FLY ON THE WALL SPECIAL

BURNHAM’S ODYSSEY

Our new PM is warned of the massive obstacles ahead as he enters No10 and the Drone gains entry to inner sanctum

A classicist explains to the incoming Prime Minister how Homer (not Simpson, the other one) is the key to understanding the perils of modern politics

The door to 10, Downing Street swings open to reveal new Prime Minister Andy Burnham, wearing a cheeky grin and a suit. He has unstitched the pockets and taken off the labels but it is still obviously new. Alongside him is his wife, Marie-France Van Heel, known as Frankie, in a slightly unflattering Victoria Beckham number.

They are greeted by Dame Alicia Applecart, Cabinet Secretary and head of the Civil Service. Applecart introduces herself, shakes their hands and ushers them inside, where staff are lined up and begin to applaud.

Someone tries to start a chant of “Andy, Andy” but Applecart fixes him with a withering stare and he stops.

Applecart: Prime Minister, congratulations and welcome back.

Burnham: Thank you Dame Alicia. May I call you Alicia?

Applecart: Certainly. Please do.

Burnham: And I’m…

Applecart: You’re Prime Minister, Prime Minister. Please, let’s observe the proprieties.

Burnham: Very well, as you wish. It’s not how we do things in Ancoats, but still… I assume you got the memo?

Applecart: Memo, Prime Minister?

Burnham: Yes. I just told the nation I was coming in here to issue my first instruction – to end rough sleeping. So, what are we doing about it?

Applecart’s lips purse slightly and she tosses a mane of chestnut hair.

Applecart: We are giving it our full consideration, Prime Minister. I know it has been all of five minutes now but I’m afraid we haven’t yet come up with a solution. It doesn’t help that you have made the departing Prime Minister both jobless and homeless.

Van Heel tugs at her husband’s sleeve, whispers in his ear.

Van Heel: Darling, I think that was your first mistake.

Burnham: What? What did I do now?

Van Heel: I told you in the car on the way over from the Palace, it’s Day One… don’t upset the Applecart. And you just have.

Burnham turns back to the Cabinet Secretary.

Burnham: Sorry, Alicia, I’m a bit over-trained. Just trying to hit the ground running.

Applecart: That’s quite all right, Prime Minister. It must be strange to be back in Westminster politics. Remind me, how long has it been?

Burnham: Ten years.

Applecart: Ten years? Quite the odyssey.

Burnham: Odyssey?

Applecart: Yes, you know, the epic poem by Homer. King wins the Trojan war then spends ten years overcoming huge obstacles to get back to his kingdom, Ithaca, and his wife and son, who are menaced by pretenders wishing to supplant him. You may be King of the North, Prime Minister, but this is your Ithaca.

Burnham: I hadn’t thought of it like that. Funnily enough, I took Frankie to see the film at the Everyman at the weekend. Probably the last chance we’ll get to lead a normal life for a while.

Applecart: I wouldn’t count on it, Prime Minister. We’re thinking of putting castors on the lectern to make life a bit easier for the shifters.

Van Heel: The movie was kind of you, darling, but that’s three hours we’re never getting back. Another blood-spattered gorefest. Reminds me of elections to the NEC.

Burnham: I thought I told you never to mention elections?

He smiles at Applecart.

Burnham: You seem very well versed in The Odyssey, Alicia.

Applecart: One of the benefits of a classical education, Prime Minister.

Burnham: Oxford?

Applecart: Brasenose. You’re a Cambridge man, I believe.

Burnham: That’s right, I read English. Then I married Frankie and learnt Double Dutch.

Applecart (hollow laugh): How droll, Prime Minister. You know, I think there are parallels to be drawn between your time here and Homer’s Odyssey.

Burnham: Really? What about that sea journey when he has to sail between the whirlpool and the man-eating monster in the cave? What’s that got to do with government?

Applecart: That’s easy. It’s about steering the ship of state through stormy waters. Those two perils are Scylla and Charybdis, immortal and inescapable monsters in the Strait of Messina. Scylla was a female six-headed monster. All six had a triple row of shark-like teeth. Her lair was a cave and she devoured whatever came within reach.

Burnham: And the other?

Applecart: Charybdis, near the opposite shore, was a whirlpool, sucking sailors to their deaths. No ship could pass through the strait without meeting one or the other, or even both.

Burnham: And they fit into British politics how?

