Was there ever an image that encapsulated the essence of Starmer quite like this?

He’s the kind of bully who gets off on punching down and then folds when faced with someone with a bit more clout.

Apparently, a pro-Palestinian pressure group has broken into an RAF base and zipped around on e-scooters, spraying red paint onto airplanes. It merits a criminal damage charge and compensation. Probably community service spent cleaning it all off.

The group has however been banned as a terrorist organisation.

Kapow! Holy bonkers, Batman!

Surely the base commander is the one who needs a monumental kicking for not preventing easy access to the apparently eye-wateringly pricey, hi-tech gear? We should perhaps be thankful it was a couple of tossers whizzing about flinging Dulux rather than a team of Commandos rocking up with rucksacks crammed with C4.

More posturing and grandstanding from a Labour administration which is cosplaying through a national decline.

While the country is in seemingly terminal freefall, our MPs have spent over seven months debating assisted suicide.

Seven months.

A cost-of-living and unemployment crisis? They wouldn’t know where to start, and why would we think they would or would even want to? They are all zillionaires sucking relentlessly on the expenses teat while sneeringly happyslapping the populace.

Perhaps someone should tell them that medical staff have been forever cranking up the morphine with the consent of patients and their families on order to humanely accelerate the coming to Jesus.

Spolier alert: terminally ill patients under the care of doctors don’t get autopsied.

While permitted euthenasia is a fact of life, the wanker social democrats of shitehawk Labour can’t resist the opportunity to tell the masses what’s best for them. They really do despise us.

Pioneering all this crud has been the (im)poster girl of the centrist tryst, Quim Beaneater, sister of Jo Cox, whose Batley batshite anti-British babbling was a form of assisted suicide in itself.

That interpretative dance of the Labour experience, choreographed by Britain First, was arguably her finest performance and one now being metaphorically played out by the electorate.

The Mighty Quim, gifted the hardest demeanour outside UFC and a face an alpinist could hammer crampons into, is of course unassailable parliamentary royalty, plonking her misshapen barn-door jacksie on the plush green leather under some naff Poundland plaque commemorating the day the muzak died.

What better person to wheel out fronting this abject tosh to take the sting out of the fraught emotional ding-dong?

Is there another sibling who can pick up the torch, go invisible, and then trouser a mega MP salary for doing sod all once Labour has been dropkicked into oblivion?

I’m sure one of the family will have a stab at it or give it a shot.

It’s what Jo would have wanted.