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Starmer: 'I had a robust and productive butt dial with President Trump'

THE prime minister has confirmed that President Trump accidentally called him over the weekend for a tough discussion about US-UK relations. 

Speaking from the Downing Street press briefing room, Keir Starmer shared that he engaged in difficult but constructive talks with the commander-in-chief’s rear end as it pressed against his phone and made muffled noises.

Starmer said: “I told President Trump in no uncertain terms that his tariff threats were completely wrong. And if my voice wasn’t vibrating weakly only into his fleshy white buttocks, I think it would have given him pause for thought.

“Our conversation was short, and I did the bulk of the talking for once. I reminded the President that Greenland’s fate lies with its people and the Kingdom of Denmark alone. Insofar as a burst of flatulence can be considered agreement, he agreed with me.

“At one point I thought he was concurring with my concern for ordinary working people, who will be the worst affected by tariffs. In hindsight I believe he had followed through.”

Political pundit Martin Bishop said: “Opponents mocking Starmer should recognise that it is provably as effective talking to Trump’s arse as to his face.

“This was our prime minister’s ‘peace in our time’ moment. Expect to be packed off to Nuuk with a rifle come June.”

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You didn't say you didn't want me walking around nude so it's poor communication on your part, by your housemate

By Tom Logan, aged 28 and hanging free

LOOK, I just think it’s unfair I’m suddenly the bad guy when you never said, in clear terms: ‘Please don’t walk around the flat stark bollock naked like a Victorian asylum patient.’

If you had communicated this was some kind of weird boundary – dare I say phobia – for you, I would’ve taken that on board. I would have worn pants even when making toast. But you chose the passive-aggressive route of shouting ‘What the f**k?’ instead, and that hurts.

That’s not communication. That’s creating bad vibes. I thought we were friends and now I hear you’ve been talking about me behind my back, describing me as ‘Testicular Tom’.

And don’t act like I’m some perve. You’re the hypocrite. You’re naked here, like when I walked in on you in the shower. You might have screamed and placed your hands over your genitals, but I saw that you were free range.

So lecturing me when I leave halfway through The Night Manager and return to the room naked? Unfair. You said you wanted me to be happy when I moved in, and I’m at my happiest when freeballing it in front of a Joe Wicks workout.

Yes, I said ‘If it bothered you, you should’ve said something’ while standing fully unwrapped in the doorway, but that was me encouraging openness. My penis just happened to be there, as did your parents. Doesn’t have to be a big deal.

This whole thing could’ve been avoided by simply saying at the outset, ‘Hey mate, clothes are the default. Also clean the air fryer after you use it.’ Good manners cost nothing.

Instead I’m reading fridge notes saying ‘just f**king cover it up’ like I’ve done something weird. All I did was exist how nature intended: unafraid, unashamed and uncircumcised.

Anyway, I’ve agreed to put on boxers when out of my room, but I consider them a prison. And I’m only doing this because I’m the bigger person. Emotionally, not physically. As you’re aware.

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