No tears from Keir as Burnham strolls into No 10 with the clock already ticking

Not another one. It would be no surprise to find out that overseas tour companies now include package holiday visits to watch the UK’s rapid turnover of prime ministers. “Come to London to watch the motorcade nearly run over a group of fancy dress soldiers playing a Bon Jovi medley just outside Buckingham Palace.” Two years is a long time in the lifetime of a UK leader. Liz Truss was in and out in seconds. Our buy one, get one free prime minister. In Britain, we sure know how to Dance Me to the End of Love.

Still, practice makes perfect and we now have the handover of power nailed to a T. Everyone knows exactly what they are doing. Even King Charles, who is now on to his fourth prime minister in as many years. Though presumably he’s moderately pissed off about having to go to Buckingham Palace for 90 minutes to do the business. I guess he has to take the rough with the smooth. After all, he’s managed to get his subjects to pay for its upkeep even though he can’t be arsed to live there.

At about 10.30am “Hot Podium Guy” – actually it’s a lectern – appeared in Downing Street to set things up for Keir Starmer’s farewell speech, and a while later a large crowd of former cabinet colleagues, No 10 staff and friends and supporters began to assemble in a semi-circle outside the front door. Then out came Keir with his wife, Vic. Both smiled and looked almost relieved that it was all over. An end to months of speculation followed by a weeks-long protracted exit.

Sometimes these events are emotional for the outgoing prime minister. But there was no sign of any tears. Keir can now enjoy the next six weeks of the summer with his family, safe in the knowledge that no one is going to wake him at three in the morning with the news that Donald Trump has just started a third world war.

Instead, he chose to keep his speech short and sweet. To say that his work was done. That he was leaving the country in a stronger and fairer place. Which is probably true. Just not strong and fair enough for us to have noticed and for him to have been able to persuade us.

But that’s part of Keir’s personal tragedy. He governed and led in the dullest of prose, unable to construct a narrative that could take you with him. Yet no matter how many of these prime ministerial send-offs I see, they are never not affecting. It’s like seeing someone being airbrushed out of history in real time. You can almost see them disappearing in front of your eyes. First they live in colour before rapidly turning to sepia and by the end they are barely even a pencil outline. Keir who?

And now even his legacy won’t be his to control. Anything bad that happens in the next three years will be blamed on him. And anything good, Andy Burnham will claim as his own. It was always thus. Keir ended by thanking everyone for joining him on his journey. The British people, colleagues and family. Though presumably not Peter Mandelson. He probably wishes he had never met Mandy. “I leave with good grace and a smile,” he said. And he did. There was no Boris Johnson temper tantrum. Rachel Reeves looked a bit glum, mind. Inside No 10, Larry the Cat sharpened his claws and scratched another notch into the back of the door. His sixth.

With that Keir got into the car and headed off to Buck House to take his leave of the king. And it was time for Fiona Bruce and “senior” – is there really a junior? – royal reporter Daniela Relph to talk pure bollocks for the best part of an hour and a half. The role of royal correspondent must be the most thankless job in journalism. Years wasted having to infer meaning to a new hairstyle or who gets to sit where. So we were breathlessly told that Keir would be arriving at the “luggage door” – who doesn’t have one of those? – before being taken to the Chinese dining room. Presumably soon to become sponsored and renamed the KFC dining room.

A while later, Keir left, soon to be replaced by Andy Burnham and his wife, Marie-France. “He will be kissing the king’s hand,” said an overexcited Daniela, “though of course he won’t actually be kissing the king’s hand.” I mean, who really gives a flying fuck? Next we were told that Andy might have been dreaming about this moment for a while. Where’s Sigmund Freud when you need him? “Andy got 35 minutes with the king. A little longer than Keir.” I’m sure Keir will be devastated.

Back in Downing Street, Andy’s old muckers were beginning to assemble – Keir’s having been hurried off the premises. There was the former Everton footballer, Peter Reid, the eco entrepreneur Dale Vince and the mayor of Liverpool city region, Steve Rotheram, who was holding his grandson. Monday is his day on the babysitting rota. There was no getting out of it. Not even to see a mate become prime minister.

Then the arrival of Andy at his new address. Hugs and kisses for various people in the crowd – a special one for his mum – and then he walked towards the microphone. The lectern had long since been put back inside. Andy was going to do this speechlet from the heart with no notes. That should give Nigel Farage and Kemi Badenoch something to think about. Life is about to get a lot more difficult for the opposition parties.

Steve Bray had been banned from using his PA machine – he’s had a habit of wrecking every Downing Street speech – but you could still just about hear him singing Beethoven’s Ode to Joy from outside the gates. But Andy wasn’t bothered.

This was to be short and sweet. Mainly a precis of what he had said when he became leader of the Labour party on Friday. A mention that people were fed up with a politics that produced seven prime ministers since 2016. He would do things differently. Be better. They all say that. But he sounded more persuasive. A poet with imagination in his heart, who could connect.

He would give the country some breathing space from the cost of living. Starting from tomorrow. It wasn’t clear what he meant, but it sounded good. He would end rough sleeping. Something he had failed to do in Manchester. Good for him for not having given up on it. Though still a hostage to fortune.

“I will give it my all,” he said. It was the time for common purpose and positivity. Good luck with that. You could hear the country reply: “We’ll be the judge of that.” You’ve got a couple of years, Andy. The clock is ticking.