Lifecycle of a Spad: turnover, influence, and the machinery of No10

From Dominic Cummings’ infamous drive to Barnard Castle, to the sweary, larger-than-life caricature of Malcolm Tucker, the British public have been offered a certain vision of the Prime Minister’s special advisers. They are often portrayed as shadowy masters of the dark arts, agents of discipline, or chaotic geniuses but as the fictional drama ‘Number 10’ written by Stephen Moffat prepares to offer its own take, the reality inside the real Downing Street is proving just as compelling. 

Under Sir Keir Starmer, a government elected on a promise of stability, finds itself at the centre of a narrative defined by staff turnover and internal reorganisation. This raises a simple yet critical question: in this new administration, who truly holds the levers of power?

The departure of figures like Chief of Staff Sue Gray, Communications Director Matthew Doyle, and a steady stream of policy aides is more than a personnel list. It is the central plot point in a story about the struggle to impose command. 

The creation of a new Chief Secretary to the Prime Minister role for Darren Jones, and the consolidation of duplicate communications and policy teams, are presented as the solution.

For a while, the cast changes and internal dynamics in Downing Street are arguably giving the Real Housewives franchise a run for its money (Bravo should really consider a rebrand of their disappointing relaunch of the Real Housewives of London). The reorganisation is an attempt to move from a sprawling ensemble piece to a narrative with a clear director and a single, coherent plot. This is the official narrative of calibration. Implicitly, it is an admission that the first year has not gone to plan. This is the "reset to the reset," an attempt to find a structure that can finally deliver on the promise of "mission-driven government."

A history of Spads and power

To understand power in Number 10, one must look beyond the Cabinet table to the role of the special adviser, or “Spad”.

Introduced by Harold Wilson to manage the “burden of modern government,” their purpose was to provide political counsel while protecting the impartiality of the civil service. However, the influence of individual advisers has often escalated, creating a recurring tension in British politics. This is not a new phenomenon. Under Margaret Thatcher, advisor Alan Walters' economic disagreements with Chancellor Nigel Lawson became so profound that Lawson resigned, a powerful example of an unelected adviser effectively outranking a senior minister. The Blair era marked a different shift, towards what critics called ‘sofa government’, using Spads to challenge civil service advice and centralise control. This established a model where, as one official observed, the most powerful individual in a room was not always the elected one.

In the current administration, the focus falls intensely on Morgan McSweeney, the Prime Minister's Chief of Staff. 

Described by some commentators as “the most powerful individual in Britain,” McSweeney is the architect of Labour’s 2024 General Election victory and the enforcer of its internal discipline. His allies credit him with a sharp strategic mind. His critics point to a centralisation of power that sidelines the traditional cabinet model. Yet that power is now being tested. A recent meeting with Labour peers, intended to shore up support, is being described by attendees as a “car crash in slow motion.” McSweeney was reportedly criticised for a lack of energy and answers, leaving peers with the damning impression of a Number 10 operation that is not only besieged but out of its depth. The encounter has significantly worsened the already bleak mood in the party, fuelling the belief that the blame for the government's troubles lies squarely with the Prime Minister and his inner circle.

This dynamic feels familiar. 

As recently as the Johnson era, Chancellor Sajid Javid complained that the influence of Dominic Cummings made it feel like having "two Prime Ministers." The recent departures under Starmer are often framed within this power dynamic. The exit of Sue Gray, following reported clashes, and the resignation of strategist Paul Ovenden over historical messages, highlight the challenges of managing this powerful, politically-appointed class. The effect can be a sense of chaos.

The recent book Get In by journalists Patrick Maguire and Gabriel Pogrund feeds this narrative, suggesting Starmer has taken his "most basic political orders" from an inner circle centred on McSweeney. One source in the book claims the Prime Minister "acts like a HR manager, not a leader," raising questions about where strategic direction truly originates.

A No. 10 renovation in progress

Upon entering Downing Street, the Starmer team inherited a political project famously built on discipline and control. The irony, therefore, is that their first year has been defined by a very public struggle to impose that same discipline and control on their own government machine. The series of changes implemented reads less like a simple staff reshuffle and more like a live diagnostic of what they believe has gone wrong.

