The freaked out Tory voter's five-step guide to coping with a trans MP

HAVE you been blindsided by having a trans Conservative MP when you thought only trendy lefties and confused teenagers went in for that nonsense? Here are the five stages of coping.


It’s not true. This simply isn’t what Conservatives do. We are the party of family and country, not weird sex things. Apart from all the rent boys. And that MP who did autoerotic asphyxiation with an orange in his mouth. No, it’s all an April Fool’s joke but he got the date wrong. That’ll be it. Yes.


For God’s sake, I’ve bought into all this culture war stuff wholesale, convinced I’m on the right bloody side even though I don’t understand the first thing about gender dysphoria. Now I’ve been let down by my own team. Thanks a bunch, Boris. F**king hell, I’m furious. And deeply confused. Do we all have to be Boy George now?


Maybe Jamie Wallis didn’t say trans. Maybe he said trains. Maybe he said he wants to ‘be trains’. That’s a much more Tory thing to say. What do you mean, it doesn’t make any sense and I sound mad? Shut up or I’ll regress back to the previous stage.


Well, that’s that, then. The gender benders have won and the Conservatives are now the party of woke snowflakes who think there are 50 different genders, including self-identifying as a helicopter. I suppose I’ll have to share the M&S changing rooms with lady-men with breasts and great big dangling penises. I might as well vote for that Marxist Keir Starmer. Or those anarchist Greens. Nothing matters anymore.


Maybe it isn’t so bad. Maybe having a trans Tory MP will convince some of the leftists to change sides, as Labour don’t have one. Yes, it gives us one over on those leftie bastards. I fully welcome and endorse it. Trans rights are human rights. Hooray!

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Things you think are posh, but aren't at all

SOME people think Ferrero Rocher are posh, but they’re the sort of scum who shop in Tesco. Here are some other things that are supposed to be posh, but aren’t.

After Eight mints

Back in the 80s, no self-respecting middle class dinner party was complete without a box of After Eights. That’s assuming you fell for the TV adverts showing posh people shoving them down their gobs at fancy parties and embassy receptions. In reality this was about as likely as a waiter saying, ‘More cheese strings and Vimto, ambassador?’


Posh people spend their days hunting animals and killing them, but then so do Rentokil blokes. Sadly hunting isn’t that different in principle to super-common bloodsports like hare coursing and dog fighting, although maybe they’d get a PR boost if everyone wore jodhpurs and sipped sherry while two pitbulls try to eat each other.

Posh Spice

She was indeed posh – compared to Mels B and C. She looked posh – but the illusion was shattered when she opened her mouth. This didn’t happen too often because the rest of the band did the heavy lifting on the singing front, preferring to keep Posh’s pop talents confined to striding around the stage self-importantly.

Plug-in air fresheners

Sandalwood and jasmine sound posh, and so does vanilla blossom. But don’t be fooled. Plug-in air fresheners are strictly for the aspirational working class. Although given the rising cost of electricity, poshos with vast inherited wealth might soon be the only ones who can afford to run them, like having a Savile Row tailor or owning a horse.

Pre-grated cheese

It’s such a luxury, only well-heeled people must eat pre-grated cheese, right? No. It’s actually for lazy and drunk people, and the upper classes don’t eat cheese on toast at 1am after coming in from a pub crawl that ended with Jagerbombs and pissing in a bin in Croydon town centre. 

A dishwasher

Dishwashers are for the middle classes. The only kind of dishwasher you’ll find in a genuinely posh house is one from Italy or Portugal and called Sofia or Beatriz, who gets paid minimum wage and has to sleep in the attic before getting up at 6am to prepare breakfast for the whole family.

Jacob Rees-Mogg

‘Jacob’ only pretends to be an aristocrat and it’s all an act. He was actually born the seventh of nine feral children in a terraced council house with a broken fridge in the front garden. He made his fortune in the scrap metal trade, not hedge funds, and lives in fear of people finding out his real name is Jay Tyson Boggs.