An Audi limousine pulls up outside No. 10 North and the chauffeur steps out to open the door for Dame Alicia Applecart, Cabinet Secretary and head of the Civil Service, who decants herself elegantly on to the pavement.

She carries a single origin, ethically sourced coffee from Artista Perfetto, an achingly cool café in Manchester’s Northern Quarter. Dame Alicia thanks her driver Brian, takes a single sip and makes for the door of No. 10.

But she has not gone three paces when she pulls up sharply and calls to an armed policeman on guard outside.

Applecart (pointing): Who is  that?

Officer: He’s harmless Ma’am. We’ve checked him out. He’s just a dosser.

Applecart: I think you mean homeless person. But what’s he doing on the steps of No. 10 North wrapped in a filthy sleeping bag? Get rid of him before the Prime Minister arrives.

Officer: But Ma’am…

Applecart: Are you hard of hearing, officer? Were you close by when the IRA blew up the Arndale Centre? I said get rid of him.

Officer: But he claims to have the express permission of the Prime Minister to be there, Ma’am.

Applecart: What? Ah, I see. Let me think… Do we believe him? If so, do we leave him there in the hope that he provides a photo opportunity for the PM, who brings him a coffee, say, and a bacon sandwich and squats down on his haunches for a friendly chat?

She wrinkles her nose. By now she is talking to herself.

Applecart: Maybe even put an arm on his shoulder. Or is that too gross?

Officer: Ma’am…

Applecart: Quiet. Or is the homeless man just evidence of a flagship policy failing already in front of the nation’s eyes? Christ, this would never happen in Downing Street. I knew I wouldn’t get it up here. I want to go back to Malmaison. Is Brian still here? Fuck, fuck, fuck!

A short, stout man in black suit and red braces walks up to No. 10 North. This is Sir Belton Braces, a former union official appointed as a somewhat unlikely Spad for Andy Burnham’s northern team.

He is already florid but begins to turn purple when he spots the prone figure in the sleeping bag. He prods it with his toe. It stirs, turns its head to the voice.

Homeless man: Whadder yer want, fatso?

Braces: I want you to sling yer bloody hook, lad. Go on, move yerself, there’s a hostel just off Oldham Street. They’ll take you in. Failing that, try the station – I’m told the benches are very comfy.

Homeless man: But…

Braces: By ‘eck, you’re trying my bloody patience, lad. Now booger off or I’m fetching the fire extinguisher.

The homeless man gathers his stuff and slinks off.

Dame Alicia approaches Sir Belton. She extends a hand.

Applecart: Good morning. You must be Sir Belton. I didn’t realise you were so…

Braces: Old?

Applecart: I was going to say forceful. For a man of 82.

Braces: I may be old but I bring wisdom, my dear. As for forceful, I were a union leader. Not many shrinking violets among us.

Applecart: Which union Sir Belton?

Braces: Happen Belton’ll do. I were Father of the SOGAT Chapel in the old Daily Express building down on Great Ancoats Street.

Applecart: I don’t know much about the print unions but weren’t you all terribly militant?

Braces: Only when we was pushed. If Beaverbrook and that bloody playboy son of his did as we suggested, we were pussycats. If not, well, kiss the edition goodbye and see if that’s cheaper.

Applecart: May I ask what you got your K for?

Braces: Services to industrial relations.

Dame Alicia gives him a wry smile.

Applecart: And what’s your role up here going to be?

Braces: Apart from being the Sage of Salford – that’s where I live – I’m Andy’s only link to an industrial working class that no longer exists. I can tell him what it was like, advise him how to get it back.

Applecart: How terribly authentic. Oh, look, here’s the Prime Minister.

A Range Rover pulls up. The smoked rear window is down and music is blaring. Liam is yowling:-

I'm feeling supersonic, give me gin and tonic

You can have it all, but how much do you want it?

Burnham steps from the car, grinning.

Burnham: Morning all, are we hopeful, positive, filled with belief?

With a slap on the back for Sir Belton, he leads the way in. Dame Alicia follows at a trot.

Applecart: One thing before we get going, Prime Minister…

Burnham: Yes?

Applecart: This first item on this morning’s agenda… Application to have the Manchester Ship Canal made a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Burnham: Aye, what of it? That was Belton’s brainwave. Cracking idea.

Braces: Well, it’s a bloody sight more interesting than Stonehenge.

*****

Never mind Paris, huge swathes of France are burning. One wildfire in particular is causing concern in our household.

It has consumed Cap Ferret, the fashionable spit of land in South-West France that protrudes into Arcachon Bay and is known as The Hamptons of France.

Now it is marching on Bordeaux, whipped up by gusting winds and burning everything in its path: homes, farms, famed vineyards. By Monday it was just seven miles from the city and had forced the evacuation of tens of thousands of people.

My wife’s niece and her family are watching it race ever closer to their home in Saint-Médard-en-Jalles, a small town to the North-West of Bordeaux.

They decamped briefly to Brittany, where they have relatives, but fearful that they might be cut off, they returned and collected some treasured personal belongings.

Now they have been forced to evacuate and seek sanctuary in the home of friends in Bègles, a suburb in the South-East of the city not yet under threat.

Our niece called the blaze, as others have, “apocalyptic” and described watching the billowing smoke on the horizon creeping towards them.

