Morten Morland

Uncle Sam lies on the psychiatrist’s couch, red-eyed and angry at the state of his nation, oblivious to the fact that his therapist has jumped out of the high window of the consulting room, smashing the glass on their way. Prime Minister Keir Starmer and Chancellor Rachel Reeves hang a picture of Munch’s The Scream, the icon of human anxiety and existential dread, above the Downing Street fireplace from where former PM Margaret Thatcher used to glare imperiously down. And the departing PM Rishi Sunak waves a cheery goodbye, teeth and cuffs sparkling, as he steps into a helicopter on the roof of Conservative Central Office, hordes of his colleagues desperately – and vainly – trying to clamber up the steep slippery slope behind him, begging to join him in his escape – a sort of rats-deserting-a-sinking-ship moment.

Morland needs no words to convey a moment in history, or the public mood. His cartoons combine wit, pathos and a level of draughtsmanship more typically associated with academic fine art.

Judges praised his “extraordinary artistry” and called his work “beautifully drawn, incisive and sharp”.