nofliesonme

Starmer is a managerial midwit. A brittle man of winter. A dead-eyed shark pushing ever forward towards his next grim, mechanical task. You could coax Shakespeare himself down from the heavens to tell him of all England’s beauty and he would only be annoyed that you had kept him from his busywork. He is a ruddy-faced nothing, an interloper. To call him a traitor flatters him, as the traitor surely has some sense of his own wrongdoing. Starmer lacks the imagination to arrive even at the foothills of his own wretchedness. His emptiness could fill entire stadia. He is the final form of managerial man, signing Britain’s death warrant before lunch and never thinking about it twice. To detest him is normal, yet pointless. Hatred slides off him like water off some cheap synthetic fabric. He is the blank-faced destroyer of joy, freedom and invention. He is death on prescription, equally distributed. He is nameless dread, the void, the negation that cannot be negated. He is the end of hope. In short, I am not a fan.