It’s been an era of global instability, complete with ejector-seat prime ministers, Mars-bound baddies and even a celebrity ski-massacre trial …
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Let me kick off by letting a little daylight in on magic. If you’ve got a book out in September, you’re probably sending the publisher the final version of the introduction four months earlier. So I guess the moment I truly knew that Keir Starmer was finished was the moment, in the first days of May, when I typed the words “we’ve had three prime ministers since my last book”. At that point it became an absolute cast-iron cosmic inevitability that we would have had yet another prime minister by the time the book was out. Nailed on. It’s the equivalent of lighting a cigarette so the bus turns up immediately.
So, four prime ministers in four years … Good times, possibly, for someone whose job involves writing about prime ministers. But not good times for Britain, or indeed for the seemingly endless series of outgoing premiers. Being British prime minister has become the biggest ejector-seat job since the noughties, when the US would announce they’d killed “the al-Qaida No 3” about twice a month.