Steven Moffat Unleashes Political Farce: "Number 10" Brings Chaos Behind Famous Black Door

Max Sterling, 12/11/2025Steven Moffat's "Number 10" is a political farce set in Downing Street, blending existential comedy with chaotic leadership. Featuring Rafe Spall and Jenna Coleman, this irreverent satire critiques the absurdities of governance, promising both humor and biting truths in today's political climate.

So when Steven Moffat decides to stage his next act here, there’s an unmistakable sense that something irreverent is brewing. The man known for folding time—sometimes rather smugly—on "Doctor Who" and riffing on Victorian detection in "Sherlock" now finds himself wading into the quagmire of British politics. "Number 10," Channel 4’s latest gamble, looks poised to splatter the walls of Britain’s most famous political residence with precisely the kind of clever, metatextual humor Moffat relishes. Think less of the smooth, brash satire of "The Thick of It," more an existential comedy that’s always one bad hangover away from DEFCON 1.

Rafe Spall, fresh off the slightly smoky Apple TV series "Smoke" and the (arguably underrated) warmth of "Trying," dons the mantle of Prime Minister. Crucially, this is no Starmer mimic, nor some placeholder for Sunak—Moffat’s PM is a work of pure invention, a character built to chew scenery and lob zingers with a distinctly unspecific political bent. At first glance, that might disappoint anyone spoiling for partisan blood. But the promise lies elsewhere: a satire that’s less about party colors, more about the perennial absurdities of leadership. “A sensational piece of writing,” Spall has called it, with the kind of nervous anticipation that suggests both pride and a bit of stage fright.

What emerges—at least from the teasing logline and industry whisperings—resembles a labyrinthine comic caper: a Prime Minister tucked in the attic, power struggles percolating in the basement coffee bar, and a government that’s neither left, right, nor even especially competent. The details delight in their own ambiguity. As if Moffat’s personal checklist includes “ditch the party lines, keep the caffeine.” Once the entire world starts coming apart, party platforms tend to look like little more than elaborate set dressing.

Now, one wonders how those storied Downing Street walls, painted with layers of both Farrow & Ball and old regrets, will contain this new kind of madness. Enter Jenna Coleman, cast as Deputy Chief of Staff—a familiar name to any "Doctor Who" viewers, but more than capable of wringing sharpness and sympathy from even the twistiest scripts. She jokes about wanting to revisit British institutions under Moffat’s watch, sounding almost as if she’s inviting the audience into a long-running inside joke. Alongside her, Katherine Kelly (whose recent turn in "Mr Bates vs The Post Office" still lingers in the national memory) brings a certain electric anticipation; apparently delighted by Moffat’s “second to none” scripts, she seems ready to outmaneuver both ministers and mice.

Supporting players include Akshay Khanna, Abigail Lawrie, Laura Haddock, and Richard Rankin, among others, slotting into what looks much less like a tidy ensemble and more like a living, misfiring machine. There’s even a place for Joe Wilkinson—just imagine that wry, rumpled voice echoing in a Number 10 corridor at midnight, wondering whether the mouse in the pantry outranks the Under-Secretary.

Directorial credit goes to Ben Palmer—veteran wrangler of British discomfort and orchestrator of "The Inbetweeners'" most exquisite cringes. His knack for visual gags and timing might be exactly what’s required here; after all, the stakes in Downing Street are only ever a misstep away from tragedy, and sometimes the tragi-comedy nearly writes itself. There’s an unspoken challenge in rendering all this sprawling chaos both funny and bitterly true—the kind of humor that stings more than it soothes.

Calling "Number 10" a “comedy-drama” somehow feels too neat, skating over the knives glinting just beneath the surface. Governance in Britain has rarely resembled the sepia-tinted chess match depicted in textbooks; more often, it’s an unruly game of snakes and ladders, spiked with panic attacks and bad coffee. When Moffat points out that most nations rule from palaces while Britain is steered from a brick terrace, there’s warmth and exasperation in equal measure—a reminder, perhaps, that the only constant is the stubborn persistence of muddling through.

In the haze of 2025, with public trust in anything resembling authority about as buoyant as last night’s Yorkshire pudding, the prospect of seeing those familiar corridors rendered as a vaudevillian battleground feels, oddly, like a national comfort. Maybe even cathartic. There’s no need to chase the latest scandal or pore over budget lines—at its core, the show is about people who keep the lights on, sometimes by accident and often despite themselves. And, on reflection, that’s probably the most relatable brand of leadership available right now.

The project, greenlit by Gwawr Lloyd for Channel 4 and shepherded by Hartswood Films (with Sue Vertue and Moffat hovering somewhere between producer and ringmaster), has its transmission shrouded in that classic broadcaster fog. Dates, as ever, are subject to the great British tradition of "not yet, but soon." ITV Studios handles distribution—if nothing else, expect "Number 10" to make its presence felt, whether next quarter or just after the next [insert impending crisis here].

There’s a certain reassurance in seeing the world’s oldest working democracy depicted as a place where existential panic, slapdash problem-solving, and wry banter coexist. Perhaps it’s not just the wallpaper or the whiff of cold toast that lingers, but an old truth: sometimes, nation-shaking decisions are made while the kettle’s on the boil and someone’s lost the WiFi password again.

Strange times, these. Yet, the very oddness of it all might just be what makes "Number 10" the show this era deserves.

