‘I first meet Keir Starmer in March, on the platform of Harlow station in Essex. We’re heading to Purford Green Primary School, where the Labour leader will emphasise his desire to unleash a “generation of creativity” in schools. Team Starmer shuttle off the train. They all carry themselves in public a bit like the boss: cordial but tightly wound, powered by a kind of in-it-to-win-it intensity.
Starmer stops to say hello. “We’re going to see some eight and nine-year-olds,” he tells me before being bundled into a waiting Range Rover. “Then after that we’re going to Westminster, where the average age will drop considerably.”
A joke! And quite a funny one at that. This is the first surprising thing you should know about Keir Starmer: he has a good sense of humour. He’s not Ricky Gervais funny, but he leavens his intensity with quick, witty asides as he moves through the world. Another thing you should know about Starmer is that he’s genial, relaxed company. He likes a pint or two. He enjoys arguing about footie. He doesn’t like having his doors opened or bags carried. He is, in many ways, a pretty normal bloke.
But try as he might, much of the public still doesn’t perceive him as such. And he really has tried. He has welled up about his childhood on national television. He’s co-operated with a revealing biography. He’s done Desert Island Discs. He’s been a public figure for the best part of two decades, from top human rights barrister to director of public prosecutions to Labour’s shadow Brexit minister and now leader of the opposition. And yet still there’s this sense of unknowability about Starmer, a cautious opacity that leaves many people cold or vaguely suspicious.
Who is he really? To find out, I’ve followed him around the country for three months, riding pillion on his seemingly inexorable quest to become the most powerful man in Britain. I’ve been to hospitals in Mansfield and nurseries in Nuneaton. I’ve been to his local, the Pineapple in Kentish Town. I’ve watched him pat babies and embrace veterans and endure the hellish cacophony of a primary school music class.
What I’ve found is someone as kind as he is ruthless, densely resilient yet also thin-skinned, coursing with emotion but deeply repressed. Starmer seems a man unwilling, or unable (or possibly both), to perform the public role that many people expect him to: the charismatic leader, the nimble debater, the warm, jocular father of the nation. But barring a miraculous Tory resurrection he will soon be prime minister anyway.’
From todays Times
Bereavement wipes out everything
