When I said Liz Truss looked like a budgie pecking a mirror, I meant she was bloody brilliant

By Abigail Pennson, our reasonable, plain-speaking middle-class columnist slightly to the right of Hitler

LIZ Truss? Won’t hear a word against her. A brilliant stateswoman, a towering intellect, and the right choice for leader. Last week’s column backing Mordaunt was written by an intern.

The comparison of Liz Truss to an old lady’s budgerigar delightedly pecking a mirror, in love with its own reflection but never deep-down sure it’s not another budgie? That was a misprint.

The claim that she looks like the villain of a young adult movie whose neck is broken but rises up, possessed by ineffectual evil, to stagger across the room? Inaccurate copy edits.

And when I said she resembled Lady Penelope from Thunderbirds, ‘a doddery, plastic-faced puppet unable to walk across a room convincingly whose chauffeur does all the fucking work’? There are a number of ways you can interpret that. I meant it positively.

All that stuff about Penny Mordaunt being the greatest leader ever to stride this earth? I was joking. She’s nothing to me now. Her fake naval service, her pathetic belly-flop and those ridiculous silicone tits. She’s no better than Katie Price.

It was a mere infatuation. Unlike my passion for Liz, which ignited not two hours hence and burns with the same clear, steady unchanging flame as the grave of Elvis.

The reincarnation of Margaret Thatcher, Truss was born to pull the levers of power. Why else would she feel so entitled to the job that she doesn’t even try to sell herself?

Media interviews? Assassination attempts by Communists? Why do those, when the British people can judge Liz purely on her outfits, her fixed grin, her proud record of trade deals with Ecuador and the Faroe Islands?

Liz Truss is our next prime minister. No other choice is possible. I have always said that, and always will.

And should Rishi win? I’ll be up his arse faster than a greased ferret on amphetamines.

Let's move to the arsehole between the rosy cheeks of Devon and Cornwall! This week: Plymouth

What’s it about?

Famous for the Pilgrims, Sir Francis Drake and Scott of the Antarctic, this seafaring city’s best-known sons made their names by getting the fuck out. Today it boasts five universities, an aquarium, a lighthouse and lower than average life expectancy.

The only city in a hinterland of thatched cottages, cream teas, and fuck-off rich Londoners with second homes, Plymouth therefore has all the shit stuff and a massive Naval base. So any night out answers the question ‘What should we do with the drunken sailor?’ with ‘stay out of his fucking way or he’ll lamp you’.

Any good points?

If you’ve got a thing for boats, get ready to jizz. There’s a Naval Heritage Museum, a Naval Memorial, a Dive Museum and more marinas than you can shake a semen-smeared sextant at. A museum called The Box has fourteen ships’ figureheads so that’s going straight in the wank bank.

Back on dry land a former Toys R Us building counts for local heritage and there’s also a gin distillery, just like everywhere else. This one’s older though.

Also has the closest thing to a football team for two whole counties, Plymouth Argyle, who play in glamorous League One. Mainly exists to force supporters of rival teams to travel hundreds of miles for away games that are very much not worth it.

Wonderful landscapes?

Best described as ‘aspirational’ in the sense that, whichever way you look, you can see places loads better than Plymouth. But you don’t need to gaze across the Channel to get into the Pilgrim mindset. Simply look at one of the many shuttered takeaways to see the appeal of a two-month sea voyage into the complete unknown.

Today, Plymouth is a city daubed with fifty shades of grey. Bombed by the Germans in World War Two, it lost many of its heritage buildings and apparently all of its architects. This has resulted in a rash of brutal design – not brutalisme, just fucking brutal.

Hang out at…

In days gone by sailors pressganged themselves to get away from Plymouth’s docks but now a brisk walk, eyes down, and you’ll make it through. Pour out a half for The Avondale Arms, once featured on Britain’s Toughest Pubs. These days it’s a shadow of its former, terrifying self and you’d be lucky to witness even one argument spill over into senseless violence.

Union Street is the Sunset Strip with snakebite and black instead of speedballs. It’s the only place for Plymouth’s elite amateur MMA fighters to hit and be hit.

For a less authentic experience try The Barbican. There are pubs and restaurants, cobbled streets and a general feeling that you’re somewhere better.

Where to buy?

Mutley, home to much of Plymouth’s student population, offers a whispered promise of gentrification. But what a gamble! Best case: you’ve contributed to housing unaffordability. Worst case: you live in a shitbox in a place called Mutley.

Camel’s Head might sound like a euphemism for impending trouser disaster, but the area is much worse than that. And next to Camel’s Head is Swilly. Swilly is now properly known as North Prospect, like when an airline changes its name after a fatal crash. But nobody’s fooled.

From the streets:

Tom Logan, aged 23: “I like to get the ferry to Brittany. Though you don’t see many French people coming the other way. Weird.”

Sophie Rodriguez, aged 18: “Are we in Devon or are we in Cornwall? Because neither of them are claiming us.”