Keir Starmer's wonderful world of gammons

YOU might be surprised by this, but I love ‘gammons’. These plucky puce-faced patriots are everything that makes Britain great. Here’s why they need not fear voting Labour.

I bloody love NATO 

Gammons love the idea of Britain being hard and threatening military action, and, coincidentally, so do I. That’s why I keep banging on about NATO like a man obsessed. I’d like to see Challenger 2s driving over piles of dead Russians shredded by our cluster bombs. But of course we should try non-military action like renaming chicken Kievs first.

I’d definitely fire a nuclear missile

Rest assured I wouldn’t hesitate for a second when it comes to pushing the Trident button and vaporising a few million people, honest. If one of our focus groups says this is the right sort of thing to say to gammons, let’s nuke the bastards till they glow.

I will hunt Corbyn down like a dog (metaphorically speaking)

You wise gammons hated Jeremy Corbyn and were right to do so. Despite him not being leader for years we will not rest until this powerless backbencher is booted out of the party. He should move to a Siberian labour camp if he likes Russia so much. 

Let’s shoot first and ask questions second 

Actually Angela Rayner said this, but I agree we should terminate with extreme prejudice anyone who looks slightly like a terrorist. No harm could ever come of a sensible policy like this.

I haven’t forgotten about dole scroungers

Ukraine hasn’t distracted me from scroungers. Labour is the party of working people, not ‘having a lie-in being a parasite’ people. Luckily Labour actually was a workers’ movement, so I don’t sound too evil saying this. For starters I’d replace benefits claimants’ massive TVs with those annoying little 1980s portable ones with a four-inch black-and-white screen.

We need to be tough on Putin

Not soft, tough. Not weak, strong. Not Duncan Norvelle, Andy McNab. I think you get the picture. I’d send Putin a clear message, maybe ‘I’ve come here to chew bubblegum and kick ass, and I’m all out of bubblegum’. That should do it.

I love my country and its flag

I won’t labour this point as I’ve already said it about four billion times. But let’s just say no one’s allowed in my house without at least one item of Union Jack clothing and a donation to the Parachute Regiment.

We agree with the Tories about everything

I pledge we will not reverse Brexit no matter how pointless it is. And we’re not going to change your favourite policy, persecuting immigrants. To this end we’ve formally invited Priti Patel to join Labour, which will be renamed the Gammon Send ‘Em Back Party, although even Angela says that’s going too far.

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Milk of magnesia and other f**king hideous medicines you were forced to endure as a kid

BEING ill as a child was made even worse by the godawful things you were made to take for it. Here are six vile ‘remedies’ your mum swore by.

Milk of Magnesia

Tasted like a Satanic blend of powdered chalk and strained cat vomit. You’d be forced to hold your nose and gulp it down either as a laxative or to treat excess stomach acid, when both were less unpleasant than drinking this puke. Truth be told, the mere sight of the white bottle would usually be enough to give you the shits without unscrewing the top.

Cod liver oil 

Every morning during winter you’d be forced to swallow a spoonful to ‘keep colds at bay’, though why ingesting the liquified contents of a fish’s internal organs would stop you getting the sniffles was anyone’s guess. The capsules were less obnoxious, but if one burst in your mouth you’d still have the nightmarish sensation of performing fellatio on a fish.


Cuts and grazes were a part of growing up you didn’t mind too much – until your mother spotted them and insisted on smearing them with this liquid torture. You weren’t crying until it began to sting worse than cuddling a wasps’ nest, and then no-one would sit next to you in school all day because you f**king stank.

Calamine lotion

Ineffective pink emulsion weirdly used to combat chickenpox. It did almost nothing, apart from slightly reduce the itching for 0.005 seconds, and now you’d be painted bright pink from head to foot. With your spots filled with yellow pus you looked like a juvenile Mr Blobby.


The slogan ‘Lucozade aids recovery’ is the biggest lie in marketing history. Some people love it, but many hate it and it does taste weirdly like toilet disinfectant. It came in f**king massive bottles, which your mum would insist you finished even after you were better, because she’d bought it now and wasn’t pouring it down the sink. ‘It’s just like pop really’ she’d tell you, the massive bullshitter.


Nothing cured a bout of constipation faster than being threatened with the grim discomfort and downright embarrassment of having something resembling a WW2 torpedo forced into your unwilling arse. Didn’t do a lot in truth either, apart from leaving you with a hideously greasy bum the next time you went for a dump.