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The reason Keir Starmer is protecting the grooming gangs? He is their kingpin

By Abigail Pennson, our reasonable, plain-speaking middle-class columnist who has challenged ‘Sir’ Sadiq Khan to a duel

WHO is Keir Starmer protecting so steadfastly, with his refusal to grant the inquiry requested by Elon Musk on X? Jeremy Corbyn? Prince Andrew? No. Himself. 

Because there can be no doubt this is a cover-up. Why else? What other reason could there be for not following up the previous two enquiries with a new enquiry? 

Any rational leader would do what the opposition requested at once. But instead slimy Starmer, squamous as a stoat, claimed his personal involvement in the case gave him greater knowledge of it than the world’s richest man. As if. 

It was when I heard those words ‘personal involvement’ that the penny dropped. At first I’d assumed he was just protecting Corbyn, his idol. If I thought any white North London celebrity was behind the grooming gangs, my money was on Pip Schofield. 

But when I realised Starmer himself was heading the DPP while these monsters escaped scot-free, apart from those who were convicted and served long sentences, suddenly it became clear. He wasn’t just covering up their crimes. He was central to them. 

A picture developed in my mind; a picture which I am happy to submit as evidence. Starmer on a throne in Rotherham, which I pictured as a gigantic rubbish dump where a black rain falls. Giving orders to his lieutenants. Reaping the profits. 

Yes, even Elon Musk’s ten-day investigation – doesn’t sound much but he doesn’t sleep and is never offline – hadn’t uncovered this truth. That, like in the documentary film Zootropolis (2016), the respectable politician was the villain all along. 

The UK authorities won’t arrest him, of course. Too woke. The only solution is for a US Special Forces team, ideally the ones who shot Bin Laden, to raid Downing Street and terminate with extreme prejudice. With Trump soon in power it’s a certainty. 

So worry not, patriots. Our prime minister will soon be executed by agents of a foreign power. They’ll put in a puppet, we all know who, in charge of a military government subservient to United States interests and Elon’s tweets. 

It’s what we would have voted for if it was only on the ballot. Consider my X yours. 

Six new sexual positions to try if you hate yourself

LIKE the high notes in the Wicked soundtrack, some feats are best left to professionals. But if you’re chasing a blast of bedroom self-loathing to kick off the year, try these: 

The Reflector

Banging in front of a full-length mirror is enough to break even the most empowered and body-shame-free f**ker on the planet, especially post-Christmas. You won’t take in your girlfriend’s body from bold new angles; you’ll be staring in horror as your own tummy does that folding thing that looks like a pack of raw sausages.

Wall Sex Challenge

Like the pilates one on Instagram, except you’re starkers with your tits flopping down and your husband there witnessing your humiliation. There can be no room for romance or allure as you attempt to support your entire body weight in an upside-down plank. He must be forgiven for losing his boner as you cry ‘Just wedge it in!’ through tears.

The Post-Takeaway Minefield

Understandably, six days in, the 2025 healthy eating regime has given way to a Nando’s Jumbo Platter. And you’re both too high on bowel gas and PERi-PERi to realise that sex will be catastrophic. Even manoeuvring your ballooning gut into missionary is a challenge and all you’ll be swallowing are burps.

Shower Standing Split

As if standing legs spread in a shower isn’t enough of a challenge, try shagging with visions of having to present at A&E explaining a difficult penile injury racing through the head. If by some new year miracle you do manage to get her leg up past hip-height, the only revelation is that she’s not shaved since Christmas Eve.

The Tantric Hold

Marketed as a spiritual experience by Sting, you don’t have his surgeon. So cramp kicks in after 45 seconds of your knee making that clicking sound you’ve been ignoring for a decade. It’s no wonder the Buddha left the wheel of karma if this is how he had to f**k.

The Great Chair Massacre

Really got you both going when you saw it pictured, but having to refer to a phone to get it right is, oddly, a passion-killer. ‘Your leg goes here… No, under not over… Twist to the left.’ While wondering if your home insurance covers sex-related furniture damage, you will fake a desultory orgasm which ends the pain for everyone.

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