A damp shroud hangs over Downing Street most days, but there's something particular about the drizzle—insistent, almost conspiratorial—that stakes its claim on Number 10. The big, black door sits patiently as ever, flashes of camera bulbs bouncing off its surface, like a stoic actor enduring yet another curtain call. Outside, the usual scrum: restless correspondents with their notepads (or smartphones—this is 2025, after all), tourists hollering for selfies, a couple of civil servants trying too hard not to look lost. It's a scene that manages to be both theatrical and strangely mundane—London’s own mysterious blend of shabby grandeur and high-wire consequence.So when Steven Moffat decides to stage his next act here, there’s an unmistakable sense that something irreverent is brewing. The man known for folding time—sometimes rather smugly—on "Doctor Who" and riffing on Victorian detection in "Sherlock" now finds himself wading into the quagmire of British politics. "Number 10," Channel 4’s latest gamble, looks poised to splatter the walls of Britain’s most famous political residence with precisely the kind of clever, metatextual humor Moffat relishes. Think less of the smooth, brash satire of "The Thick of It," more an existential comedy that’s always one bad hangover away from DEFCON 1.Rafe Spall, fresh off the slightly smoky Apple TV series "Smoke" and the (arguably underrated) warmth of "Trying," dons the mantle of Prime Minister. Crucially, this is no Starmer mimic, nor some placeholder for Sunak—Moffat’s PM is a work of pure invention, a character built to chew scenery and lob zingers with a distinctly unspecific political bent. At first glance, that might disappoint anyone spoiling for partisan blood. But the promise lies elsewhere: a satire that’s less about party colors, more about the perennial absurdities of leadership. “A sensational piece of writing,” Spall has called it, with the kind of nervous anticipation that suggests both pride and a bit of stage fright.What emerges—at least from the teasing logline and industry whisperings—resembles a labyrinthine comic caper: a Prime Minister tucked in the attic, power struggles percolating in the basement coffee bar, and a government that’s neither left, right, nor even especially competent. The details delight in their own ambiguity. As if Moffat’s personal checklist includes “ditch the party lines, keep the caffeine.” Once the entire world starts coming apart, party platforms tend to look like little more than elaborate set dressing.Now, one wonders how those storied Downing Street walls, painted with layers of both Farrow & Ball and old regrets, will contain this new kind of madness. Enter Jenna Coleman, cast as Deputy Chief of Staff—a familiar name to any "Doctor Who" viewers, but more than capable of wringing sharpness and sympathy from even the twistiest scripts. She jokes about wanting to revisit British institutions under Moffat’s watch, sounding almost as if she’s inviting the audience into a long-running inside joke. Alongside her, Katherine Kelly (whose recent turn in "Mr Bates vs The Post Office" still lingers in the national memory) brings a certain electric anticipation; apparently delighted by Moffat’s “second to none” scripts, she seems ready to outmaneuver both ministers and mice.Supporting players include Akshay Khanna, Abigail Lawrie, Laura Haddock, and Richard Rankin, among others, slotting into what looks much less like a tidy ensemble and more like a living, misfiring machine. There’s even a place for Joe Wilkinson—just imagine that wry, rumpled voice echoing in a Number 10 corridor at midnight, wondering whether the mouse in the pantry outranks the Under-Secretary.Directorial credit goes to Ben Palmer—veteran wrangler of British discomfort and orchestrator of "The Inbetweeners'" most exquisite cringes. His knack for visual gags and timing might be exactly what’s required here; after all, the stakes in Downing Street are only ever a misstep away from tragedy, and sometimes the tragi-comedy nearly writes itself. There’s an unspoken challenge in rendering all this sprawling chaos both funny and bitterly true—the kind of humor that stings more than it soothes.Calling "Number 10" a “comedy-drama” somehow feels too neat, skating over the knives glinting just beneath the surface. Governance in Britain has rarely resembled the sepia-tinted chess match depicted in textbooks; more often, it’s an unruly game of snakes and ladders, spiked with panic attacks and bad coffee. When Moffat points out that most nations rule from palaces while Britain is steered from a brick terrace, there’s warmth and exasperation in equal measure—a reminder, perhaps, that the only constant is the stubborn persistence of muddling through.In the haze of 2025, with public trust in anything resembling authority about as buoyant as last night’s Yorkshire pudding, the prospect of seeing those familiar corridors rendered as a vaudevillian battleground feels, oddly, like a national comfort. Maybe even cathartic. There’s no need to chase the latest scandal or pore over budget lines—at its core, the show is about people who keep the lights on, sometimes by accident and often despite themselves. And, on reflection, that’s probably the most relatable brand of leadership available right now.The project, greenlit by Gwawr Lloyd for Channel 4 and shepherded by Hartswood Films (with Sue Vertue and Moffat hovering somewhere between producer and ringmaster), has its transmission shrouded in that classic broadcaster fog. Dates, as ever, are subject to the great British tradition of "not yet, but soon." ITV Studios handles distribution—if nothing else, expect "Number 10" to make its presence felt, whether next quarter or just after the next [insert impending crisis here].There’s a certain reassurance in seeing the world’s oldest working democracy depicted as a place where existential panic, slapdash problem-solving, and wry banter coexist. Perhaps it’s not just the wallpaper or the whiff of cold toast that lingers, but an old truth: sometimes, nation-shaking decisions are made while the kettle’s on the boil and someone’s lost the WiFi password again.Strange times, these. Yet, the very oddness of it all might just be what makes "Number 10" the show this era deserves.