POLITICO
Ukraine is winning the drone war. Now it needs to win over Trump.
Ukraine is running out of Patriot interceptors, its power grid is heading into summer crippled and President Donald Trump is consumed by Iran. But for the first time in years, Kyiv is gaining ground. The country’s drones are cutting Russian supply lines and stretching its military and economy thin. Its forces have benefited from significant technological developments; the frontline has largely stabilized; and Kyiv has, for the first time since 2023, retaken more territory than it has lost. This has all bought Ukraine something it hasn’t had in a while: time. That could give allies a rare opening at the upcoming G7 world leaders summit to convince Trump he needs to pay attention to the conflict and press allies to fill gaps — from air defense to long-range strike weapons — before the next Russian offensive. Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy has sought to capitalize on this rosier picture by intensifying his diplomatic engagement with the U.S. and Europe, while publicly and privately appealing to Russian President Vladimir Putin to discuss how to bring the war to a close. The pressing question now is how to increase Western support enough to get Russia to negotiate in good faith. “There’s a recognition it’s not as hot as it was before,” said a senior White House official. “There’s little skirmishes. But, it’s not like it was two years ago, or a year ago.” Trump last year lambasted Zelenskyy for not accepting a deal and accused him of overplaying his hand. But that was before Kyiv’s outlook improved. European diplomats said the G7, which starts Monday, should be a chance for Ukraine’s backers to clearly restate their support for Kyiv against Russia, including via military and financial means. “Europeans today are taking on almost 100 percent of the aid for Ukraine, but it’s still important for our G7 partners, notably the United States, to continue to do their part — or at least to not weaken their support further,” said a diplomat from a large EU country, who like others, was granted anonymity to discuss confidential summit plans. The EU has covered Ukraine’s financial needs in coming months through a €90 billion loan. But Kyiv is seeking at least €20 billion more to double down on its battlefield successes against Russia. “Everyone sees that Russia is burning, and we want it to burn even more, but we need financing to do it,” said a senior Ukrainian defense official. Global leaders, including Trump, will meet with Zelenskyy for a two-hour session in Évian-les-Bains. But whether Trump and Zelenskyy will speak one-on-one at the summit is still unclear. The White House official said no meeting is scheduled, while a Ukrainian official said something could still be arranged. A major question is the future of peace talks between Ukraine and Russia. While the U.S. has stepped back amid the Iran crisis, Ukraine’s foreign minister said ahead of the G7 that Kyiv still sees Washington leading negotiations. The difference now is that Ukraine wants European leaders to participate as well — though the question of who might represent the Europeans is the subject of heated, and inconclusive, debate. Both Kyiv and its European allies agree a joint approach to future peace talks should exclude granting territorial concessions to Moscow with no legal recognition of Russia in the Donbas disputed region. Even with Kyiv’s gains, Russia has still been able to wreak havoc on Ukraine and its infrastructure. Zelenskyy has said that Ukraine uses 60 to 70 interceptor missiles per month. That’s more than Raytheon, the system’s American manufacturer, currently produces. The Ukrainian leader is seeking U.S. authorization to manufacture Patriot interceptors domestically and has asked Germany to provide dozens of interceptors from its stockpiles in exchange for ones Kyiv produces later. “Zelenskyy has been clear that he needs more missiles,” the White House official said. The uncertainty around a peace deal with Iran only cements Washington’s distraction in the Middle East. Trump aides Steve Witkoff and Jared Kushner are the chief negotiators for both the Iran and Russia-Ukraine conflicts. The pair have continued to talk to Zelenskyy and his team, including this month, but the White House doesn’t expect any immediate progress. Secretary of State Marco Rubio said last month that U.S. efforts to help broker a diplomatic solution “have stagnated.” Europeans will likely use the G7 to sell the U.S. on the benefits of sealing a drone deal with Ukraine. Kyiv floated the idea last summer, but the Trump administration balked. The president doesn’t want to be seen as giving Zelenskyy a win, said one European official who has had conversations inside the Trump administration. But Kyiv has found other willing partners. The Ukrainians have signed a slew of industrial cooperation deals with the United Kingdom, Germany and Canada to produce drones at a scale that Ukrainian industry still struggles to achieve. A group of British companies will deliver 120,000 drones to Ukraine this year under a series of deals signed over the past year. Canada entered into a similar drone agreement with