By Abigail Pennson, our reasonable, plain-speaking middle-class columnist who has hated Venezuelans ever since one gazumped her on a house
HE pretended he wasn’t interested. ‘Brexit?’ he said, disingenuously, ‘Why on earth should I stage an entire election just to sexually violate that?’
‘Come on,’ he adds. ‘As if I would go to the trouble of running as Labour leader, reshaping the party, creating attractive though unworkable policies and becoming prime minister, to get unrestricted, unsupervised access to Brexit?’ The drool on his chin giving him away.
Oh, he knows. He’s bided his time: pretending he loved it, accepting it like a gay son, acting like he was indifferent to its sovereign charms. All the while consumed with his lust, envy and murderous intent.
Because ‘Sir’ Keir Starmer – that title’s going the same way as Andy’s – is a serial killer. And like all of his aberrant kind, his obsession with his victim is coupled with the urge to defile, despoil and end it.
He knows Brexit, once the apple of the nation’s eye, is neglected. Shoved into a remote outbuilding like a puppy on Boxing Day. He’s already given it a few preliminary roughings-up to see if anyone noticed. And now he’s planned himself a little Christmas treat.
When we’re all distracted watching the repeat of Gavin & Stacey, agreeing solemnly that fat people deserve each other, he will sneak out. Vaseline in one hand. Bridle in the other. Red, throbbing, bolt-hard.
Then he’ll take it. Mount it and not the right way either. Ride its pink ass, savouring its blind, terrified squeals, until he gets his satisfaction. And then do it again and again.
For that was this pervert’s plan all along. To bugger our Brexit senseless. His eyes bulging, his face red as the beetroot a family farm can no longer profitably grow, his tongue lolling out. And then to pick up a sledgehammer, raise it high, and murder it.
To be clear, none of the above is in the least metaphorical. I genuinely believe Keir Starmer intends to sodomise Brexit.
