Six PMs later, Larry the Cat wants to throw himself into the fray

After six prime ministers came and went, and the seventh one preparing to move into 10 Downing Street, the steadiest resident, Larry the Cat, now wants the UK's top job. Fair ask, we would say.

If Britain needed one more reminder that politics has become the country's longest-running game of musical chairs, it arrived this week in the shape of yet another removal van pulling up outside Number 10. A decade after the Brexit referendum cracked open Britain's political landscape, the country is preparing to welcome its seventh prime minister since 2016. David Cameron gambled on a referendum he never expected to lose. Theresa May wrestled with its consequences. Boris Johnson declared Brexit "done." Liz Truss briefly frightened financial markets into collective palpitations. Rishi Sunak attempted to restore order on particularly rainy and windy days.

Keir Starmer promised a fresh chapter before becoming another footnote in the extraordinary carousel of modern British leadership.As Andy Burnham prepares to walk through the famous black door, only one resident remains entirely unmoved by the latest change of furniture. Larry the Cat, Chief Mouser to the Cabinet Office and veteran observer of Westminster's increasingly peculiar habits, has seen enough to conclude that perhaps Britain has been electing the wrong species all along.

The photographers, naturally, continue to gather whenever history unfolds on the Downing Street doorstep. Microphones appear like mushrooms after rain, television correspondents rehearse expressions of solemn importance, ministers hurry past pretending not to notice the cameras, and somewhere in the middle of this choreographed frenzy lies Larry, blinking lazily as though the entire business is interrupting an otherwise satisfactory nap.

It is difficult to think of another public servant whose approval ratings have survived 15 years without the assistance of spin doctors, focus groups or carefully staged visits to marginal constituencies.Larry has achieved this remarkable feat through a governing philosophy so elegantly simple that Westminster has somehow never considered adopting it. Speak rarely, promise nothing, remain where you are, and never underestimate the political value of looking entirely unbothered.“The humans are changing leaders again,” Larry thinks, stretching one paw into the afternoon sunshine. “I have changed sleeping positions twice today. One of us is clearly more productive.”When Larry arrived from Battersea Dogs & Cats Home in February 2011, the job sounded refreshingly straightforward. Catch the mice, patrol the corridors, maintain standards of feline dignity, and perhaps tolerate the occasional tourist attempting an unauthorised photograph.

What humans call democracy, Larry calls knocking expensive ornaments off shelves simply to see what happens

Nobody mentioned that he would soon become the closest thing the UK possessed to constitutional continuity. His official record against rodents has always been politely described as uneven, although Larry would argue that strategic patience is frequently mistaken for inactivity by creatures with shorter attention spans. Besides, he has spent rather more time observing the larger creatures of political ambition, whose ability to multiply, scatter and consume public confidence has proved infinitely more impressive.He remembers David Cameron as a polite enough landlord who always appeared convinced that everything would eventually work out because it usually had. Then came the referendum, which from a cat's perspective looked suspiciously like watching humans voluntarily chase a laser pointer into another room before slamming the door behind themselves.“Cats never ask questions whose answers they cannot live with,” Larry reflects. “Humans call this democracy. We call it knocking expensive ornaments off shelves simply to see what happens.”Somewhere during those extraordinary weeks Larry also rediscovered an old favourite from the Downing Street library, TS Eliot's Macavity the Mystery Cat. He admired the elegance of the verse, although he objected mildly to its central character. "Macavity's not there," Eliot famously wrote.Larry purred at the line. "A useful political principle," he decided, "although personally I prefer to be exactly where everyone expects me to be.

It is much harder to blame the cat who is asleep in plain sight."

Larry the Cat objects to the PM musical chair that has disturbed his nap routine for a decade

David Cameron departed. Larry did not. Cameron himself had to explain to curious reporters that Larry belonged to the Civil Service rather than the Prime Minister. It remains one of the few constitutional clarifications from the Brexit era that nobody has attempted to revisit.

Theresa May inherited a country that had collectively managed to overturn decades of settled assumptions before breakfast and was now demanding immediate certainty about the consequences.

Larry rather admired her determination. Cats appreciate persistence because persistence generally results in opened tins. May displayed the same relentless focus, although Parliament proved considerably more stubborn than any kitchen cupboard.

She returned repeatedly with versions of the same Brexit agreement only to discover that Members of Parliament possessed the extraordinary feline ability to reject identical offerings with fresh enthusiasm each time."When humans say they are kicking the can down the road," Larry mused, "they eventually run out of road. Cats simply play with the can until everyone forgets why it mattered."By the time Boris Johnson bounded through the black door promising to "Get Brexit Done," Larry had already concluded that humans enjoy slogans in much the same way kittens enjoy chasing shadows. Both activities create enormous excitement without necessarily producing lasting results.

