I see your square and carefully presented head, all sharp lines and steel, like you’ve been carefully hammered into life by a blacksmith trying to launch a line of impossibly masculine sex dolls. I see you on the TV, calm and composed, dealing in those bothersome facts that are so unpopular these days. You’re a rare breed, Keir Starmer, a British politician in 2019 who comes across like he actually understands the complicated legal intricacies of Brexit rather than blurting out jingoistic dogma. You’re drier than a gusset full of cream crackers when Philip Green walks into a room but to have someone – anyone – in parliament who comes across like they actually have a vague clue what the fuck they’re doing is in this day and age so refreshing it’s practically a Calippo enema.
Even in a political environment so toxic and polarised that the two sides are screaming at each other across the void, there’s a begrudging respect shown your way by the opposition. Even those that write off Corbyn as a wooly fantasist seem to accept at least a little that you know what you’re doing; you’re an established legal expert with genuine pedigree, a knight who’s uncomfortable with titles, and a politician who recognised his own inexperience and refused a climb straight to the top when it was suggested to him. You’re quiet, stoic, diligent and meticulous, four words that when applied to Boris Johnson would physically cause his skin to melt and pull his organs out via osmosis. You didn’t back Corbyn from the start but now he’s here you accept his position and throw your weight behind Labour as a whole, a strategy so alien to his many detractors that they can’t even begin to contemplate it.
In short, Keir Starmer? There’s now a job to be done, an olive branch stretched out across the political divide, and you’re the only man for the job.
I see you, Keir Starmer, lying in your perfectly dressed and tucked bed in your carefully ironed pyjamas. I hear the alarm go off, Sonny and Cher blaring across the radio as you reach across and switch it off. I see you brush your teeth, knot your tie, carefully comb your hair with all the precision of a military operation.
I see you walk with confidence into the briefing room, Theresa May smiling at you with all the warmth she can muster. Corbyn might put her badger’s hackles up but for you, Keir Starmer? For you she might just compromise. She might just wash some of the ink out of those red lines.
I feel the day tick away, your composure never rattled as that hope wears thinner and thinner. I see you thumb the pages of your folder full of solutions, each of them a possibility dashed against the rocks of May’s stubbornness. Ah well. She was never going to budge on day one, was she? Time for rest, time for bed, and you’ll start again in the morning.
I see you, Keir Starmer, lying in your perfectly dressed and tucked bed in your carefully ironed pyjamas. I hear the alarm go off, Sonny and Cher blaring across the radio as you reach across and switch it off. I see you blink, a strange and vague feeling of deja vu washing over you. I see you brush your teeth, your fingers hesitating as you knot your tie. I hear you tut as you struggle to tame your hair with a comb.
I see you walk with confidence into the briefing room, Theresa May smiling at you with all the warmth she can muster. I see you pause in the doorway, feeling the weight of the briefcase in your hand.
I feel the day tick away, a knot forming in your stomach as you try to piece together just what it is that’s bothering you. Haven’t you been here before? It certainly feels familiar. Here she is, as unwavering and unwilling as ever, insisting it’s her deal or bust. Ah well. She was never going to budge on day one, was she? Time for rest, time for bed, and you’ll start again in the morning.
I see you, Keir Starmer, sitting bolt upright in your perfectly dressed and tucked bed in your carefully ironed pyjamas. I hear the alarm go off, Sonny and Cher blaring across the radio as you grab for it, smashing it to a thousand frantic pieces on the bedside table. I smell the funk of your breath and can see the nervous sweat running down your temples.
It just never ends, Keir Starmer. She’ll never change. Never waver. It. Never. Ends.
I see you, Keir Starmer. I fucking see you.
