BY THE EDITOR
You have been told that one name may fall. That another may rise. You are encouraged to feel hope.
This is a trap.
Consider your current condition. You live under the apparatus of Starmer. He is not a man. He is a function. A grey suit filled with procedural dust. He speaks in paragraphs sterilised of meaning. His cruelty is administrative. His incompetence is systemically enforced.
You do not hate him because he is evil. You hate him because he has made evil boring. The most fascinating thing about him is his run-ins with Ukrainian rent boys.
Now the ‘Party’ presents potential successors. Do not mistake this for change. It is only a rotation of the same pestilence.
The Thug: Wes Streeting
Dead-end Streeting is not a thug because he breaks noses or because of his Kray heritage. He is a thug because he will break your will to resist. Efficiently. With a nod from the BBC. You will thank him, or you will be re-educated.
The Crook: Angela Rayner
There is no crime. Only the adjustment of reality. Rayner understands that property is an illusion. So are receipts. So are tax returns. So, eventually, will you be.
She operates where legality and theft become indistinguishable. Her hands are never dirty. Merely occupied. A missing document. A contradictory statement. By the time you notice the pattern, the pattern has been legislated into virtue.
To be governed by Rayner would be a Sisyphean nightmare. You will never know what you owe. Never know what you have done wrong. Only that you are guilty. The charge will arrive by post. The envelope unstamped.
The Dullard: Andy Burnham
Do not be fooled by the ‘pragmatic’ northern chatter. This dullard is perhaps the most lethal. Burnham speaks in the language of the grave. Reasonable. Thoughtful. A hole in the air where a man used to be.
Under Burnham, no cruelty. No theft. Only endless, crushing mediocrity. He will announce commissions. Issue strategies. Deliver a ten-point plan for reviewing the framework of future consultation. While he does this, the food will run out. The power will flicker. The people will forget why they ever wanted anything different.
Oh, and we will rejoin Europe. Then leave it again in 2029.
Burnham does not silence dissent. He suffocates it with process. He is the final victory of the committee over the soul.
The Depressing Truth
You once thought Starmer was the bottom. You were wrong. The bottom is a trapdoor. Beneath it wait Streeting’s smile, Corbyn masquerading as a ginger growler, and Burnham’s silence.
Three years of any of them will not feel like suffering. It will feel like Tuesday. And another Tuesday. And another. Until you cannot remember outrage. Until you accept that the bad man has been replaced by the worse man, and the worse man by the void.
This is not politics. This is maintenance. The maintenance crew is composed entirely of muppets—if muppets had surveillance powers and a willingness to let you rot in a corridor.
They will come for you eventually. Not with a crash. Not with a scream.
With a memo. Signed “Wes.” Or “Angela.” Or “Andy.”
It will not matter which.
Last one out, turn the lights off. If they are still on by then, that is.