Rory Stewart’s Long-Shot Gamble on Kamala Harris: How he got it so Wrong

Rory Stewart, author of Politics on the Edge and master of sweeping predictions, recently set his sights on the U.S. election with all the precision of a racing tipster championing a three-legged mule. In a move that defied both political data and betting markets, Stewart confidently declared Kamala Harris the likely victor, basing his bold forecast on little more than anecdotal charm and a few wafer-thin stats. His reasoning? Biden’s “solid government,” Trump’s “lost ground,” and Harris’s supposed appeal to young women. But had Stewart looked beyond his monovision and into the heart of the swing states—the real battlegrounds—he might have saved himself from a self-inflicted tumble over the edge.

Let’s start with the states that decide American elections: Pennsylvania, Wisconsin, Michigan, Georgia, and Arizona. These aren’t places where Harris’s so-called popularity among young women alone would shift the scales. Take Pennsylvania, for instance, where the pivotal voters are suburban moderates and blue-collar workers in places like Erie and Scranton. Polls consistently show this demographic as hesitant towards the progressive wing, which Harris represents. Recent metrics indicated that Trump held a robust appeal among rural Pennsylvania voters, while Biden’s strongest appeal remained tied to his moderate positioning. The result? Harris was hardly a draw for Pennsylvania’s critical swing voters, whose moderate stance largely favours continuity over change.

Next, consider Wisconsin. This state, which flipped to Biden by a mere 20,000 votes in 2020, has a history of tight races and is largely influenced by issues like manufacturing, trade, and healthcare. While Stewart might have focused on “young women’s” enthusiasm, the reality is that Wisconsin’s swing voters are working-class families and retirees concerned about economic stability, not ideological excitement. A recent analysis of the Badger State showed that Trump’s “America First” rhetoric still held sway among manufacturing towns, while Harris’s policy positions appealed mostly to urban areas like Milwaukee and Madison—too small a base to tip the state.

Michigan, with its mix of Detroit’s urban voters and the Rust Belt’s traditionalist enclaves, presented a similar picture. Polls showed Trump making inroads among non-college-educated white voters in areas like Macomb County, a bellwether for Michigan elections. Harris, meanwhile, had no substantial gains among key voter blocs here. Stewart’s casual focus on her appeal to young people glossed over the fact that Michigan’s decisive voters tend to be older and moderate. Detroit alone couldn’t swing Michigan, and Harris’s limited traction among suburban voters was a red flag for any serious analyst. In a state where economic pragmatism outweighs identity politics, Harris’s appeal was always more limited than Stewart’s prediction accounted for.

In Georgia and Arizona—two emerging battlegrounds with shifting demographics—Stewart’s analysis fared no better. Georgia’s changing electorate leans towards more moderate candidates, with an emphasis on local issues like jobs, healthcare, and immigration. Trump’s appeal among Georgia’s conservative base still held, while Harris struggled to make gains outside Atlanta’s urban core. In Arizona, where suburban women did play a critical role, these voters consistently leaned toward moderate, centre-left policies rather than progressive platforms. Here, Biden’s incrementalism was key to his 2020 success, while Harris’s more progressive image posed a barrier among Arizona’s suburban moderates. Yet Stewart dismissed these crucial insights, sticking with a monovision that Harris could draw in “young women” en masse, as if demographic shifts alone could outpace local priorities.

And then there’s the betting market, which had Trump as a firm favourite at 1.70 odds by early October. This wasn’t arbitrary; it was an indication that betting markets—driven by the collective wisdom of data-backed punters—had already weighed the swing states and calculated their likely leanings. Stewart’s casual dismissal of these odds, like a racing tipster declaring the bookies “timid” for hedging their bets, only showed his misunderstanding of market dynamics. Betting markets incorporate real-time data, polling, and voter behaviour, adjusting for factors like economic anxiety in Pennsylvania or demographic shifts in Georgia. Had Stewart built his own tissue—a breakdown of odds by state, weighing each factor like a proper analyst—he’d have seen that Harris’s odds were a long shot for a reason.

Stewart’s error, much like a hopelessly optimistic racing tipster, was in mistaking a feel-good narrative for hard analysis. He was betting on the “romantic underdog,” pinning his hopes on a candidate with niche appeal while ignoring the mechanics of the race. In swing states, where the margins are razor-thin, details matter: suburban shifts, Rust Belt loyalty, Arizona’s moderate blocs. The road to the White House isn’t paved with wishful thinking or broad appeals but with the gritty reality of local issues and demographic pragmatism.

In the end, Rory’s political forecast is a reminder of why monovision is fatal in high-stakes games. A proper assessment would have accounted for each swing state’s unique profile, the real odds, and the weighted factors that betting markets build in. But by ignoring the market and real metrics in favour of a hunch, Stewart’s prediction was little more than an optimistic long shot. Like those racing punters who ignore the favourites for a flutter on the dark horse, Stewart bet against the house without an edge—and ended up with an empty ticket and a rather long walk home.