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Six reasons why you're so much hotter than the girls in porn, by a boyfriend who's been caught watching porn

I LOVE you, I respect you and you are standing in the doorway with your arms crossed while I close browser windows. You are so much hotter than girls in porn and here’s why:

You’re real

What men love is authenticity. Not fake bouncing bosoms on a horny slut, which I stumbled across in error. I can’t get into the fake girls in porn, which is why I was clicking through to the end. What I love are stretch marks, a bit of cellulite, that bathrobe you do the washing-up in and not having get my head around whether we’re step-siblings or not.

You have personality

A bi-curious cheerleader doesn’t tell me her thoughts. All I know about her is she gets stuck head first in a washing machine. There’s no intimacy. You, on the other hand, have opinions: about my friends being wankers, about how I load the dishwasher wrong despite there being no universally agreed doctrine on plate orientation. That’s what turns me on.

You challenge me

Porn never challenges me. It never asks questions. It never says ‘Did you just open a beer at 7pm on a Monday?’ or ‘What have you bought from eBay with £100 from the joint account?’ You challenge me intellectually, emotionally and spiritually, usually while I’m trying to watch football. That’s way sexier than any busty ebony chick.

I know your body

Men famously hate variety and find a body sexier the more they know it. Plump-lipped lithe beauties have nothing on a pair of boobies I’ve seen every night for five years. Trust me, between you and them, there’s absolutely no comparison because sometimes I get to touch yours.

You’re my age

I’m only watching 26-year-olds because they’re playing MILFs so feel closer to your age. You understand my cultural references, you like the same music, and we make the same little yelp when standing up too fast. That shared lower-back vulnerability creates a bond no algorithm can replicate.

You climax naturally

A screaming orgasm would in reality be annoying, messy and might disturb the neighbours. I love how you’re so quiet I don’t know if you’re coming or not, and I care. You’re hot because you’re you. Natural. Standing in the doorway. Waiting for me to finish explaining. Holding that sleeping bag and pointing to the settee.

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Keir Starmer: is he going to resign, go for drinks with Liz Truss, get hammered and end up getting off with her?

THE chance that the prime minister will end up in bed with the last-but-one prime minister after a night of drunken commiseration grows by the hour. 

While Keir Starmer has fended off the threat of being forced out for the next 24 hours by the diversionary tactic of saying ‘no’, most commentators agree he is still destined to be the UK’s second shortest-serving leader.

So when that day comes, rejected by his party and the public, who could he find solace with except the UK’s shortest-serving leader? Who, being unemployed, will readily meet for cocktails as early as 6pm?

As the two throw back dirty martinis while bemoaning traitorous bastards, they will certainly find common ground. In being outcasts they will find attraction. Hopelessly wrecked in the wreckage of their careers, they will start snogging.

Then? They will act with the decisiveness out of office they should have had in Downing Street and order a cab. In the palatial home of a donor they kept keys for, Starmer and Truss will fall breathlessly into bed.

She will strip away fiscal restraints and stimulate unprecedented growth. He will show her what being shafted by the deep state really means. Their passion will be as epochal as their premierships were not.

Finally, in the cool hours of dawn, they will cease their rutting and lying in each others arms birth a new political project. A new party challenging the two-state hegemony built on grudges and denial of failure.

And this is why Starmer must remain prime minister. Because this unholy mutant hybrid of both party’s worst failures must never be born.

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