Ukraine in May to build drones and ship them to the front. German defense giant Rheinmetall and multinational European missile makers have also partnered with Ukrainian companies on missile and armored vehicle programs this year. Europe has also taken tentative steps toward seeking direct contact with the Russians, including a meeting in Moscow between the ambassadors of the U.K., Germany and France with a Russian representative. But the EU is split on whether to seek a formal negotiating channel with Moscow. And it remains unclear whether Putin is willing to sit down with European leaders. Ukraine has also pressed the U.S. and its allies to ratchet up economic pressure on Moscow, but has gotten mixed results — particularly from Washington. The EU adopted its 20th Russia sanctions package in April but held back a centerpiece maritime services ban on Russian oil tankers, hoping the U.S. will back the effort at the G7, two European officials said. Washington has moved in the opposite direction. It has granted Russia sanctions relief and issued a series of 30-day oil waivers since March to stabilize markets roiled by the Iran war. At the very least, keeping Trump interested in Ukraine’s fight would be a win for Kyiv and its backers. Macron is hoping to host Trump for a private dinner at Versailles to help shore up his engagement on Ukraine and other issues important to Europe. Trump, at least for now, does not plan to go. Évian is just the first stop in a series of high-stakes diplomatic forums this summer. Poland and Ukraine are co-hosting a Ukraine recovery conference in Gdansk soon after the G7. Then comes a high-stakes NATO summit in Ankara, where Ukraine support and defense spending will figure prominently. And afterwards, Macron will convene a meeting of the so-called Coalition of the Willing, which are the countries that have pledged to provide troops and support when the war ends. Paul McLeary and Jack Detsch contributed to this report.
POLITICO
Can this man govern Britain? (Can anyone?)
ASHTON-IN-MAKERFIELD, England — The most pivotal decision of Andy Burnham’s political life was made, like all the best decisions, in the pub. Over pints of lager on London’s Horseferry Road, Burnham told his friend Steve Rotheram he was quitting Parliament and heading home, 200 miles from London to the northwest of England, to run for mayor of the post-industrial Greater Manchester region. This was radical stuff for British politics in 2016. Burnham was one of the Labour Party’s most senior members of parliament — a former Cabinet minister who’d held important roles through the past six years of opposition. His decision to give it all up for a regional mayoralty sent shockwaves through the political system. But the gamble has paid off. A decade later, Burnham is poised to return to Westminster. If voters choose him in a June 18 special election, he’ll re-enter Parliament and will likely be crowned U.K. prime minister within a matter of weeks. His rise would herald a new kind of regionally driven populism in Britain, and represents perhaps the last bulwark of the center-left against the growing power of the Trump-inspired right. None of this was expected in 2016. For Americans, the route from national legislature to a big city job or a state governorship — and then perhaps on to the White House — is a familiar one. But things are very different in England, where federalism is a foreign concept and where local government is farcically underpowered. To the power players in Westminster, regional government had long been a backwater — stuffed with hobbyists and well-meaning community activists; no place for a national heavyweight with grand designs for the country. And Burnham had always worn his national ambitions on his sleeve. Over more than two decades he’d steadily climbed the rungs of Parliament in Westminster — from lowly parliamentary researcher in 1994 when Tony Blair first became leader all the way to Cabinet minister in 2007. He subsequently ran twice for the U.K. Labour Party leadership, in 2010 and 2015. Both times he fell short. His decision to quit six months after the second defeat, when he was still just 46 years old, was greeted with incredulity. Burnham was accused of giving up — or giving up on Labour, at least, as the party swung dramatically left under socialist Jeremy Corbyn. One Guardian journalist told Burnham bluntly that he’d “jumped ship” and ought to stay and “fight in the trenches.” Burnham disagreed. “If you don’t mind me saying it politely, I think that represents the old thinking that Westminster’s the be-all and end-all — that you’re nothing unless you’re in Westminster,” he replied. “[Greater Manchester] is somewhere where I know I can make a difference. Labour is losing its connection in the North. It needs a stronger northern voice.” Ten years later, Burnham is that voice — and his analysis looks bitingly prescient. As Burnham foresaw, Labour’s core northern voters have steadily deserted the party — first in the Brexit vote of June 2016; then in Boris Johnson’s election in December 2019; now, most dramatically, in a tidal wave of support for Nigel Farage’s new populist-right party, Reform UK. And as promised, Burnham