Maundy Tuesday. The Last Night of the Proms. The first day of a Lords’ test. The Changing of the Guard. To the list of rituals which give the British calendar an almost metronomic rhythm, we are close to adding what is fast becoming a near yearly rite: the changing of the prime minister.
Here on the other side of the planet, a short walk from Bondi beach in Sydney, I often find myself beginning the day with a dawn observance: checking my phone to see whether another removal van has been summoned to Downing Street.
Ever since the Brexit referendum ten years ago, my beloved homeland has looked like a political basket case. Not for the first time, the barista at my local coffee shop asked me what the hell was happening in Westminster – and described Sir Keir Starmer’s final pained months in office as like watching “a slow-motion execution”.
Shorts
For international onlookers, this is becoming a very British drama, with fast-changing characters. Boris Johnson, a buffoonish politician ready-made for the reality TV age, always looked like he would be voted off the island. Liz Truss did not have the durability of a supermarket lettuce. Rishi Sunak, for all his bubbly start-up vim and vigour, felt like a caretaker manager brought in to oversee a team certain to be relegated.