Applecart: One might characterise these as the National Health Service swallowing billions, and the burgeoning benefits bill, both huge dangers for any Prime Minister.

Van Heel: What about that woman who turns Odysseus’s men into pigs? Terrifying!

Applecart: Circe, a goddess of sorcery and magic. Yes, she turned Odysseus’s men into swine but she was so impressed by Odysseus that she became his ally and lover.

Burnham: And who could we liken her to, Alicia?

Applecart: Take your pick, Prime Minister… Mrs Badenoch, perhaps? From what I’m hearing, by tomorrow Rachel Reeves could be a candidate. And with each Cabinet reshuffle, there will be new possibilities: Angela Rayner, Lucy Powell, Louise Haigh?

Burnham: Frankie’s right about the violence in the Odyssey. It was terrible.

Applecart: You’re probably thinking of the scene about the sacking of Troy. It’s true, much blood was spilt. Between you and I, Prime Minister, some of your – how shall I put this? – less invested colleagues see the next General Election shaping up as something like the sacking of Troy. Still, looking on the bright side, you might not be here by then.

Burnham: You what?

Applecart: I’m told Betfred is offering 2/1. Maybe it’s just another myth.

Burnham: By ‘eck, I was right out there. We’ll have to raise our game.

An aide sidles up and whispers to the Cabinet Secretary.

Applecart: Prime Minister, there is a rather strange message from the officer in charge at the Downing Street gates.

Burnham: What is it?

Applecart: Apparently a horse has turned up.

Burnham: What do you mean? A police horse?

Applecart: No, Prime Minister. Apparently, it is a large wooden contraption.

Burnham: Ha! They’re not catching me with that old trick. It was my idea, if we’re continuing your analogy. Odysseus invented the wooden horse to infiltrate Troy. Bang on the side and tell Nigel and his crooked mates to come out and stop playing silly beggars. You know, Alicia, I think you’re right about this poem. It’s the most epic thing I’ve heard of since my Manc mates Liam and Noel played in front of 125, 000 at Maine Road in 1996.

*****

Prince Harry’s petulant attack on the judge who slapped down the false and entitled claims in his case against the Daily Mail has so far drawn no retribution.

I wonder why. Would it be the case if Harry were not the Duke of Sussex and a Prince of the Realm?

His accusation that Mr Justice Nicklin’s judgment, which left Harry and his co-claimants with a bill for up to £50 million, was “a complete and obvious whitewash” cast doubt on the motives, impartiality and competence of a High Court judge.

If the newspaper Harry so despises had made such an assertion, the editor would almost certainly be summoned to explain why he had committed a contempt of court. So, why not Harry?

Mr Justice Nicklin, like all judges, swore an oath of allegiance to the King. Whenever he takes his seat in court, he acts in the name of the King, Harry’s father.

Does Harry believe that his royal birthright provides him with a kind of legal Iron Dome that bats away the consequences of his puerile outbursts?

Surely not, given the outcome of the privacy case and his continued failure to secure close protection at our expense for him and his family when they come to Britain.

Harry also claimed, in a statement issued jointly with Baroness Lawrence, mother of murdered Stephen, that “the lengths to which the court has gone to exonerate the Mail is as shocking as it is unwarranted”.

That hints at an Establishment plot and suggests Harry is becoming paranoid.

Alec Chalk, KC, a former Tory Justice Secretary and Lord Chancellor, told The Times: “Expressing disagreement with a judgment is perfectly reasonable. But Harry’s attack on a High Court judge was over the top, personal and unacceptable.”

Sir Robert Buckland, KC, who has also served as a Conservative Justice Secretary, said: “The tone and content of the attack was not appropriate.”

But their comments are a mere slap on the wrist from observers, albeit highly qualified insiders of both government and the legal profession.

Meanwhile, it remains a mystery how Baroness Lawrence was persuaded to join Harry and other celebrity co-claimants in their case against the Mail.

According to The Guardian, she will not be required to cough up a share of the enormous costs of the action. A source told the paper: “Nobody, least of all the Duke, who is very protective over Doreen, is going to see her out of pocket.”

But how was she inveigled into this arrogant folly when she had so much to thank the Daily Mail for?

This was the newspaper, led by editor Paul Dacre, that printed pictures on Page One of five men suspected of killing Stephen Lawrence in a racist attack and branded them “MURDERERS”.

Below that headline, a subdeck said: “The Mail accuses these men of killing. If we are wrong, let them sue us”. They did not dare.

