Right, so Andy Burnham says Britain has just gone through the biggest political shake-up in forty years. Apparently all it took was a few new faces that actually weren’t that new at all. Forty years. Thatcher. Blair. Austerity. Brexit. The full Olympic relay of national self-sabotage. And now, it seems, all it takes to wipe away forty years of wreckage is Rachel Reeves and David Lammy hauling cardboard boxes out of Downing Street while the press corps counts them like it’s the royal family’s recycling day. Well, that’s that, then. Mission accomplished. Somebody fetch the bunting, there’s a new king in town, the King of the North. Except before the applause had even stopped echoing off the Downing Street cobbles, Burnham’s big electricity giveaway had already shrunk to the size of a supermarket loyalty card, Palantir was still nesting in the NHS like a stubborn parasite, Labour’s Israel links were still threaded through the Cabinet like athlete’s foot, and Donald Trump apparently still had the keys to British airbases for his next round of fireworks. But hey, Reeves had left the building. So naturally, the entire old order must have packed up and gone with her, right? Some people have gone. That’s true. Reeves is out. Lammy is out. Several Starmer loyalists have been cleared away. I’m not going to pretend that didn’t happen, because I don’t need to. The trick is getting everyone to stare only at the people leaving. Who got sacked? Who looked furious? Who lost the ministerial Jag? Which faction won? Westminster spent the day treating the Cabinet like football transfer deadline night, while the real question sat in the corner without even a cup of tea. Who still has access? Which contracts remain? Which foreign-policy commitments survived? And what exactly has Burnham changed here?