Back home from holiday after a fortnight in Corsica, and what a relief it is for autumn to have arrived. As a painfully British man of a certain age, I now find these blisteringly hot summers a sartorial nightmare as much as anything. I have yet to pluck up the courage to buy one of those linen suits that look so good on David Gandy types and less sharp on the rest of us. And so, I tend to either swelter in my “winter togs” as my wife puts it, or look silly in shorts and a T-shirt. But, hurrah, finally I can once again dress in a way appropriate to both my age (read, physique) and the weather. Corsica was a delight, but (or should that be and) strangely Brit-free. In a fortnight we saw a grand total of two other British families. Why? Here is a Mediterranean island no further away than Mallorca and packed with everything a usually sun-starved Brit could dream of, from glorious beaches to jaw-dropping mountains. So why don’t we go?
The most obvious answer is the pain of getting there. Flights to Corsica are relatively few and far between – and therefore expensive. We stopped in Zurich on the way out and Frankfurt on the way back – a pain, but cheaper. It is also, I can hear New Statesman readers shouting at their magazines, worse for the environment. My admission in the last Editor’s Note that I had noticed this summer’s great drought from my aeroplane seat when flying back from Scotland understandably sparked a number of you to get in touch to point out the irony (or worse). Point taken.
Corsica was packed with French, Italians and southern Germans. The French and Italian presence was easy to understand. The island, now French, was once run by the Genoese and it is only a short hop on the ferry from the old mainland. The German presence, though, is a more curious story. The school holidays in Germany are staggered. And so, for the children of Baden-Württemberg and Bavaria, a late summer jaunt to the Mediterranean – when much of the rest of northern Europe is heading back to school – is cheaper (and more pleasant) than it would be. What a good idea, spreading out the demand and driving down the cost.
I returned home just in time for parliament’s return and the announcement from Keir Starmer that he was resigning as an MP, despite categorically ruling out such a move just two months ago. Though I fully understand the decision – it cannot be easy sitting on the back benches of a governing party you once led – I find it dispiriting. Starmer’s decision is part of a trend. Tony Blair resigned as an MP shortly after resigning; David Cameron followed suit; Boris Johnson quit the year after his departure to avoid a parliamentary inquiry.
It wasn’t always like this. Harold Wilson, prime minister for much of Starmer’s childhood, left No 10 in 1976, but remained an MP until 1983, when he joined the House of Lords. James Callaghan stayed on as an MP for eight years after 1979, eventually becoming father of the house. Ted Heath is the most extreme example, remaining an MP for 26 years after losing the Conservative Party leadership. Margaret Thatcher remained MP for Finchley until the general election after her resignation and then joined the Lords.
In recent years, Theresa May followed a similar path, staying in the Commons for almost five years before moving to the other place. Rishi Sunak is still an MP. It feels no coincidence that the reputations of those who remained in public life in one way or another have improved more rapidly than those who quit the scene.
Why is it that we value this longevity – or perhaps simply the willingness to stick it out even in a more diminished capacity? I think it is something to do with motivation, confirmation that the person who had pursued power all the way to the pinnacle of public life was willing to carry on serving. Personal ambition was not the primary motivation. And this little thought has returned to me a few times since returning from Corsica. In the parts of the island where we stayed, the most celebrated icon was not its most famous son, Napoleon Bonaparte. It was the man l’empereur himself idolised as a child, the nationalist Pascal Paoli, who briefly led an independent Corsica before fighting French conquest. The reason is obvious, perhaps: Paoli may not have represented world history on horseback, but he stood for a cause. I wish we could find more ways for our growing band of former prime ministers to keep fighting for whatever causes they once stood for.
[Further reading: Burnham’s back, and he’s going to try to be nice]
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This article appears in the 02 Sep 2026 issue of the New Statesman, Meet Generation Screwed
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