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Light at end of tunnel is that I'll stop being a twat, promises Starmer

THE prime minister has promised there is light at the end of the tunnel and it is that he will cease being a penny-pinching prick before the next election. 

In his speech at the Labour party conference, Starmer told Britain that he is only being a total arsehole now so he can surprise you with his kind-hearted generosity later.

He continued: “You’ve seen it in films, yes? Where the miserable old curmudgeon warms to the honest, fresh-faced child and opens his heart and wallet for a happy ending?

“Well, that same predictable story is about to unfold across the tapestry of a nation and four years. It’s just we’re in the long, dark, hopeless bit which I’m imposing on you for dramatic effect.

“Next year will be rough. I’d write off 2026 as well, honestly. 2027 you’ll be seeing a few glimmers and beginning to think ‘maybe this Starmer fellow isn’t so bad after all.’ By 2028 the drinks are on me, and by May the year after I’m your best f**king mate.

“Regretfully, we cannot reach this hard-won rapprochement without my being an utter bastard for the next two years. I will take heating from pensioners, benefits from the sick and toys from babies. I’m going to stamp on you until hope is a dirty word.”

Voter Nathan Muir said: “Always good to know we’ve got years of officially scheduled misery ahead. That way there’s no surprises.”

A confused millennial tries to… get by on one full-time job

By Josh Gardner, who blames his parents for not making him a nepo baby

LIKE most of my generation I have what, four, five jobs? No, six. Actually counting the dealing seven. Each a more precarious side hustle than the last.

When I’m not doing my shifts at the call centre, the bar, the other bar, selling tattoo designs on DeviantArt or Twitch streaming, I’m flipping my vintage clothes on Vinted for a profit pitched just barely above the delivery fees.

It sounds very cool and spiritually fulfilling, but it’s actually hard work. So, like a total Boomer, I thought I’d try a full-time job. Become an NPC.

Imagine it: clocking into an office at 9am, busily typing away until lunchtime then powering through until 5pm. As a concept it’s as wholesome and quaint as a Sylvanian Families playset or a commemorative Princess Diana Beanie Baby, but people used to do it.

At the interview the guy – I guess you’d call him my ‘boss’ – said it wasn’t an office but family. Green flag! And pretty sure he said we’d have unlimited holidays. I’d be living the pre-2008 financial crisis dream in no time.

But, as a fortnight limped by, this dream turned into a nightmare. Because what nobody told me was jobs are cringe. And stressful. I was asked to work past my contracted hours without compensation and my lunchtime streaming sessions were unfairly banned.

I kept on through it, head down, focused on my reward. Then I got paid and it was f**k all.

After taxes, pension contributions and something called National Insurance I think Rishi brought in, it was worthless. I asked if it would be more if they paid in Bitcoin, but no.

I had a choice. I could climb the corporate ladder while my soul was quietly dismantled, or I could slip back into a life of fairly similar poverty that sounds cooler when people ask what I do.

Eventually I settled on the latter because all the girls I fancy on Tinder claim to be Marxists. But don’t let my new-found Communism stop you from chucking a couple hundred quid into my Ko-fi. Rent’s due.

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