“Things Can Only Get Better”, D:Ream’s 1993 hit, was blasting outside Downing Street as Rishi Sunak stood in the rain and brought his premiership to an end. An ironic echo of the Blair years, it has become an unofficial soundtrack to political change, revived again in the 2024 election campaign and Keir Starmer’s promise of renewal after years of Conservative turnover.
In the space of a single parliamentary cycle, Britain had moved from Boris Johnson to Liz Truss to Rishi Sunak.
Less than two years after winning a landslide on the promise of change and stability, Starmer this week stood in the same place.
Different leader. Same door. Same cameras.
What stood out watching it unfold was not the politics itself. It was the churn.
I’m in my twenties, and I’ve already lived through eight Prime Ministers.
At some point, that stops being an interesting fact and starts pointing to something more structural: how quickly political authority now turns over, and how little time leaders are given to settle into the problems they inherit.
UK politics increasingly resembles a presidential-style system in its focus on the leader, but without the stabilising feature that defines such systems, fixed-term authority. Leaders become the centre of political identity yet remain exposed to removal and internal party pressure throughout their time in office.
That combination changes the nature of government.
Instead of long periods in office allowing consolidation, modern premierships are measured in compressed cycles. Thatcher governed for eleven years, Blair for ten, Cameron for six before the referendum reshaped his tenure. More recent governments have often struggled to establish continuity over even a single parliament.
And yes, some of them needed to go, Truss, I’m looking at you.
But it still leaves the question, what actually changes when a new leader takes over?
Elections are not simply contests between individuals, but between party manifestos andgoverning programmes that outlast any single leader. Whoever enters No.10 inherits commitments already set, constraints already fixed, and policies already in motion.
Starmer entered office inheriting what was widely described as a fiscal “black hole” and structural limits that left little room for easy wins.
Most of what government deals with is slow, structural, and resistant to acceleration.
Leadership matters, but within narrow bounds. And increasingly, political disappointment ignores those bounds. It reduces everything to something simpler: the problem is the person. So, attention moves from governing to succession. A reset.
Which is why attention inside Labour has turned to what comes next; Andy Burnham.
He is described in familiar terms: the communicator who connects where Starmer struggles, the politician who understands voters, the figure who can restore purpose to government.
Maybe he can.
But the enthusiasm raises a more important question: what exactly is Burnham’s superpower?
What does Andy Burnham possess that would free him from the constraints that have defined Starmer’s premiership?
Because if he were to become Labour leader tomorrow, he would inherit the same office, the same fiscal pressures, the same overstretched public services, the same restless parliamentary party, and the same uncertain international environment.
The problems would remain.
That is not an argument against Burnham. It is an argument against the idea that changing the leader changes the problems they inherit.
This is how political messiahs are made.
They are attractive because they allow us to believe there is a shortcut around difficult choices. That somewhere there exists a politician with the charisma, authenticity or communication skills to transcend the constraints everyone else faces.
Yet politics rarely works that way.
Burnham may prove to be a better communicator than Starmer. He may articulate a clearer vision. He may be more willing to make difficult decisions and defend them. He may be better at managing his backbenches and bringing people with him.
But none of that changes the conditions of government.
And perhaps that is worth remembering as expectations around the next prime minister continue to grow.
British politics cycles through the same pattern: disappointment, projection, renewal, disappointment again.
So how long before the headlines on Burnham shift from hope to disappointment?
How long before Labour starts looking for its next saviour?
Because that may be the real lesson of modern British politics.
We keep turning politicians into messiahs in search of a reset.
Then we act surprised when they turn out to be prime ministers.