On Tuesday afternoon, Keir Starmer uploaded a 40-second TikTok – his fifth since joining the platform barely a day earlier – featuring himself and a schoolgirl performing the viral “6-7” dance. The accompanying track, a song by Connor Price and Haviah Mighty, blares “trendsetter, league of my own, it don't get better”, a line that could hardly clang louder for a prime minister whose approval ratings are scraping the floor.
Another video from that morning stars Larry the cat, Downing Street’s most enduring mascot, slinking along behind President Zelensky of Ukraine. What begins as a lighthearted cameo quickly shifts tone. Starmer embraces Zelensky, pledging Britain’s unwavering support; Larry wisely exits the frame. Later, when the French president, Emmanuel Macron, asks after Larry, Starmer concedes that the feline has “a very good social media presence. He’s the most popular of all of us”.
Starmer’s videos carry the disjointed sheen of committee approval
Yet not even the cat, a breakout star of Boris Johnson’s far more successful TikTok feed, can rescue Starmer’s faltering attempt at digital reinvention, which also includes a brand new Substack newsletter, in which he states his intent in his signature style: “Communication is changing, and I want to be a part of that.”
For those who don’t live on TikTok, it’s worth spelling out why Starmer’s new videos don’t land. The platform rewards a particular kind of immediacy: quick wit, jump-cut pacing, personality, the illusion of spontaneity. The most polished creators know how to hide the polish. Starmer’s videos, in contrast, carry the disjointed sheen of committee approval.
Nigel Farage, with 1.4 million followers to Starmer’s 18,000, wasted no time in reacting, posting a gleeful response encouraging viewers to “tune in… He wants your generation to embrace his brand of being really rather dull.”
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Farage’s cruelty-as-entertainment style thrives on TikTok. So does Zohran Mamdani, the new mayor of New York, whose insurgent, high-energy videos helped power his election win; as does Zack Polanski, the leader of the Green party, whose 132,000 followers attest to his fluency in TikTok’s grammar. Even Boris Johnson – not exactly a digital native – manages a species of ramshackle charisma online.
The whole enterprise is a strange political contradiction: TikTok is banned on government-issued phones owing to security concerns over Chinese spying
But Starmer’s version just feels dutiful. The comments beneath his videos tell their own story: “This is like when my nan got Facebook”, says one. Free-speech absolutists have flocked to his page, filling the comments with versions of the same things: “Will I get arrested for commenting?” And: “Resign now.”
The whole enterprise is a strange political contradiction: TikTok is banned on government-issued phones owing to security concerns over Chinese spying. Yet here is the prime minister filming his life in Downing Street like a newly converted influencer.
Whatever his motivation, Starmer might note what his rivals have already learned: you don’t need to be flawless to thrive online – but you do need to be a little provocative, a little charismatic or, at the very least, recognisably yourself. Kamala Harris ran an undeniably slick social media operation, yet even that couldn’t compensate for a message that failed to cut through.
The lesson is simple and unforgiving: style can amplify political substance – but it can’t conjure it. Until Starmer finds a voice that feels genuinely his, no amount of TikTok dances or cameos from Larry will shift the dial.
Photograph by Simon Dawson/Number 10