Children at state schools fling dung for a living. My nice children deserve better

By Abigail Pennson, our reasonable, plain-speaking middle-class columnist who would die for Kate, no questions asked

IF your child attends a comprehensive school, you have given up on them. You have decided hosing shit off roads for a job is all they can aspire to. And I respect that. 

When you condemn children to a classroom that closely resembles a prison riot, with faeces-smeared walls and teachers who got a single E at A-level in Social Justice Studies, you have accepted they cannot be educated. Good. There will always be jobs for them.

But my children, and the children of tens of thousands like me, deserve better. They would not flourish having their heads stamped on. Being stuffed into burning lockers while being beaten with cricket bats would make them cry.

For us, there are two choices: grammar school, of which a scant few survived the Soviet purges of Harold Macmillan’s Red Brigades, or private school. Simply because we have hopes for our children that rise above their severing chickens’ heads for a living.

We make sacrifices. We scrimp, we save, we register ourselves as corporations to cheat the taxman. All because we want our little ones on the right path in life. And now Keir Starmer, eyes glittering with class hatred, will take all that away.

By removing the VAT exemption private schools rightly enjoy he raises their prices. When the prices go up, the children come out. And so an entire generation is condemned to hell.

Through no fault of their own, some children are not academic. Private schools would selflessly send them to Oxbridge and into six-figure careers regardless. Grammar schools, with their Marxist belief that ability trumps background, will slam the door in their faces.

We face the terrifying spectre of nice children from detached houses being thrown into pits of snarling, cannibalistic subhumans, like in the third Batman movie.

It is not policy. It is mass murder. It will devastate this country like nothing since the Great War. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is Starmer’s Britain.

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​​Man unsure if he had nice evening or was just drunk

A MAN is unsure whether he had a great time last night or if he was just pissed, it has emerged.

Jack Browne initially believed his evening with girlfriend Lucy Parry was fun thanks to her wonderful company and the restaurant’s convivial ambience, but later began to suspect it was down to the bottle of wine and four pints he consumed.

Browne said: “I was actually in a bit of a mood when I arrived because Lucy had insisted we try a new tapas place and tapas gets on my tits. Why can’t I have a whole plate to myself?

“But the evening improved the more I drank. Lucy’s conversation became way more interesting after we’d drained the first bottle of rosé, and she was laughing a lot more at my jokes. The waiter wasn’t, but he must just have been a humourless bastard.

“After the meal we went to a pub, where the night continued to improve because we ended up nearly shagging in a cubicle in the ladies, until the barman came in and kicked us out.

“And we rounded things off with an argument at a bus stop, which I recall participating in with great enthusiasm. I’ve just received a message from Lucy saying ‘What a massive dick’, which could be taken either way so I’m going to chalk it up as a compliment.”