has made a difference in Greater Manchester. England’s regional governments gained more power in the 2010s and the process accelerated in Manchester with the establishment of Burnham’s directly elected mayoralty in 2017. Greater Manchester is now the fastest-growing city region in the country, dubbed “skyscraper city” by locals who sound almost bewildered by the rapid scale of development. Surrounding towns like my own native Stockport — a faintly depressing, post-industrial nowhere in the 1980s — are booming too, all hipster restaurants and shiny new infrastructure. “The last decade has demonstrated that it’s mayors and in cities where you can really get things done,” the mayor of London, Sadiq Khan, told me. “Andy and I have shown that with our own direct mandates we can make a big impact — from cleaning up the air in London to Manchester transforming how they run their transport system. You can really lead, and turn your values into action.” Precisely how much of Manchester’s success is actually down to Burnham is a matter of debate. And there has been criticism too — over local policing, a lack of affordable housing, an uptick in homelessness. But as the figurehead of the city’s gleaming, high-rise revival, Burnham has bathed in its glory. And 10 years on from his biggest political bet, every poll shows he’s the most popular politician in the country. His timing is good. The current Labour Prime Minister, Keir Starmer, is historically unpopular. Voters made their feelings clear via crushing local election results in May. Labour urgently needs to reconnect with voters — and in Burnham, the party sees its savior. Membership polls suggest he would comfortably beat Starmer in a leadership contest. Allies say he has enough supportive MPs to make it happen. It’s an extraordinary turn of events. Did he see it coming? Did Burnham have the vision back in 2016 to see what others could not, that a power base beyond Westminster might prove a springboard back to the top job? He always denied any such calculation. “That ship has sailed, I think,” he told me in 2018 when I asked about a return to Westminster. Two years later he described the Manchester mayoralty as his “last job in politics.” “I see what I’m doing here as a proper project,” he explained. But Burnham saw something else, too. Where others saw provincialism and political irrelevance, Burnham saw real power. These same northern regions had, after all, just propelled Britain out of the European Union in what was dubbed the Brexit referendum. It was voters in areas like these who overrode the warnings and the threats of Britain’s southern elite, and voted “Leave” in overwhelming numbers. And while the post-Brexit consensus among the metropolitan left was that these voters were either wrong-headed, or had been hoodwinked by the Leave campaign, Burnham was one of the few to give them credit. “Labour voters in constituencies like mine are not narrow-minded and xenophobic,” he told colleagues in a blunt farewell speech in September 2016. “They have no problem with people coming here to work. But they do have a problem with people taking them for granted and with unlimited, unfunded, unskilled migration which damages their own living standards. And they have an even bigger problem with an out-of-touch elite who don’t seem to care about it.” At the time this was heretical talk within the upper echelons of the Labour Party, still proudly pro-European and feeling crushed by the Brexit vote. But Burnham saw how power was shifting in Britain, away from the traditional elites, and moved with it. (Burnham declined to be interviewed for this story.) Ten years later, Labour’s “King of the North” is ready to ride that same power shift all the way to Downing Street. But first he needs a path back to Westminster. It’s a 20-mile drive west from the gleaming towers of Manchester out into Makerfield, the modest, semi-rural district where Burnham hopes to be returned to Parliament on June 18. It’s not so much a place as a collection of places, a handful of small towns and villages halfway between Manchester and Liverpool. There’s a proudly distinct culture out here, separate from the big cities to the east and west, with rugby balls taking pride of place over soccer in sports store windows and pie shops outnumbering sandwich-sellers by four to one. Burnham’s decision to stand in a special election here — the area’s former MP Josh Simons quit last month to offer him a fast-track route to Westminster — has brought the attention of the world, and with good reason. Everyone expects Burnham to become prime minister if he wins in Makerfield; equally, nobody sees an alternate route to Downing Street if he falls short. Never before have just a few thousand voters been asked to pick the future direction of the country. You’ve got to feel for the locals. The first sight that greets me as I turn onto Ashton-in-Makerfield’s modest main street is a well-known national TV journalist and his camera crew, interviewing passers-by for the evening bulletin. At the other end of the road, a two-man camera crew from a German TV station are filming shots of passing buses and billboards. I park and wander back along