The most telling innovation was the creation of a new post: Chief Secretary to the Prime Minister, handed to the MP Darren Jones. This move is politically fascinating. Bringing a sitting MP and one from the party’s centre-left, into the heart of the operation is a nod to both the need for political heft and a bridge to the parliamentary party. It suggests a recognition that the traditional Spad model, for all its influence, lacks the democratic accountability of a figure who has to face the electorate. Jones’s mandate appears to be, in effect, an "additional Prime Minister" for the domestic agenda, a role that implicitly critiques the previous structure for its lack of a single, commanding figure to drive implementation.

This move has been accompanied by a brutal simplification of the top tier of the rest of the No10 set up.

The move from two directors of communications (Matthew Doyle and James Lyons) and a policy unit featuring overlapping leads like Muneera Lula, Carys Roberts, and Paul Ovenden to one of each was a consolidation. It was the political equivalent of a reality show culling its cast to refocus a meandering plotline. 

The message is that the "sprawling ensemble" approach has been retired in favour of a chain of command with fewer, clearer links. The telling part is the ruthlessness; this is a leadership willing to correct its own hiring mistakes with speed, even at the cost of appearing chaotic in the process.

The Policy Unit shuffle

The most significant changes, however, are occurring out of sight in the Downing Street Policy Unit, the engine room where manifesto pledges are turned into workable policy. This is where the government's intellectual direction is set, and the current shake-up is a window into its evolving priorities.

A clear changing of the guard is underway. The staff from the Leader of the Opposition (LOTO) days, who crafted the Labour manifesto, are being steadily replaced. The exits of key figures like Muneera Lula (women and equalities) and Carys Roberts (ex-IPPR director) indicate a move away from distinct, socially-focused policy streams. They are being replaced by figures like John Bachelor, a former Treasury civil servant, whose background suggests a decisive pivot towards a fiscal technocracy that prioritises economic orthodoxy and market confidence.

This greasing of the wheels between No. 10 and ministers is crucial. The replacement of political veterans with a Treasury insider suggests the previous cohort were found wanting on that score, or that the government's central mission has narrowed to an overwhelming focus on the economy.

The communications directorate, meanwhile, appears to be in a constant state of reconfiguration. 

The decision not to directly replace Steph Driver, the departed director of day-to-day communications, and instead appoint a more junior media Spad to work under Press Secretary Sophie Nazemi is highly unusual. It suggests either a surprising de-prioritisation of the brief or a lack of a credible candidate to fill the role.

Conversely, the power flowing into Number 10 is coming directly from the Treasury. 

The appointment of Baroness Shafik, a former deputy governor of the Bank of England, as the Prime Minister's chief economic adviser was a clear signal of intent. This is now being operationalised with the rumoured move of Chancellor Rachel Reeves’s head of communications, Ben Nunn, into a senior strategic role in Downing Street, effectively taking on the duties of the departed Paul Ovenden. This is compounded by the arrival of John Bachelor, a former Treasury civil servant, into the Policy Unit. Together, these moves signal that the Chancellor’s office and a Treasury-aligned worldview are not just partners but active participants in running the centre, cementing a powerful, technocratic grip on the government's strategic narrative and policy engine.

Together, these changes paint a picture of an administration trying to retrofit its machine for a job it finds more difficult than anticipated. 

Downing Street is seemingly centralising power with Jones, professionalising it with economic experts and data technicians from across the political spectrum, and streamlining its communications, all while formally expanding the controversial Spad class. It is a bold renovation, but one being conducted while the family is already living in the house, and amid reports of low morale. The ultimate test will be whether this new wiring can handle the voltage of a full parliamentary term, or if it will short-circuit under the next major shock.

The puppets and the puppetmasters

To focus solely on the internal psychodrama of who is 'in' or 'out' in No. 10 is to mistake the supporting cast for the lead actors. The real power in Westminster is rarely found in a single office; it resides in the entities that can grant or withhold a government's ability to function. 

