There is something uniquely British about demanding the resignation of a Prime Minister not for what he has done, but for who he has dared to sit next to at dinner. The current clamour for the head of Keir Starmer falls neatly into that tradition—high on indignation, low on strategic literacy.
The complaint, as dressed up by the commentariat, is simple: why is Starmer engaging figures like Donald Trump through intermediaries such as Peter Mandelson? The tone suggests impropriety, as if diplomacy were a parish tea rather than a contact sport. But this outrage collapses the moment one recalls an old rule of statecraft: if you must dine with the devil, bring a long spoon. Mandelson, for better or worse, is precisely that utensil—polished, pragmatic, and unburdened by moral squeamishness.
Now, let’s deal in realities rather than the theatre of outrage. Trump does not operate government in the traditional institutional mould. His politics—much like his business career—leans heavily on personal relationships, informal channels, and transactional loyalty. You may dislike it; you may even consider it corrosive. But ignoring it would not make it disappear. It would simply render Britain irrelevant in conversations where access is currency.
And here lies the uncomfortable truth: effective diplomacy is rarely conducted between choirboys. Both Trump and elements within the British political class have, shall we say, demonstrated a flexible relationship with the truth. Both have also orbited, at varying distances, the social galaxy of Jeffrey Epstein—a fact that adds an unsavoury layer but does not negate geopolitical necessity. Realpolitik is not a morality play; it is a risk management exercise.
So the question becomes: is it wiser to engage such a figure through someone who understands the terrain, or to stand at a distance, morally pristine but strategically impotent? The answer, to anyone not performing for headlines, is obvious.
What is more troubling is the role of the press and opposition in this melodrama. The appetite for “high-octane” populism—loud, simplistic, emotionally gratifying—has created a political environment where restraint is mistaken for weakness. Starmer’s greatest offence, it seems, is not incompetence but composure. In an era addicted to spectacle, a calm head is treated as a defect rather than an asset.
This brings us neatly to the alternatives so eagerly implied by Starmer’s critics. One need not stretch the imagination far to conjure them: Kemi Badenoch or Nigel Farage—figures who thrive in the very populist theatre that now distorts political judgment. They offer clarity, certainly, but of the blunt, slogan-driven variety that rarely survives contact with complex reality.
At this point, it is worth recalling the now-famous line from Joe Biden: don’t compare a candidate to the Almighty; compare them to the alternative. It is a line that should be engraved above every ballot box and editorial desk in the country.
Because when one does that—when one steps away from the sanctimony and into the realm of practical governance—the case against Starmer begins to look less like a principled objection and more like a luxury belief. The kind indulged by those who will never have to negotiate with difficult actors on behalf of a nation.
In the end, the demand for Starmer’s head says less about his conduct and more about our collective impatience with the unglamorous mechanics of power. Diplomacy is not pretty. It is not morally satisfying. And it rarely photographs well.
But it is necessary.
And sometimes, necessity requires a long spoon.
Centre for Nigeria Progress 