Anti-Hero

my manifesto to rebuild a broken britain

Every year, my hometown, Blyth, hosts a broadly unimpressive but charming beach festival. Blyth, taken from the old English word “blithe,” means gentle or merry, and it’s in that spirit that a couple of thousand proud Northumbrians flock to our surprisingly impressive coastline to sample the delights of whichever Z-lister is headlining the festival. This year, to my delight, we had a doubleheader of has-been talent: Bay City Rollers and D:Ream, the latter almost entirely unknown as a musical outfit, despite having released a song which can only be described as a political cult classic.

Things Can Only Get Better.

The anthem of New Labour. 1997’s certified banger. Even now we associate it with the message of change that Blair embodied upon his ascension to power. Blair, the last Labour Prime Minister to win re-election, and perhaps more embarrassingly, the last to enjoy a full term in office.

There was, then, a certain irony in the aged D:Ream standing on a makeshift stage on the North East coastline, sound systems struggling to compete with the noise coming off the sea. The muffled chimes of their underrated classic ringing out over a crowd of voters breathtakingly apathetic towards the Labour Party, many of whom proudly declare their admiration for Farage’s one-man-band, Reform UK.

And it got me thinking. When I was a kid, and it’ll become clear quite quickly what sort of kid I was, I would lie in bed at night and think up political speeches. I’d imagine myself on the steps of Downing Street giving my first address; my final address. I’d imagine myself facing down other party leaders, or doing a Question Time debate in front of a live audience.

I’d doze off wondering what I would say, how I would connect with people. At the time it felt important. I had this inherent fascination with communication, with how best to actually land a message. As time has passed, and social media has completely fractured our political arena, I realised that what felt like a childhood habit was actually an invaluable skill. One our leaders mostly seem to lack.

I didn’t do it because twelve-year-old Jay chased high office, or had any interest in a career in professional politics. I did it because I’ve always felt an intense connection to how politics shapes our communities, and to the importance of speaking truth to power.

It sounds twee, I know. But I always felt, growing up, as though I had been given an opportunity I perhaps shouldn’t have had based solely on my background.

I knew from an early age that I was bright. I knew I’d be the first in my entire extended family to go to university. I felt I had been given the chance to break free from the obstacles my class background typically presented, and with that came a real sense of responsibility, egotistical as it might sound, to make good for my family, to make them proud, to make something of my life for them.

Politics always felt most central to that, because it was a unifier: something that touched all of us. My grandfathers were both striking miners, proud ones. When they had no money and mouths to feed, they didn’t back down. They believed in principle and decency, and in the right of everyone, whoever you are, to be given a fair shot. They believed that government didn’t care about the working class, or those outside London; that the North East was a forgotten land, left to rot by successive governments time and time again.

I’m proud that since the creation of the new North East Mayoral Combined Authority, our representative, a Labour one, has shown an unprecedented and dynamic interest in turning the region into a national powerhouse. The future looks genuinely bright here.

But for my grandparents, and my parents, opportunity was simply fictional, something for other people. I’ve written before about my granddad Terry, my very first best friend, whom I still love and miss dearly, and who drives me in everything I do. He died without ever having been on an aeroplane; without ever having been abroad; without ever having really left the region. Blyth was his kingdom, and one he never really left.

On Friday morning, when it became clear Andy Burnham had won a handy by-election victory, it was also immediately clear that Starmer would not last the week. From the moment the results were read in Makerfield, Starmer was brown bread, and Burnham was guaranteed a coronation to the Labour leadership, and to Number 10.

Andy Burnham. Now I like Burnham. I voted for him in the 2015 leadership election, where he went from nailed-on favourite to being embarrassingly defeated by rank outsider Corbyn. Burnham is an affable, well-meaning politician. A nice bloke, I’m sure. I wish him the absolute best, and genuinely hope that he can prove the doubters wrong and enact real, lasting change in Britain. Unfortunately, in my gut, I feel a sense of impending doom. To me, Burnham is a man without a real ideology. And however much people may wish to argue that “Manchesterism” is somehow one, we need to be clear that it is not. What even is it? Beyond yellow buses, we’re just not sure. And that’s not a slight on Burnham. By all metrics, he has been a brilliant and effective Metro Mayor, but being PM in this political environment is different gravy. My fear, and it’s something I really don’t want to happen, is that the wheels come off Burnham’s government bus much quicker than we think.

This moment in our political history requires something very, very unique. It needs an anti-hero. Someone with the strength of character to cut through the media and the noise and be honest with the public. My granny put it perfectly when we last spoke: we don’t want nice leaders, we want strong ones, whether we like their personality or not. Starmer is a nice man, but an appallingly poor politician. Burnham, also a nice man whose vibe seems to lack any real bite, may well be heading for the same fate. The polo shirts and blokey dad energy is all well and good, but in my view it’s actually ineffective. If I go around Blyth looking for a blokey man who likes a pint and the football, I don’t find Andy Burnham; I see a man cosplaying as someone he isn’t. Someone who wants to be popular. And leaders like that rarely have the courage to dismantle the whole system and rebuild it in spite of all the noise. Burnham is, at most, going to have a few years to complete his mission in government. Re-election is nothing more than a fantasy. The stakes couldn’t be higher. We are not behaving like a serious country. We are digging our own graves.

