The Whiff of Rebellion: Why Keir Starmer’s Loudest Supporters May Be His Greatest Threat

It is one of Westminster’s oldest rules: when a party rushes to declare its “full confidence” in its leader, that leader’s days are numbered.

This week, that uneasy maxim is being whispered once again in Labour circles, as allies of Sir Keir Starmer take to the airwaves to insist he will “fight any challenge” to his leadership. It is the kind of reassurance that almost no one in politics finds reassuring.

The sudden burst of loyalty has set tongues wagging across the parliamentary estate. Labour MPs and aides describe a febrile mood, the sense of a party on the verge of something it does not wish to name. The Budget, due in a fortnight, now looms as a potential flashpoint. Should it fail to shift public opinion or shore up Labour’s stalling poll numbers, some believe the murmurs of discontent may harden into open revolt.

Those closest to Starmer insist the prime minister remains focused on his mission and “utterly determined to deliver for working people.” Yet their language has a defensive edge, a note of siege psychology that betrays the tension within. As one long-standing Labour figure put it this week, “Downing Street is in full bunker mode — and that never ends well.”

From triumph to turbulence

It is worth recalling just how swiftly the mood has changed. Barely a year ago, Starmer seemed unassailable. Labour had ended 14 years of Conservative rule, sweeping into office on a promise of competence and calm. For a time, that alone appeared enough. Voters exhausted by chaos found comfort in his lawyerly caution. But governing is less forgiving than opposition, and the economic constraints he inherited have been merciless.

Inflation has proved stubborn, growth elusive, and public patience thin. For all the talk of a “decade of renewal,” the new administration has struggled to find its voice. Ministers complain privately that Starmer’s inner circle is risk-averse to the point of paralysis. “He’s brilliant at avoiding mistakes,” one adviser sighs, “but less good at creating momentum.”

In politics, stasis is dangerous. It breeds frustration among backbenchers and invites ambition in others. Within months of taking power, the mood of unity that carried Labour into government began to fray. The old ideological fissures — between the party’s managerial centre and its restless Left — have reopened, joined by a newer line of division: between those who believe Labour must accelerate reform and those urging still more caution.

It is into this vacuum that speculation about a leadership challenge has crept, fuelled by what insiders describe as “quiet coffees” and “accidental corridor meetings.” Few names are mentioned openly, but one recurs more than any other: Wes Streeting, the Health Secretary and one of Labour’s most recognisable figures.

Wes Streeting: The man who isn’t plotting — allegedly…

Streeting’s public denials have been notably emphatic, though not always convincing. In politics, a denial delivered with too much force often signals the opposite. Asked this week whether he harboured leadership ambitions, he dismissed the idea as “utter nonsense.” Yet his phrasing — “I’m 100 per cent focused on delivering for the NHS” — sounded suspiciously like the prelude to every leadership campaign Westminster has ever seen.

Few doubt his talent. Streeting is articulate, disciplined and popular with the media, a quality that can inspire both admiration and envy among colleagues. He also represents something rare in Labour’s current hierarchy: a politician with roots in the party’s traditional working-class wing but an instinct for the political centre ground. For those who worry that Starmer’s technocratic style is losing its electoral lustre, Streeting offers a more emotive, story-driven appeal.

“Wes connects,” says one former shadow minister. “He talks about aspiration in a way that feels natural. He’s one of the few who could plausibly say, ‘I get why people voted Conservative all those years.’”

That combination makes him both attractive to potential backers and dangerous to Starmer. The prime minister’s allies, well aware of this, have begun to paint any talk of a challenge as irresponsible folly. Their message is simple: a coup now would hand the Conservatives a lifeline. Yet such warnings, repeated too loudly, risk sounding less like persuasion than panic.

Reading the mood

Among MPs, the conversation is more pragmatic than ideological. “It’s not that people hate Keir,” one backbencher said privately. “It’s that they’re starting to wonder if he’s really up to the job.”

What has particularly unnerved many on the government benches is the shift in tone from the press. For months, the major broadsheets have noted Starmer’s cautious leadership style, but largely in terms of its discipline. Now the language is changing. Headlines speak of drift, fatigue and disillusionment. Even previously friendly commentators have begun to question whether his administration has the drive to deliver.

The parallel with previous downfalls is hard to ignore. Theresa May’s aides once insisted she would “fight on” just weeks before her resignation. Boris Johnson’s allies famously rallied to his defence right up until the moment they deserted him. In both cases, it was the public parade of loyalty — the attempt to project strength — that revealed weakness.

Political history is littered with such warnings. Leaders rarely fall because of one dramatic event; they are undone by a gradual erosion of confidence, a sense among their own that the future is slipping away. Starmer’s predicament is no different. His MPs are loyal by instinct and grateful for the victory he delivered — but politics is not sentimental.

The danger of “bunker mode”

Inside Downing Street, the atmosphere is said to be increasingly tense. Aides speak of a leader suspicious of internal criticism, reluctant to delegate, and unwilling to hear bad news. “They think loyalty means silence,” says one insider. “But when people stop telling you the truth, that’s when you’re really in trouble.”

The phrase “bunker mode” has become a shorthand for this mentality — the impulse to circle wagons rather than confront problems head-on. It was visible in the dismissive handling of recent cabinet dissent and in the government’s prickly response to economic criticism.

The more the pressure mounts, the tighter the circle becomes. If there is indeed plotting under way, it is unlikely to erupt before the Budget. Those manoeuvring in the background will wait to see whether Starmer can deliver a political reset. Should the Budget land well, he will buy himself breathing space. Should it fail, the logic of survival will change.

One senior Labour source put it bluntly: “The two weeks after the Budget will tell us everything. If the numbers don’t move, some people will decide we can’t go into the next election like this.”

A contest no one wants — yet everyone anticipates

What form a challenge might take remains uncertain. Labour’s party rules make it cumbersome to unseat a sitting leader, particularly one who has led the party into government. Yet formal processes often lag behind political reality. If MPs begin to believe that Starmer cannot win the next election, pressure will build through leaks, briefings and whispers until he is forced to confront the inevitable.

Streeting, for his part, is said to be “playing a long game,” cultivating goodwill among colleagues while avoiding any appearance of disloyalty. His allies note that he has been careful to frame his public interventions around policy rather than personality — a strategy designed to preserve plausible deniability while keeping his profile high.

Others within the Cabinet could also be drawn into the frame — Rachel Reeves and Yvette Cooper chief among them — but neither appears inclined to risk a direct challenge unless the situation deteriorates dramatically. Streeting, younger and less encumbered by the ghosts of Labour’s past, might judge the gamble worth taking.

The verdict

For now, Starmer remains in office and, technically, in control. But the psychological tide may already be turning. Once a leader’s authority is questioned, even hypothetically, it is rarely fully restored. Every reshuffle, every misstep, every backbench grumble will henceforth be read through the prism of survival.

There is, of course, an irony in all this. Starmer built his reputation on restoring discipline to Labour after the Corbyn years, on proving that the party could govern without tearing itself apart. If he were to fall victim to the same internal machinations he once subdued, history would be merciless in its symmetry.

For now, his supporters insist he will fight on. But as Westminster well knows, the louder a party insists its leader is safe, the less safe that leader tends to be. And the murmurs in the corridors of power — quiet, polite, but unmistakably growing — suggest that Labour’s next great drama may already be writing itself.