Existing High-Trust England has had its say – and countersignalling would be spiritually brown. As Gaetano Mosca wrote, aspirant Elites must always agree with the masses and with the opinions of those currently in power lest they fall into contrarianism.

There was a Dark Blair, now there would be a Dark Burnham. I smiled, despite myself: I loved Big Bucket Hat.

Okay fine, I’ll say it: Sooooooo, Sally can wait…