And so, last night, as I sat in bed, I reverted to my childhood tradition and thought about what I would say if I were standing at a podium outside that famous black door.

Firstly, I’d say that the country is fundamentally broken.

The sooner we admit that, the better.

I’d say that no one leader is capable of solving all of our problems.

I’d make absolutely clear that the social contract is broken. That the relationship between the public and its leaders is interrupted by middlemen: the media, and other political leaders.

Standing at that podium, I’d make a promise to be honest and direct. That when asked gotcha questions by journalists, I’d answer them honestly, without fear that the media, big tech and other politicians would clip and manipulate my words to suit their own aims. We need to accept that our media no longer seeks to impart the truth; media is now money. Profit over truthtelling. We need to accept that however brilliant many of our political journalists are, their organisations are feeling the squeeze, and there is pressure to turn political news into entertainment, to maintain a readership or viewership. We need to accept that at certain outlets, pundits are deeply political and cannot be objective. We need to accept that the BBC is so terrified of a Reform government coming after it that it has become hesitant in its coverage. Fake bots on Twitter and TikTok are looking to manipulate how you think. They want chaos. They want disruption. Because from that chaos, they can profit. At your expense.

And so I’d ask the British public to enter into a new social contract, where whatever we think of each other, we try to cut out the middlemen. We talk to each other.

My flagship programme in my first hundred days would be a national tour of towns across the UK. Towns a Prime Minister has never visited before. We’d use town halls and churches to have a conversation for a couple of hours. Anyone could attend. No party bunting, no flashy lights, no spectacle. Uncomfortable chairs, tea in paper cups. We’d sit and chat. Not argue. We’d listen to each other. Everyone would have their opportunity to speak and be heard. Twee? Potentially.

I’d push back against the narrative that there’s nothing to be positive about in Britain. I’d admit that morale is low and pessimism is high, that things are far from where they should be and that we need radical change. But that amongst all of that, we remain an attractive country with unique sources of pride. Wimbledon. Test match cricket at Lord’s. The Edinburgh Fringe. The Cornish coastline. The sound of fifty thousand Welsh fans singing the anthem in the cauldron of the Millennium Stadium with the roof closed. That might sound like the Hugh Grant speech in Love Actually, but we need reminding that in Britain, there’s no shortage of national pride, actually.

I’d talk about infrastructure. Because the truth is, we have forgotten how to build things in this country. Government contracts have ballooned so far beyond any reasonable cost that we have simply accepted highway robbery as the norm. We shouldn’t. I’d make a promise, a simple one: we will actually build things. On time. To budget. Without burning through public money on consultants, overruns and managed decline dressed up as due process. Look at what China and the United States can do. Bridges erected in days. Infrastructure delivered at pace and at scale. In Britain, we can’t build a railway extension without a decade of inquiries and a bill that doubles before the first brick is laid. That has to end. Government contracts should not come at a premium. The public purse is not a trough. And I’d say that clearly, to the people who profit from that culture, as much as to the people who suffer from it.

I’d move out of Number 10. Not permanently, not symbolically, but practically. It is a beautiful, historic building and it should remain the official residence, the place to receive guests, to host, to represent the country with the dignity that deserves. But as a functioning government office, it is a relic. A rabbit warren of listed rooms and cramped corridors that no serious modern operation should be running a country from. The Prime Minister and his team need an actual, modern workspace. One built for the demands of twenty-first century government. The fact that we cling to Number 10 as an operational headquarters says something about us: that we are more interested in the theatre of power than the exercise of it.

I’d fix Parliament. Not review it, not commission another report about it, not kick the can down the road for the fifteenth consecutive year. Fix it. The Palace of Westminster is an inferno waiting to happen, and every Prime Minister who has looked the other way has gambled with a building that belongs not to politicians but to the country. I wouldn’t let my ego get in the way. I wouldn’t be precious about being the Prime Minister who never sat in the Commons chamber during restoration. So what? Parliament is Britain at its absolute best. The history, the theatre, the tradition, the weight of everything that has been decided within those walls. We cannot lose it. We will not lose it. And any leader who has prioritised their own legacy over its survival should be ashamed of themselves.

Finally, I’d make clear that I refuse to make promises I can’t keep. We’ve entered a political culture where politicians who know full well they’ll never hold power make outlandish promises precisely because they’re popular. The truth isn’t an important enough consideration anymore. I’d say I have more respect for the British people than that. That, like it or loathe it, I’d be direct, honest, and unflinching in my commitment to levelling up the nation.

And then I’d try to get some sleep.

Because the truth is, none of this is really about what I would do. It’s about what we need someone to do, and the creeping, uncomfortable feeling that nobody is coming. That we are waiting for a leader who understands that Britain doesn’t need managing; it needs rebuilding, from the foundations up, with honesty and without vanity. Someone who can stand at that door and mean it.

On a makeshift stage on the Northumberland coast, D:Ream told us things can only get better. I hope they’re right. But standing here, watching the waves, I’m not so sure we’ve hit the bottom yet.