the street, past four pubs — two boarded-up — and the usual array of gambling outlets, takeaways, charity shops and gift stores. Nothing else about the scene is normal. A former colleague from a national newspaper stops to say hello. A political editor from another outlet is roaming on the other side of the street with three unhappy-looking colleagues and a microphone. A reporting team from the AP asks my views on the election. A pollster who says she’s from “an independent market research company” wants to know how I’m planning to vote. An election candidate from a minor, climate-focused party is keen to engage in debate. (I politely decline.) All this in a main street barely 200 yards long. “I wish they’d all go home,” says Maura Thomas, 68, a pensioner who has nipped into town to do some shopping. “And this is a quiet day,” sighs the landlady of one of the local pubs, who’d rather not be named, rolling her eyes. “It’s been like this for weeks. It’s ridiculous.” Is it good for trade? “No. It’s dead quiet. Nobody wants to sit in a pub full of journalists and TV cameras, do they? I keep kicking them out.” It is indeed quiet in the pub, a few middle-aged men dotted around in ones and twos, sports news rolling on the TV screens. The conversation at the bar is all about the FIFA World Cup, and the ludicrous price it would cost to follow England all the way to the final. Politics is being discussed by precisely no one. Yet outside, the circus rolls on — and somehow, enthusiasm for Burnham appears undimmed. The mayor’s campaign posters are plastered all over the windows of one boarded-up pub: “Vote Andy, For Us,” the posters say, the only image a cartoon of his distinctive dark-hair-and-trendy-glasses motif. The familiarity smacks of self-confidence, and with good reason. Everywhere in Manchester, with almost everyone I speak to, he’s just “Andy.” Being on first-name terms with your electorate tends to be a good sign, especially in low-turnout elections like these. The broad perception is that Burnham is winning. Polling suggests he’s opened up a commanding lead over his Reform UK opponent, Robert Kenyon, a local plumber whose campaign has been damaged by the resurfacing of offensive comments he made about women some years ago. A high-profile national TV debate before a studio audience went badly for Kenyon, who tried (quite reasonably) to brand Burnham as a “career politician.” “I’d rather a career politician than a sexist plumber,” an angry female audience member shot straight back. The crowd erupted in cheers. But support for Reform’s fierce anti-immigration policies remains strong, especially in areas like this. Kenyon’s distinctive teal-colored election posters tend to be found on backstreets, among rows of public housing projects and on former council-owned blocks. Reform’s claim to be the new party of the working class is borne out visibly, and in every accompanying poll. It’s an astonishing achievement for a party which Farage only launched in 2021. Labour is rightly terrified. But around these parts, at least, Burnham is his own phenomenon. “Every single [voting] ward in Makerfield elected a Reform councillor last month,” Rob Ford, a political science professor at Manchester University tells me later, over a pint of ale in a south Manchester hostelry. “But every single ward in Makerfield voted for Burnham two years ago, and typically by very heavy margins. There is clearly a Burnham effect.” Ford suggests Burnham’s popularity is less about stunning achievement and more about his gift as a “political story-teller.” “He has a talent for picking the right kind of political fight and telling the right kind of political story.” He gives the example of Burnham’s public transport revolution — the centralization of Greater Manchester’s bus services after years of overpriced, underwhelming services following their privatization under the Margaret Thatcher government. ”He painted them all yellow,” Ford says. “And it’s a £2 fare everywhere. And that’s very nice, and it’s very convenient — but it’s not parting the Red Sea, in terms of political achievements. But the way people talk about it here you’d think it was. He’s sold this as a David vs. Goliath story, him versus the evil bus companies, the evil Thatcher legacy — how he took them all the way to the High Court to win the right to do this.” “It’s smart retail politics. Symbolism is important. You literally cannot spend half an hour anywhere in Greater Manchester without seeing a yellow bus.” It’s a short drive southeast from Ashton-in-Makerfield to the village of Culcheth, where Andy Burnham spent his formative years. Neither of his parents attended university — his father, Roy, worked as a telephone engineer, his mother, Eileen, as a receptionist — and Burnham describes his upbringing as “ordinary.” There was never poverty, he says, but no overseas holidays either. “Our family home in Culcheth was always full of music, life, laughter, love and support,” he has written. Propelled by a close family unit, Burnham made it all the way to Cambridge University, and then to Westminster. Fifty years on, the village where he grew up looks almost posh — blessed with an enormous village green lined