For Starmer's team, three external forces have emerged as the true arbiters of their fate.

First, there is the parliamentary party, a beast that in a large majority can lull you into underestimating. Recent rebellions have served as a sharp reminder that an MP’s vote, while often taken for granted, is not a guaranteed asset. As our recent research on rebellions noted, backbenchers now have a "taste for power." This dynamic has been fundamentally recalibrated by the election of Lucy Powell as Deputy Leader. Her victory, secured from the backbenches against the Prime Minister’s preferred candidate, has instantly institutionalised this leverage. Powell now provides a legitimate, high-profile platform and a strategic brain for this discontent, transforming sporadic grumbles into a coordinated force. This is not yet a full-scale insurrection, but a quiet assertion of influence that now has a powerful figurehead. It proves that a government’s mandate is a renewable resource that requires constant topping up with persuasion and concessions, a task made infinitely more complex when the deputy tasked with managing the party’s mood is herself the standard-bearer for its grievances.

Yet, if backbenchers can make life uncomfortable, the financial markets can make it impossible. 

The government’s entire economic strategy is conducted in the long shadow of the 2022 mini-budget. This isn't just a matter of balancing the books; it is the constraint that, for the Chancellor especially, is the single most powerful influence on policy. In many ways, the bond market holds a de facto veto power, a reality that has clipped the wings of more than one ambitious chancellor and now dictates the flight path for Rachel Reeves. It is the ultimate reminder that political will is often secondary to financial credibility.

Perhaps the most significant change was also the simplest: the government has officially removed the limit on how many special advisers ministers can hire. This isn't just a minor rule change. 

The cap had been in place since Harold Wilson, who first created it to prevent ministers from becoming too powerful. Getting rid of it is a major shift. It accepts that the number of political appointees in government is only going to grow. The real question now is whether this larger, formalised group of advisers will create a more efficient system, or just introduce new kinds of confusion.

So, who is in charge? 

The constitutional answer is simple. The practical answer is a mosaic.

Formal power resides with the Prime Minister. Operational control appears vested in the chief of staff. But effective power is negotiated daily with rebellious MPs, dictated by the gilt market, and mediated by a permanent civil service. The constant churn of Spads, then, is less about finding the right people and more about searching for a centre of gravity that remains elusive. More In Commons Chief Executive Luke Tryl recently posted on social media wondering if all these changes might just forever put new people off from joining.The government operates like a team that has mastered the playbook for winning an election but is still learning the rules of governing. 

For those seeking to navigate this environment, the fluid power structure presents a clear set of challenges. Traditional engagement, focused solely on departmental ministers and senior civil servants, is now insufficient. Success requires a more nuanced approach.

The practical challenge is threefold: first, identifying the right Spad amid constant turnover and overlapping briefs. The departure of manifesto authors and their replacement by figures from think tanks and the Treasury signals a shift in policy priorities and personal networks that must be constantly monitored. 

Second, understanding the new channels of influence. With the Treasury's influence expanding directly into No. 10 via personnel moves, and a powerful MP like Darren Jones acting as a gatekeeper on domestic policy, the traditional Whitehall map is outdated. Influence now flows through these hybrid political-administrative nodes.

Finally, there is the challenge of engaging with a machine that is still being rewired. The removal of the Spad cap means a larger, more formalised political layer, but one whose internal dynamics and pecking order are still being established. Knowing who to approach on a policy issue, a departmental Spad, a No. 10 policy adviser, or a Treasury official seconded to the centre, requires real-time, granular intelligence.

For a party that sold the electorate on a promise of stolid, mission-driven competence, the greatest mission now is to learn how to truly command the machine it has inherited. 

The coming Budget will be less a test of policy and more an X-ray of this internal struggle. It will reveal who is really driving the train and, consequently, who outside the government needs to understand to effectively engage with it. The search for the real seat of power in Number 10 continues, and the most likely outcome is that there isn't just one.

PoliMonitor will be here for it all.