This article was first published on LBC.

“There is no such thing as Starmerism and there never will be.”

So Keir Starmer reportedly told colleagues, according to Patrick Maguire and Gabriel Pogrund’s book Get In: The Inside Story of Labour Under Starmer. For much of his premiership, the line seems an entirely fair assessment.

His political obituary writes itself: the leader who rescued Labour from electoral oblivion, won the largest parliamentary majority since Tony Blair in 2001, and then, with astonishing speed, presided over the loss of almost 1,500 council seats and the evaporation of his own authority. There were persistent U-turns on key policies, and an inability to shift stubbornly weak economic indicators alongside his partner in crime, Rachel Reeves.

He will not be remembered as a prime minister of grand visions or memorable phrases, unless his vague governing slogan of “Change” and often-used phrase “Country first, party second” are to be included. His critics on the Left accused him of abandoning principle; his critics on the Right complained he never had any to begin with.

Voters, meanwhile, often struggled to understand exactly what Starmer believed. In an era of “cakeism”, where voters increasingly expect lower taxes, better services and immediate results, the office of Prime Minister has become a poisoned chalice for all.

Yet there is some irony to his resignation that ought to give both supporters and detractors food for thought. The conventional verdict is that Starmer was too managerial and too unwilling to articulate a larger purpose for his government.

And yet the Starmer who for weeks refused to resign was, paradoxically, the most authentic version of him we ever saw. What emerged under pressure was not some hidden socialist firebrand (clearly, he had outgrown his younger self) or a latter-day Blairite moderniser. What appeared was more distinctive, if less inspiring: an evangelical belief in institutions, process and the importance of following the rules.

This was always the real Starmer. He was never a movement politician or an ideologue in the traditional sense. He was a creature of institutions and legal process, formed by a career in the law and animated by a deep conviction that systems only function when rules are respected and procedures followed.

Throughout Labour’s leadership crisis, his instincts remained remarkably consistent. If his parliamentary colleagues wanted him gone, there was a mechanism for that. Labour’s rulebook set out the process. MPs could trigger a contest, make the case and then allow the party to decide.

Many politicians facing a revolt would have immediately succumbed to political pressure and negotiated an exit timetable. Theresa May and Boris Johnson appear to be notable recent examples. But even after losing the confidence of many colleagues, Starmer’s instinct was different. He maintained that there was a formal process for removing a leader and that it should be followed.

That same instinct defined his leadership from the beginning. After the Corbyn years, he set about restoring discipline and order within Labour with a prosecutorial zeal. The fight against antisemitism was not simply a moral imperative but also a necessary act of institutional renewal. Candidate selections were tightly controlled, internal dissent was strongly managed, and power became increasingly centralised.

The controversy surrounding Andy Burnham’s exclusion from the Gorton and Denton by-election shortlist illustrates this point. Officially, the concern was the disruption and cost of triggering a mayoral contest in Greater Manchester. Unofficially, many interpreted the decision as an effort by a Labour National Executive Committee dominated by Starmer allies to keep a potential rival out of Westminster.

The irony is difficult to miss. Long before Starmer became interested in reforming the machinery of government, he had become highly effective, through Morgan McSweeney’s operation as much as his own instincts, at redesigning Labour’s internal machinery. He understood that systems and institutions mattered and that they could be used to a leader’s advantage.

His resignation speech was revealing and nodded to Starmer’s metrics of success for public office. It read like a company’s annual report – investment secured, infrastructure built, waiting lists reduced, trade deal signed – rather than rhetorical flourish or ideological reflection. The repeated refrain was not “change promised” but “change delivered”.

Starmerism, it turns out, was never about transforming society through a grand ideological project but restoring faith in institutions by demonstrating that government could still function effectively.

A couple of years in, and this ambition was far from being realised, with public trust in politics remaining stubbornly low. According to the latest Ipsos Veracity Index, just nine per cent of Brits trust politicians to tell the truth, whilst polling by the Hansard Society continues to show widespread dissatisfaction with how the country is governed. If Starmer’s central mission was to convince voters that institutions could still deliver, the evidence suggests he fell short.

That judgement, however, still misses something important. It assumes Starmer’s project was judged on its own terms, when in reality those terms were never fully articulated to begin with. A politics built around process and delivery was always destined to struggle in an environment that increasingly rewards personality and narrative.

Indeed, there was something revealing about the final act of his premiership. As pressure mounted and Westminster speculation turned to the prospect of a challenge from Andy Burnham, Starmer did not attempt to reinvent himself suddenly. He returned to the rulebook, and if colleagues wanted him gone, there was a “formal process” which involved a leadership challenge and a member’s vote.

Even some who had long since concluded that the writing was on the wall for Starmer could recognise a certain logic to it. In a political culture increasingly shaped by media cycles and political pressure, there was something almost austere about his refusal to conveniently make way. Not admiration exactly, but a grudging acknowledgement that he was, at least, doing things the way he believed they ought to be done.

This version of Starmer, the one that emerged under pressure, may be the most coherent expression of Starmerism we have ever seen or will see. There’s every chance Starmer follows Tony Blair’s example when, in June 2007, the day he resigned as party leader and prime minister, he gave up his parliamentary seat.

The tragedy is not that Starmerism failed. It is that it only became visible once he was on his last legs, and that Starmer allowed Burnham’s coronation to seemingly transpire.