Do we know if Andy Burnham is at all superstitious?

I only ask because anyone witnessing the apocalyptic storm that hit London in the early hours of yesterday might be forgiven for thinking the gods of democracy are not best pleased with the King of the North’s triumphant pilgrimage south.

And who can blame them? The next occupant of No 10 will command a 140-seat majority in the House of Commons based on a mere 25,000 votes and, as far as I can tell, the notion that he has nice eyelashes. Which he undoubtedly does. But this is not The X Factor and he is no Harry Styles.

Or is he? Judging by the way he was feted by gaggles of over-excited Labour MPs he might as well be. He was practically mobbed as he arrived at Manchester Piccadilly station, in a Simon Cowell-style tight black T-shirt, surrounded by swooning, mostly female fans.

By the time he got to Euston he had changed into a more Prime Ministerial suit, now flanked by four young female assistants. The addition of a grey tie, and voila! He was ready for his selfie.

Post-swearing-in as an MP, he emerged jubilant from the Chamber, hands outstretched in a triumphantly Messianic pose, ready to bask in the adoration of his fawning fans, not one of them angling for a job in his soon-to-be decided Cabinet, oh no of course not.

Even Rachel Reeves, somewhat inexplicably dressed as a giant pink marshmallow (Me+Em must be praying it’s not one of theirs, they’ve only just recovered from Angela Rayner in the vomit green suit), skipped Sir Keir’s resignation speech to stand awkwardly to one side of the assembled throng.

Poor Reeves. She had the air of the class swot at the end-of-year prom waiting to be asked to dance by the school jock. One senses she may be disappointed. As the Prime Minister was welling up outside No 10, his Chancellor was nowhere to be seen. Then again, when she famously burst into tears on the front benches, he had appeared unmoved. What goes around comes around.

The shiny evangelical smiles say it all. The Labour Party thinks it has found its saviour, its true heir to Blair, the second coming. No more dull, hesitant, nasal Keir; gruff, hairy-limbed action-man Andy is here to sweep them off their feet and deliver them to new heights of political ecstasy.

It’s the kind of political crush not seen since the Conservative Party fell head over heels in love with one Al Johnson, aka Boris. And in many ways, despite their obvious ideological differences, they are very similar figures. Or, at least, they fulfil a very similar purpose in the hearts and minds of their respective parties.

Both positively ooze charisma, Johnson in his Oxford, Bullingdon Club sort of way, all Latin declensions and raffish charm, the kind of man who sets every Tory association and WI supper a-flutter with a mere ruffle of that golden mop.

Burnham is the opposite side of the same coin, dark and brooding, more Heathcliff than Surrey Heath but no less alluring to the right audience.

They are both that rare thing, political stars whose ability to seduce voters is based less on their achievements and more on the public’s abstract perception of their talents.

The charisma is key. Blair had it, David Cameron had some of it too – again, in different ways. It’s no coincidence that both swept to success in the wake of two deeply conscientious but also less-than-electrifying leaders.

Brown led to Cameron, Major led to Blair. In Johnson’s case, it was Theresa May, for Burnham it’s Sir Keir.

It’s an undeniable pattern – albeit one that doesn’t always deliver unqualified successes.

Johnson and Burnham have other things in common too: both had been waiting in the wings for some time before they found their moment, allowing them to build up a quasi-mythological status among the party faithful. And they both, of course, were successful mayors of major cities – Johnson in London, Burnham in Manchester.

For Burnham, everything now depends on whether he can harness his huge popularity into something concrete and, perhaps more importantly, not let it go to his head. He will find the weight of expectation hard to bear: the higher the pedestal, the further there is to fall.

It’s also one thing to be a city mayor, quite another to be Prime Minister. The spotlight is far more intense, the margin for error non-existent. There is nowhere to hide.

There is also the fact that, democratically, Burnham’s position is genuinely tenuous. One of the many reasons voters got so fed up with the Tories – and put their faith in Labour – was that they kept chopping and changing leaders. It smacked of entitlement.

If Labour do the same without seeking a new mandate, then it’s easily arguable that they are no better than their rivals. The pressure to call a General Election – which has already begun – is not going to go away.

The real problem Burnham faces is that the only reason he stands to inherit the crown is because the last guy – Sir Keir – wasn’t up to the job. It is not exactly what you might call a positive start.

He’s not there because he has a clear vision for the country, or because he’s spent years building a plan, working towards securing the country’s future.

If the question is ‘why do you want to be Prime Minister?’ the answer is ‘because there’s a vacancy’. Not exactly inspiring.

The only reason he’s even an MP is because he needs to be in order to qualify for the keys to No 10. At every turn, there’s a sense that he is little more than a Labour princeling who has done very little to deserve his coronation. He will have to work very hard to prove the nation wrong.

I felt quite sorry for Sir Keir as he resigned. He has been a terrible Prime Minister, but hearing the emotion in his voice I was reminded of how brutal politics can be, not just for politicians but also for their families. Lady Starmer was crying too – but I’ll wager they were tears of joy. Now she can have her husband – and her life – back. 

Ban Brexit bore Bray

It was ten years since the EU referendum yesterday. Debate still rages as to the pros and cons of Brexit, and of course for me personally it was seismic. But to my mind much the worst thing to have come out of it is that dreadful protester Steve Bray, who played Ode to Joy at ear-splitting volume throughout Keir Starmer’s resignation speech on Monday.

Isn’t it time the police sought a restraining order?

I wonder whether the decision to shut down most of the country today because of the intense heat might in any way be related to England’s World Cup game last night.

Is there anything worse than a hangover in 40 degrees?

I don’t think so.

Madonna goes Dotty!

Here's Madonna as you’ve rarely seen her: dressed in an age-appropriate way – that is to say fully clothed – in the current issue of Interview Magazine. At 67, her latest alter ego – a chain-smoking ‘broad’ with a bouffant and natty line in cardigans – could give Dot Cotton a run for her money. Per haps an EastEnders cameo beckons? 

The MP more arrogant than Jacob Rees-Mogg

The new MP for Arbroath and Broughty Ferry made quite the impression this week as she was sworn in to the Commons.

In boots, tights and a slim-fitting mini-dress (a bizarrely unseasonal outfit given the weather), the SNP’s Lara Bird kept her fingers crossed as she swore the oath of allegiance.

The self-satisfied look on her face said it all: ‘I’m so much better than all these sad losers.’ Not since Jacob Rees-Mogg took a snooze on the green benches have we seen such arrogance.

A least he had the excuse that he’s an Old Etonian.

What’s hers?