The best way to approach Andy Burnham, our new Prime Minister-in-waiting, is like the latest girlfriend of a desirable but emotionally damaged philanderer. We should be polite but there’s no real point in spending too much time getting to know her, because she’ll be replaced with a new model in a matter of months.

Let’s call this philandering gentleman Mr Great Britain. He’s the dashingly handsome lothario with daddy issues (in this case loss of Empire). We all know the type: the rakish uncle who’s still smoking at Christenings. He’s a sort of Hugh Grant chap with emotional baggage who can’t resist flirting with everyone, from the great aunt to the minx who’s just finished her A-Levels and all the waitresses. In spite of his obvious flaws (the NHS, insane energy and welfare policies), Mr Great Britain is still a deeply desirable thoroughbred with excellent breeding, ancestry, land and property. The problem is, he just keeps hooking up with all the wrong girls.

Mr Great Britain’s ancestors have made some outstandingly successful marriages that have expanded and solidified the family fortunes (Pitt, Disraeli, Liverpool, Salisbury, Baldwin, Thatcher). Sadly our current Mr Great Britain, when a young man, got into bed with a certain Anthony Blair who, as Mr Great Britain sobs into his drink with his next hook up: completely broke his heart. “I thought she was the one,” Mr Great Britain cries, “She had everything a young man could want: an ability to smile, a catchy slogan. But it turns out she was an absolute cow. She made me go to war and changed all the funny institutions in the old manor.”

Add this early heart break to his loss of Empire daddy issues, and poor old Mr Great Britain doesn’t know whom to settle down with. He flails around from one type of woman to another thinking they will solve his problems. In a pique of revenge, he seduced Anthony Blair’s severe best friend Gordon. Friends hoped Gordon would steady Mr GB, but instead she just shouted at everyone and sold the family gold. Thankfully this relationship didn’t last long and people were delighted when Mr Great Britain brought home the elegant Dave Cameron. She was just the right sort, a handsome filly with breeding and a pretty face. Alas like many willowy Sloanes, Dave turned out to be a sopping wet drip.

Time was ticking on and Mr Great Britain turned his wandering eye to a rather forgettable older woman who had an improbable interest in shoes. This petered out when Mr Great Britain remembered his deep seated predilection for fun times. He dumped Theresa and leaped into the willing arms of good time girl Boris Johnson. A knockout blonde who’d been round the block with plenty of other chaps, Boris was surely the girl to revive Mr Great Britain’s vim and vigour. Alas there was nothing more to her than her hair. Boris failed in all fundamental aspects of family care: she locked up the children, spaffed the family money and invited millions of people over to the family estate. She had to go.

Things then took a turn for the worse for poor old Mr Great Britain. He had the audacity to bring another ridiculous blonde to his grandmother’s funeral. She had a strange way of talking and everyone was convinced Liz was quite mad. He then went through his exotic phase and a dated a small polite woman of Indian extraction who did lovely things with candles at Diwali but wasn’t at all suited to the English rain.

Most recently Mr Great Britain has dumped his latest squeeze, a rather terrifying lawyer who bored everyone to tears. Rumour has it that Mr Great Britain is in the early stages of a relationship with a Northern Woman called Andy. She has a Northern accent so might be good with the staff but is unlikely to stick.

Friends of Mr Great Britain know that time is running out. He’s getting a bit too old and craggy and will soon go entirely to seed unless a good woman grips him. Again, we all know the type: the gorgeous stud who finally settles down at the age of 52 with a charming and competent wife. She solves his daddy issues and gives him a sense of belonging and purpose. They create a wonderful family home and have a quiverful of children. We also know the other type: the gorgeous stud who continues dating a series of inappropriate women well into his dotage. Whenever there’s a social event, we old friends think: who will the old rogue bring this time? Shall we bother to get to know her? Oh dear, we mutter, he’s looking shabbier and shabbier; it’s too late, no-one will want him now, he’s entirely broke, lost his estate as well as his looks.

Which path will our Mr Great Britain take? For now, I wouldn’t waste too much time in getting to know the new northern lass. She’ll be gone in a matter of months. Will the next honey be another embarrassing disaster or the one who sets Mr GB on the right path to fulfil his neglected potential? If I were a matchmaker, my wife of choice for Mr Great Britain would be that lovely Christian woman Danny whose mother is a tremendous cook.

Joanna Gray is a writer and confidence coach.