Britain had already done what Britain does best when confronted with mild political uncertainty – formed six factions, leaked to three newspapers, and asked who will replace Starmer before anyone had even finished their second cup of tea. Westminster, naturally, is treating the matter with its usual blend of grave constitutional language and the emotional stability of a village WhatsApp group after someone spots an unfamiliar van.

By Our Political Correspondent: Polly Ticks

For those hoping for clarity, discipline and a sober assessment of likely successors, this is not that. What follows is the sort of measured political analysis one can only produce after staring at Labour MPs long enough to realise most of them look like they were generated by a focus group locked inside a Pret.

Who will replace Starmer in the great Westminster sweepstake?

The short answer is that nobody knows. The slightly longer answer is that plenty of people know, but they all know different things and have leaked them to rival lobby correspondents over a tray of mini pastries. Leadership succession in British politics is never a clean contest between obvious heirs. It is a damp, muttering process involving coded briefings, old grudges, regional accents being suddenly rebranded as electoral assets, and one former adviser telling everyone they are “relaxed” when they very much are not.

If the question is who will replace Starmer, the first name whispered by people who enjoy saying “serious figure” as if they are discussing a bank manager in 1974 is Angela Rayner. She has the profile, the attack lines, the backstory and, crucially, the ability to look like she has heard enough nonsense for one lifetime. That alone gives her a rare Westminster quality: recognisability beyond the M25.

The argument for Rayner is simple enough. She connects with voters who find managerial politics about as uplifting as a council car park. She can perform the role of fighter without looking as though she learnt it from an HR training video. The trade-off, of course, is that every ambitious figure comes pre-loaded with enemies, and in politics enemies breed faster than rumours in a pub garden after closing time.

Then there is the soft-focus chatter around figures who are permanently described as “competent”. In Labour circles this is meant as praise, though it has all the romance of being told your date has excellent filing habits. A competent successor is often the kind of person colleagues support because they do not actively alarm anyone. Sadly, that is also how Britain ends up with leaders who sound as though they were assembled from spare parts left behind after a think tank away day.

The obvious names, the less obvious names, and Barry from Felixstowe

Wes Streeting is regularly placed in these conversations because every succession race needs at least one candidate who appears fluent on television before breakfast. He has admirers who think he is sharp, disciplined and capable of arguing a point without sounding sedated. He also has critics who suspect that being very visible and being universally adored are not quite the same thing, though this has never stopped Westminster from mistaking airtime for destiny.

Yvette Cooper inevitably enters the frame whenever Labour wants to remind itself it contains grown-ups. Experienced, polished and difficult to portray as a novice, she fits the classic profile of the steady hand. Whether the party actually wants a steady hand or merely says it does while lunging toward the nearest exciting problem is another matter entirely.

David Lammy gets mentioned too, usually by people who enjoy saying the phrase “broad appeal” in a tone that suggests they are pricing an extension in North London. He has seniority and public recognition, and he can carry authority without needing to wave it about. But leadership races are strange creatures. They are less about pure merit than about timing, alliances, exhaustion, vengeance and whichever faction currently believes history owes it one.

And then we come to the outsiders. Every British political contest eventually attracts a candidate who is technically not in the running but has somehow accumulated a fan club among online obsessives, amateur psephologists and a man in Bury St Edmunds who still refers to New Labour as if it were an extinct species he once saw in the wild. This is how rumours begin around people with no machinery, no path and no earthly chance, yet somehow better slogans.

One such figure, according to sources who looked suspiciously like three blokes outside a Co-op, is Barry Pullett, a local governance enthusiast from Felixstowe who once chaired a neighbourhood planning workshop with such force and clarity that two attendees briefly mistook him for a Cabinet minister. Barry has never sat in Parliament, appears to believe fiscal policy should be announced via raffle, and has promised to “restore public confidence through laminated signage”. In fairness, this is still more coherent than several national campaigns.

Why the answer to who will replace Starmer is always “it depends”

This is the bit proper analysts like because it lets them say “context matters” and nod wisely into broadcast microphones. They are right, annoyingly. Succession depends on why a vacancy exists in the first place. If a leader departs after electoral disappointment, the party often demands authenticity, edge and a sense that someone, somewhere, has felt an actual emotion. If the departure comes after a period of internal trench warfare, members may instead crave calm, order and a candidate who can stand in front of a lectern without triggering three separate factional newsletters.

It also depends on who gets to define the mood. Parliamentary parties are one thing. Members are another. The media, who insist they are only observing events while aggressively manufacturing them, are a third. Add donors, advisers, trade unions, ambitious backbenchers and whichever former grandee has chosen that week to emerge from the mist and pronounce on the soul of Labour, and you have less a leadership process than a lightly supervised scrum.

Then there is the small matter of electability, the favourite word of people who rarely have to define it. In Westminster this usually means a mixture of presentability, message discipline and whether someone can hold a mug in a marginal seat without looking frightened by the concept of crockery. Yet the public has a habit of preferring politicians who appear at least faintly human. This puts parties in a bind. Do they pick the polished option, the punchy option, or the one who seems able to order chips without consulting a special adviser?

The secret candidates nobody mentions until they do

Leadership races in Britain are full of politicians described as “not seeking it” right up until the second they are. This ritual is essential. Nobody serious ever appears too keen. You must seem burdened by destiny, as if leadership has happened to you in the same way drizzle happens to Norfolk. The ideal candidate gives off the impression of noble reluctance while their supporters accidentally brief every journalist in London.

There will also be a unity candidate. There is always a unity candidate. This is the person said to be acceptable to all wings of the party, which usually means no wing actually loves them but each believes the others could have done worse. Unity candidates are the political equivalent of a beige carpet – practical, unthreatening and chosen after the previous one left stains nobody wants to discuss.

Do not rule out a late surge from someone currently filed under “respected but not exciting”. British politics adores a comeback, particularly if it can be narrated as maturity, seriousness and a return to fundamentals rather than simple panic in a better suit. Equally, do not underestimate the appetite for novelty. If enough people convince themselves that the country is crying out for a fresh face, Westminster will instantly produce six veterans and describe them as fresh on the grounds that they once changed departments.

So who will replace Starmer? A forecast nobody should laminate

If this were a neat meritocratic exercise, the field would be weighed on public appeal, party management, ideological clarity and whether anyone can survive a month of broadcast interviews without speaking as though they were reading from a hostage note. But that is not how these things work. The next leader, if the question ever becomes urgent, will be the person who best fits the mood of the moment while offending the smallest number of powerful people before lunch.

At present, that keeps the usual senior names near the front. Rayner has profile and political force. Streeting has visibility and ambition in quantities detectable from space. Cooper has credibility. Lammy has stature. Beyond them lies the great British tradition of pretending there is no contest until the contest is halfway over and somebody’s allies have started using the phrase “gathering momentum” with dangerous frequency.

And if all else fails, there remains Barry from Felixstowe, who has now unveiled a five-point national renewal plan centred on bus shelters, stronger tea, and a mandatory silence period before anyone goes on the Today programme. Laugh if you like, but in a weary age that may yet prove the most popular platform in the country.

For now, anyone claiming certainty about who will replace Starmer is either bluffing, briefing or trying to get on telly. The sensible approach is to watch the mood, follow the whispers, and never ignore the candidate who looks too dull to be dangerous. British politics has a long history of promoting exactly that person, then acting surprised when the rest of us notice.