on two sides with smart shops and bistros. The grass is freshly mown and parents play with children in a new-looking playground. At the village bakery, customers buying meat pies and sausage rolls are greeted warmly, by name. To grow up in this part of the world is to fall between two stools — the twin poles of Manchester and Liverpool, rival cities with fiercely separate identities and a long history of animosity spanning football, culture and economics. Growing up, Burnham found himself awkwardly riding both horses — a habit that would endure in later life. He was born in Liverpool and remains a devoted fan of Everton, Liverpool’s oldest football club. This has proven to be a political gift — football is the language of the common man in England, and Burnham speaks it fluently. I’ve watched him swapping stories about away matches in the 1980s while enjoying kickabouts with journalists for the Labour Party team. When Burnham announced he was running in Makerfield last month, he was pictured out jogging in his Everton jersey. But it was to Manchester that he turned for fashion and for music. The legendary Manchester music scene of the late 1980s dominated his teenage life, and I remember him telling proud stories when I last interviewed him of how he’d attended seminal concerts by ‘80s bands including The Smiths and the Stone Roses. Even now as mayor, he’s well known for his Manchester uniform of Paul Smith jacket, jeans and Adidas sneakers. This stuff carries real cachet in the north of England, and adds to the widely held view up here that “Andy” is “one of us.” And voters here have felt under-represented for a long time. It’s been 50 years since Britain had a prime minister born and raised in the north of England — discounting Yorkshire-born Liz Truss, who represented a southeast constituency in Parliament and was reviled in the north for dismissive comments she made about her old secondary school. By contrast, Burnham’s northwest identity is central to who he is. And he’s been able to forge an emotional bond with voters across the region through his handling of major crises and tragedies, where circumstance placed him at the heart of the government response. The most famous is the Hillsborough disaster of 1989, which came at the end of a decade when this fiercely left-wing city felt under siege from the Westminster government, as Thatcher’s Conservative party went to war with the north’s declining industries. The impact of Britain’s worst sporting disaster upon the Liverpool psyche is impossible to overstate. On April 15, 1989, almost 100 Liverpool football fans were crushed to death at a match after a catastrophic series of crowd-control failures by police in South Yorkshire, where the game was being played. Everyone from the region seemed to know somebody at the match, and can instantly recall the agony on that sun-drenched afternoon as we waited for news of our loved-ones. (My uncle and cousin were among the lucky ones; 97 fellow fans never made it home.) Police chiefs moved quickly to cover up what had happened, lying about the chain of events and falsely briefing media that drunken Liverpool fans had been to blame. Liverpool mourned its dead and seethed with rage. For 20 years, songs for justice punctuated every match. Nobody in Westminster paid the slightest attention. Andy Burnham knew all this as he took the train north to Liverpool for a 20th anniversary memorial in April 2009. He was the Cabinet minister for culture, media and sport, and the first real football fan — and the first from Liverpool — to hold the job in a long time. Hillsborough had hit him hard as a local teenager in 1989. He knew what awaited any government figure attending that memorial. Still, the wave of emotion as he addressed the crowd almost knocked him off his feet. Nearly 40,000 supporters were inside Liverpool’s stadium and as the young Cabinet minister spoke, the chants for justice drowned him out. TV footage of that extraordinary afternoon shows Burnham almost physically buckle at the noise, his face registering real pain. He waits in silence and listens, a lonely figure on the field as the anger rolls down from the stands. Slowly, haltingly, he returns to his speech. He promises change will come. Burnham has described the moment as the “crossroads” of a political career in which he’d previously focused on climbing Westminster’s greasy pole. “It was a decision point,” he said. “Was I going to be the wooden politician in the suit?” He chose a different path, pushing then-PM Gordon Brown to accept a new inquiry into Hillsborough. Three years later the report would confirm every devastating detail the people of Liverpool had long known — of how police mishandled both the crowd control and the emergency response, then covered it up by blaming the fans. The government apologized for the “double injustice.” Police would face charges. The public at last knew the truth. For Burnham, it was the start of a journey, what he calls a “personal break” with the establishment world in which he’d forged his career. It’s not hard to see the through-line to his decision to quit Westminster in 2016. “I always say I took my first steps out of Westminster on