Johnson brought energy, theatrical confidence and enough colourful anecdotes to occupy several future biographers. Then came the pandemic, the lockdowns and the extraordinary revelation that while millions of Britons obediently stayed apart from loved ones, parties had apparently continued inside the building where the rules were being written.Larry watched the scandal unfold with the detached curiosity of a creature who has spent centuries observing human contradictions."Cats," he later reflected while washing one immaculate paw, "never pretend they are not on the dining table. They simply stare directly into your eyes until you question whether the table was ever yours."It was around then that Larry concluded Macavity had been somewhat misunderstood by generations of readers. "The Napoleon of Crime?" Larry sniffed. "Far too dramatic. The clever trick is not escaping justice after causing chaos.

The clever trick is never creating enough chaos to require an explanation."

The Johnson government eventually collapsed under the accumulated weight of resignations, revelations and exhausted loyalty. Larry's daily routine remained gloriously unchanged. Breakfast. Patrol. Nap. Repeat. Political longevity, he had begun to suspect, was less about dazzling brilliance than avoiding unnecessary excitement.Then came Liz Truss, whose premiership was so brief that even the neighbourhood pigeons struggled to remember the details. Financial markets reacted to her mini-budget with the sort of panic usually associated with vacuum cleaners unexpectedly entering a room full of cats. Newspapers famously placed a supermarket lettuce into direct competition with the Prime Minister. The lettuce prevailed.Larry declined invitations to comment. "It is beneath my dignity," he explained privately.

"Vegetables should never be dragged into politics."His notebook acquired another verse.Lettuce wilt,Cabinets fall,Cats continueWatching it all.Rishi Sunak arrived with spreadsheets where others had preferred slogans and with an air of tidy competence that briefly reassured a nation exhausted by perpetual improvisation. Larry approved of the Diwali lamps that illuminated Downing Street and found the celebrations altogether more civilised than leadership contests.

Yet politics, he had long since realised, possesses an unfortunate tendency to punish those tasked with cleaning up after spectacular parties thrown by previous occupants.Sunak's difficulties accumulated gradually, then all at once. Every rainstorm seemed determined to soak an important speech, every campaign decision somehow acquired unfortunate symbolism, and every attempt to reset the national conversation collided with memories Britain had not yet finished arguing about."Humans keep saying they need a reset," Larry observed. "Cats simply find a warmer cushion."Polling companies eventually produced a statistic that Larry found faintly embarrassing. More Britons approved of the resident cat than of the resident Prime Minister. Larry accepted the compliment with customary modesty while quietly noting that remaining silent has always been one of politics' least appreciated skills.

Keir Starmer entered Downing Street promising competence after chaos and seriousness after spectacle. Britain appeared to agree, although the victory possessed surprisingly little joy. It resembled a nation hiring an accountant after hosting an exceptionally expensive costume party. Yet governments inherit not merely offices but moods, expectations and unresolved frustrations. Within two years Starmer's own popularity had faded beneath controversies over donations, growing electoral pressure from Nigel Farage's Reform UK and the uncomfortable truth that public patience remains a finite national resource.When he announced his resignation outside Number 10 as Beethoven's Ode to Joy drifted through the London air, Larry briefly opened one eye before deciding the symbolism was altogether too obvious to disturb his afternoon sleep.Now, Larry the Cat has heard, Andy Burnham is preparing to become the latest occupant of the most famous address in British politics. He may prove exactly the leader Britain requires. He may even survive long enough to rearrange the furniture.

Larry wishes him no ill. Cats rarely waste energy on personal grudges unless veterinary appointments are involved. Nevertheless, experience has taught the Downing Street tabby that optimism is best enjoyed in measured quantities.

This Downing Street tabby cat’s manifesto would impress humans

He has, after all, watched six prime ministers arrive carrying promises of renewal and depart carrying cardboard boxes. This is why Larry increasingly believes the country should at least consider his candidacy.Look at the advantages. He already lives at Number 10, thereby saving taxpayers the cost of relocation. He belongs to no political faction, owes no billionaire donor an awkward favour, has never accepted complimentary spectacles or luxury holidays, and remains gloriously immune to social media outrage. He just handles his own X (formerly Twitter) handle from time to time when he's very bored. Also, his manifesto would sit comfortably on the back of a food tin.

So, Larry the Cat, Chief Mouser of 10 Downing Street, has occupied the same doorstep through Brexit negotiations, constitutional crises, pandemics, market shocks, royal transitions, leadership elections and enough farewell speeches to fill several volumes of memoirs. Stability, he believes, begins with the quiet confidence that tomorrow you will still be here.His final verse remains tucked beneath one paw.Macavity vanished.Humans applauded.Prime ministers departed.Reporters crowded.I simply stayed.History noticed.Right about now Larry the Cat is napping. Giving pointers to a foolish journalist from India for this article was exhausting. But he awaits that call from the Buckingham Palace.