CSM EDITORIAL
Let’s not mince words. At time of publication, Sir Keir Starmer hasn’t officially left Downing Street yet, but let’s be honest — he’s been politically dead for months. The only question is how long the undertakers will keep pretending. He’s toast. Burnt toast. The kind you discover at the back of the toaster, prod with a knife, and realise it’s been there so long it’s actually holding the whole crappy appliance together (for toaster, read Labour Party… even the Fabian Society would agree that we are in General Election territory now).
He arrived with ten pledges. He leaves with ten excuses. Economic justice? He raised taxes on everybody and called it radical. Social justice? He kept Universal Credit, rebadged it, and told the poor to be grateful for the new font. Common ownership? He sold it off in a three-line whip and blamed the dog. Farm tax? Chagos? Small boats? Respecting the Brexit vote? Let’s not go there.
And the charisma. My God. Watching Keir Starmer try to inspire a nation has been like watching a lampshade deliver a budget. He has all the warmth of a NatWest branch closure and all the rhetorical power of a broken lift in a council office. Over-promoted? The equivalent of Gazza being put in charge of the London Stock Exchange.
He will not be missed. He will be remembered — briefly, and with a deep, weary sigh — as the man who proved you can be simultaneously forgettable and disastrous. A unique political cocktail: one part tedium, two parts treachery (to his own pledges and to Britain), shaken over a sink in Westminster and served tepid.
God help Britain. Because waiting in the wings are people as qualified to run the country as the proverbial whelk is qualified to chair the Bank of England.
Honestly? You’d get more leadership from a snapped biro.
More backbone from a lettuce — yes, that lettuce.
More straight talk from a blocked drain in Stoke.
More radicalism from a parish council meeting about hedge height.
More integrity from a second-hand car salesman with a twitch.
More vision from a daredevil pigeon on ketamine.
And more gravitas from a clown falling down a flight of stairs in Blackpool.
So farewell, Sir Keir. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out. Though knowing your luck, you’d launch a review into the door, form a royal commission on hinges, issue a 147-page white paper on egress protocols, U-turn on it — and then apologise to the frame for the implicit violence of the closure.
The country will forget you within a fortnight. And frankly? That’s the kindest epitaph you’ve earned.
P.S. One day, do let us know about those Ukrainian rent boys. By far the most fascinating chapter in your ‘tenure’.