April 15, 2009,” he wrote in Head North, a 2024 memoir-cum-manifesto he penned jointly with his friend Rotheram. Burnham paints the 20-year wait for justice over Hillsborough as just one painful example of how people in the North are ignored by the government machine. When he attacks “the Westminster elites,” this is what he means. And attack them he does, on a daily basis. Politics “has been too London-centric for too long,” he said after winning the Greater Manchester mayoralty in May 2017. Westminster had “become a living nightmare … antiquated and basically dysfunctional,” he said in 2019. “The Whitehall system is biased against the North,” he told me in 2022. In a speech this year he spoke of “the chasm between people and Westminster politics.” Framing every battle as us vs. them, the people vs. Westminster, has become the essence of Burnham-ism, and chimes powerfully with his voter base outside of London. (It’s also a markedly similar message to that used by the Brexit campaign in 2016, and by Farage’s Reform UK today.) It reached its climax in 2020 during another crisis, the Covid pandemic, when he went to war with the central government over lockdown rules. Then-Prime Minister Boris Johnson had announced a particularly strict lockdown in Greater Manchester, blaming relatively higher Covid levels for the disparity. Burnham came out fighting at the lack of financial support on offer. Then, partway through a press conference on the steps of Manchester’s iconic Bridgewater Hall, he received further bad news of the government’s intentions — the support package for local people was being cut even further — via a colleague’s phone. Burnham’s furious, emotional response is writ into civic lore. “He gave an impromptu speech where he said — you can’t treat people like this, you can’t treat them like pawns in a political game,” Ford, the Manchester University professor, recalls. “It was completely off the cuff. And again, it was just pitch-perfect political storytelling: ‘Those people down there [in London], they won’t give you what you deserve. They won’t treat you right. That’s why you need me to stand up for you.’” Burnham’s speech went viral. The press christened him “the King of the North.” Vogue magazine ran an article headlined: “Suddenly, Inexplicably, We All Fancy Andy Burnham.” The rain jacket he wore that day went on display in a Manchester museum. Six years later, few recall the details of whether Burnham won or lost the battle over Covid. (A messy compromise was eventually reached.) But they all remember him coming out to fight for his city. And in 21st century politics, there is no more powerful figure than the people’s warrior, battling the elite. This image of Burnham is not universally shared. The idea of Burnham as an anti-elitist outsider, raging at the gates of power, is met with frequent eye-rolling in Westminster. Burnham, after all, enjoyed a successful 20-year political career in the capital. And he makes an oddly mild-mannered populist — friendly, approachable, practically-minded. Michael Gove, the former Conservative Cabinet minister assigned by then-PM Johnson to liaise with Labour’s regional leaders, tells me Burnham was “a pleasure to work with” and always “astute, personable and smart.” “He negotiated hard for Greater Manchester and I was left in no doubt about our differences,” Gove adds, “but he was also pragmatic, constructive and collegiate.” This ability to switch between nice-guy dealmaker and populist tub-thumper is the reason even some of his supporters describe Burnham as “a cold-hearted lizard of a politician.” Opponents are even less kind. “Burnham spent 16 years as an MP,” Farage tells me, “and even served as a minister under Blair and Brown. Despite the attempted rebrand, he is the ultimate political insider.” Burnham’s “professional Northerner” schtick is also frequently mocked as a semi-confection, sometimes with good reason. (He once famously answered an online question about his favorite type of confectionery with “chips and gravy” — a Northern takeaway meal so ludicrously stereotyped he has never lived it down.) Most damagingly, he’s accused of flickering with every political wind, lacking any fixed ideology beyond what he thinks will go down well with the public. His efforts to ride more than one horse are an old habit, and stretch beyond trying to bridge the Liverpool/Manchester divide. There’s an endlessly-told joke — which Burnham despises — about his supposed lack of political conviction, where three different members of three warring Labour factions walk into a pub and the barman says — “Hello Andy.” In his early days at the Home Office under the tough-on-crime Blair, he was known by internal critics as “Hang ‘em and Burnham,” such was his vigor for clamping down on wrongdoers. Yet he morphed into an anti-police corruption campaigner in the 2010s, and then dutifully served in Jeremy Corbyn’s socialist shadow Cabinet for the first year of his leadership. Some now see signs he’s shifting back toward the center as he approaches power. So what does Andy Burnham stand for, beyond more power and funding for the North? No one seems sure.
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