Can this washed-up mess of a government's sham reboot claw even a single sane vote back?

By Abigail Pennson, our reasonable, plain-speaking middle-class columnist who stands ready to shag Harry back to his senses

REBOOT? Jackboot, more like. Another stamp of Starmer’s Stalinist boot on the heart of this once-great nation. 

Collapsed and clutching at its chest, arteries blocked by years of working from home and Deliveroo, it needs resuscitation. What does it get instead? A working-over. A progressive pummelling. ‘And there’s more to come,’ snarls our prime minister.

Reboot? Who needs a reboot after five months except chronic failures and any PC running Windows Vista?

Like a restauranteur who realises his Columbian jazz fusion cafe is about to be exposed as a money-laundering front, like a golliwog-fronted British brand the woke have decided offends, like a Cotswolds-set BBC soap whose cast is inexplicably replaced by Samoans, this will fail.

Reboot? Refute, more like: every ideological belief Labour clung to refuted by luscious logic. Their bludgeoning budget, their legalisation of medical murder, all proven wrong.

Expect to see more of these reboots, resets and refreshes. Soon they’ll be flashing by faster than revisions to Rachel Reeves’s LinkedIn as Starmer, drowning in a reality he never encountered in a lifetime nursing on the public tit, flails to reconnect.

Let’s tell the truth: Labour didn’t win the election. Like a trans volleyball team playing in a girls’ school league, they triumphed by default. The Tories stood aside for Reform while Reform stood aside for the Tories and in their after-you politeness Labour squeaked home.

They didn’t win that one and they’ve already lost the next. Elon Musk personally gave Farage $100 million in used notes this week, quipping ‘Call it a down payment.’ Kemi’s already proposed marriage to Nigel to cement their union. It’s over.

When the reboots hit six a day, when every cabinet member has resigned for shamefully petty corruption – at least Tories know how to feed at a trough – a general election will be called. It doesn’t have to be by Labour.

And on that great day, the endless reboots will be given the boot in favour of honest, Trumpian government. Civil servants will be jailed and the weak deported. And on that day, finally, we can kick off our boots and run barefoot and free.

How to sneak in a shag in a house full of relatives, by the Mash sex columnist

CHRISTMAS approaches like a male orgasm – for all the fuss, essentially always the same and closely followed by depression. 

Until then it’s a time for joy, togetherness, and the buying of lacy bras. But how will you find time for physical love when crammed in a house full of family members?

Seize the moment

Use each and every distraction to your advantage: anything from The Snowman being on to a grandmother falling down the stairs. When a familiar sibling row begins about who’s more like Mum or Dad tries to hurry dinner along by turning the oven up 50 degrees, grab your wife and head upstairs for a quick stocking-filler.

Get everyone pissed

Christmas Day is always an alcohol-induced blackout, but push harder. A well-placed bottle of Amaretto should start the boozing at 11am, a tactless question about his ex-wife will have Uncle David draining the stouts, and reigniting old family rows will have everyone blotto by 2pm. On the 23rd. Turn up Shreck the Halls and slip off for a shag in the shed.

Clear the decks

Boxing Day? Tempt everyone out of the house. Tell Dad petrol was 6p cheaper at a garage 45 miles away, tell your brother-in-law there’s a gathering of like-minded miserable bastards at the local pub, and tell your sister the bathroom extractor fan whisks away the smoke of a crafty fag in seconds. Fetch the spray cream from the overflow fridge, you’ve got the place to yourselves!

Lose your shit

It’s family at Christmas: a tantrum is expected. Accuse your brother of cheating at Pictionary and/or your parents of loving him more and stomp off upstairs. While everyone discusses how you’ve always been a hysterical bitch, your boyfriend can pop up to ‘check you’re okay’ and slip a pig into your blanket while he’s about it.

Do the rounds

There are neighbours to regift an out-of-date panettone, old school friends begging for a catch-up, and of course your girlfriend would love to see the park where you used to drink as a teenager. So you must pop out for an hour or two, an hour blissfully spent exchanging oral while parked behind the church hall. Nobody will think to look there.

Don’t

The stress of being trapped in a tinsel prison while being force-fed buffet is not conducive to desire. There’s nothing like a game of Boggle to leave your fanny as dry as yesterday’s turkey and his cock as ready to go as a grandparent asleep in front of a Bond film. Forget it. Get your kicks from the Gregg’s Christmas advert with Nigella instead.