The motorway south has been closed and the trains have stopped running. The air is polluted by acrid smoke containing poisonous gases and particles. Ash and embers are falling on the city’s outskirts.

Exhausted firefighters are powerless to control the blaze. Planes bomb it with water but the flames move inexorably onwards. The Army has been mobilised to help.

Tourists have been urged to stay away and those already there asked to leave. Monday brought a shred of hope as the wind shifted and the flames stabilised. But more searing heat is expected in the coming days.

The same is happening further South in Les Landes, a vast pine forest planted by Napoleon and stretching almost to the Spanish border. I know it well; I have holidayed there many times. It is a magical place, but for how much longer?

Spain too is suffering. Separate wildfires around Madrid are joining up to circle and encroach on the city.

Britain, more northerly, is not so badly affected, though the fires in the Cairngorms and the Peak District are stubbornly resisting attempts to damp them down.

All this should be a wake-up call. We need to put measures in place to protect our cities and our citizens.

Every region of Britain that is vulnerable to forest or brush fires should have quick access to a plane or helicopter that can fight them from the air as soon as they flare. Every local council should have a plan in place and the equipment to implement it.

We must educate careless hikers and warn campers against lighting portable barbecues, discarding cigarette butts or glass bottles that could ignite fires.

And we have to punish those who deliberately start fires with such severity that other pyromaniacs are discouraged from their wickedness.

The cause, beyond doubt now, is climate change. We need to tackle that too. But not with the blinkered zealotry of Ed Miliband. By all means move to net zero, but at a realistic pace that doesn’t destroy our economy and quality of life.

But that’s a discussion for another day. Meanwhile, I am watching a catastrophe unfold in a country I know and love… and hoping very much that it does not become a family tragedy.

*****

Even yesterday’s man deserves a tomorrow. So what does the future hold for Sir Keir Starmer?

I think I might have come up with the perfect role for him.

For now, Starmer is enjoying that rather blissful interlude between quitting a crushingly difficult job and finding something new to do.

Last seen, he was sinking a pint at his leaving do in a Kentish Town pub while fielding calls from Ministers sacked by the new Prime Minister, Andy Burnham.

So, what might he be considering as a new career? What can an ex-Prime Minister do? What should he do? Are there rules or conventions covering this?

He remains an MP for Holborn and St Pancras, of course – salary £98,599 – and he will be in line for both a ministerial pension and a severance payment of around £19,000 after being ousted as PM.

He must also be eligible for a pension from his time as Director of Public Prosecutions.  And his wife Victoria works as an occupational health administrator for the National Health Service. So perhaps he has no immediate need for a job.

But he is only 63 and an intensely ambitious man, so he is sure to be looking for a new challenge. Spending more time with his family – he has two teenage children – will eventually prove not to be enough.

The possibilities are almost endless. He might want to influence world affairs by founding a think-tank, as Tony Blair did; or do good works like Gordon Brown, who set up The Office of Gordon and Sarah Brown, which has donated more than £4 million to charity.

But is he not uniquely qualified to be Secretary-General of the United Nations? It is a bureaucratic talking shop and he is a man of process and reason. Check.

It was set up to maintain international peace and security, which is also high on his personal agenda. Check.

It aims to promote human rights. Bingo! Starmer was for years a leading human rights lawyer. So, check.

It works to lift people out of poverty, a stated aim of his short-lived Government. Check.

It is usually run by men who are lawyers and politicians. The political bit might be a stumbling block but Starmer, KC,  certainly checks the lawyer box.

And the term of the incumbent, António Guterres, of Portugal ends on December 31 this year.

I think Starmer is a good fit for a job that carries power and prestige but doesn’t really amount to a hill of beans.

For once, President Trump had it about right. “What is the purpose of the United Nations?” he asked. “All they seem to do is write a really strongly-worded letter and then never follow that letter up.

“It’s empty words and empty words don’t solve war.”

*****

Reach, the failing publisher of the Mirror and Express titles, has finally seen the fatal flaw in its clickbait strategy. But has the realisation come too late?

As the Drone reports, the group is to ditch its obsession with the number of stories it can shoe-horn onto its website and concentrate instead on news with a bit of substance.

Bosses have been pushed into this new approach by changes to the Google algorithm and by AI overviews (whatever the hell they are).

With more focus on quality, Reach is introducing paywalls and ramping up its quest for paying subscribers. It now has more than 40,000 across all of its titles and is hopeful of reaching 75,000 by the end of the year.

All well and good – especially for the long-suffering journalists – but revenue is down nine per cent and digital sales are down 11 per cent. Circulation of the newspapers has declined by 23 per cent with revenue down eight per cent over the first six months of the year.

All this gave Reach a £45.3 million loss compared with a £23 million profit a year earlier. Shares fell more than 24 per cent on the news. They are now 40 per cent lower than a year ago.

The Drone, and this column in particular, has repeatedly warned of the folly of Reach’s approach. Now the numbers suggest the end is near for the Mirror, one of the most significant newspapers of the 20th Century, and the Daily Express, of blessed memory.

How sad that a bunch of number crunchers and a few nerdy IT “experts” – the clueless crew that runs Reach – could bring the age of newspapers to such an ignominious end. If only they had listened to the journalists.

RICHARD DISMORE

28 July 2026