It was bold, brilliant and decidedly risky journalism by an editor who believes in justice.

His reward was that the woman for whom he campaigned tirelessly, exposing failings in the police investigation into her son’s death, turned against him and joined Harry’s ill-fated legal foray.

Dacre deserved better. The newspaper achieved justice in the privacy case.

But Harry’s lack of humility in his sideswipe at the judge goes unpunished. So far.

*****

I was enjoying my daily fix of Hugo Rifkind on Times Radio when I began wondering about a news story that broke last week.

The BBC, we learnt, has lost another half million and more licence fee payers. The previous year a mere 300,000 declined to buy the licence.

The corporation faces a “moment of real jeopardy” said its new director general, Matt Brittin.

Less than 80 per cent of households now pay for a licence to watch the BBC, which must mean that they don’t believe they are getting good value for the £180 it costs for a year’s viewing (or that they won’t be caught watching illicitly).

Streaming services have lured audiences away and the Beeb now broadcasts less sport and so cannot boost its viewing figures that way.

So it is looking to cut up to 2,000 jobs to make £500 million savings in three years. Well, something’s got to give. It has also brought out a clunky advert reminding viewers what riches they get for their licence fee, which has attracted much mockery.

It is important that we have a state broadcaster. The BBC has been a vital tool in times of crisis. During the Second World War, anti-Nazi propaganda was spread by radio and coded messages sent to resistance groups.

When natural disasters occur, victims can learn over the radio and television that help is on the way and what to do to keep themselves safe in the meantime.

But wars and plagues such as Covid are occasional, not constant and the BBC has grown into a lumbering behemoth, whose stars and key executives are paid huge salaries.

I lost patience with it years ago, though I still watch TV and pay the licence fee. Its creeping woke attitude drove me away, just as it drove away some high profile presenters.

But given that we need it, how do we fund it? It costs a vast amount to keep it going at its present size. It rakes in £3.9 billion from the licence fee and £2.1 billion from selling its programmes abroad.

But despite this, it had a deficit of £121 million in 2025-26, the third year in a row that it has posted an operating loss.

It is tempting to say just slash the budget. But successive Governments have looked at this option and not done it. Or at least not enough.

I have come round to the idea of a hybrid funding system. We could have a much cheaper basic licence fee to cover radio and TV news, with the balance made up by streaming options split into sport, movies, drama series and documentaries. Its superb website could be a nice earner too.

That way, you pay for what you want to watch, with no arm-twisting. For those who don’t want to, Auntie is still there to put an arm around them in times of trouble.

Incidentally, the same principle could rescue the National Health Service too. But no politician is going to risk that until the NHS finally bankrupts us.

Meanwhile, I shall go on listening to Hugo Rifkind, a broadcaster who is as good as you will find in 2026. He is relaxed, witty, whip-smart and erudite, yet manages not to be too showy or pleased with himself.

Quirky, too. I smile whenever I hear Rifkind – brought up in Edinburgh – interview a fellow Scot. His accent suddenly veers into Morningside.

He is excellent on politics, which forms an important part of his morning show. But perhaps that is to be expected from the son of Sir Malcolm Rifkind, one of our better Foreign Secretaries.

He writes a mean column in my favourite newspaper, too.

*****

Garry Sobers, the greatest cricketer who ever lived, walked like a panther: lithe, languid and dangerous.

It is what impressed me most the first time I watched him play cricket at the Oval. Not his batting or his bowling, but the way he moved.

He prowled the covers waiting to prey on a careless batsman. And the moment they misjudged a run, he would pounce, covering the ground at astonishing speed and delivering the ball into wicket keeper David Allan’s gloves with deadly accuracy.

Sir Garfield Sobers, who has died aged 89, was a supreme athlete. It allowed him to score 365 not out in a Test match against Pakistan in 1958, a record that stood for 36 years. His average in 98 Tests was 57.78, with 26 centuries included in his 8,032 runs.

He could also bowl left-arm fast, medium pace or spin, both orthodox and wrist spin. And he took some blinding catches close to the wicket.

Sobers, from Barbados, was the complete cricketer, star of a gilded generation of West Indies teams, who played seven seasons for Nottinghamshire (lucky them) drank too much after a road accident that killed his best friend and frittered his relatively meagre pay (by today’s standards) on the gee-gees.

A godlike human being. We’ll never see his like again.

RICHARD DISMORE

22 July 2026