Oh, Jeremy Corbyn. Dear, dear Jeremy. The man who looked like he’d been knitted by a well-meaning auntie—grey beard, wonky glasses, and that eternal cagoule, as if he’d just wandered off an allotment with a trowel in one hand and a copy of Das Kapital in the other.
A man who, for a brief, terrifying moment, convinced a chunk of Britain that he was the messiah of fairness, the patron saint of the downtrodden, the allotment-tending grandad who’d fix it all with a cup of tea and a nationalised railway. What a spectacle he was. Socialism in a student hoodie, reeking of patchouli and unwashed idealism, strutting onto the stage of British politics like a geography teacher who’d accidentally stumbled into a revolution. And thank the heavens—those same heavens he’d probably tax for being too lofty—that Britain, in a rare moment of clarity, told him to sod off.
Corbynism, you see, wasn’t just a political platform. It was a cult, a fever dream, a middle-class tantrum dressed up as compassion. It was the politics of people who’ve never built a damn thing—never run a business, never balanced a budget, never so much as assembled an IKEA shelf without weeping into the instructions—telling everyone else how to run everything. It was a philosophy built on the charming notion that if you’ve got more than your neighbor, you must’ve stolen it, and the solution is to tax it, seize it, and wreck it, all while wearing a beatific smile that says, “I’m doing this for the poor, you know.”
Free housing, free uni, free money—oh, what a Marxist Santa Claus he was, promising gifts for all, with no sleigh, no reindeer, and certainly no plan to pay for it. The magic of Corbynism was that it didn’t need pesky things like arithmetic. Why bother with numbers when you’ve got moral superiority? Why worry about economics when you can just print money until the presses catch fire? Venezuela tried that, by the way. Now they’re eating their pets. But let’s not spoil the fairy tale with facts.
Let’s talk about Jeremy himself for a moment, shall we? The man who grew up in a Shropshire manor—yes, a manor, with ivy on the walls and cars in the drive that weren’t held together with duct tape—yet somehow styled himself as the voice of the working class. The hypocrisy of the man is so thick you could spread it on your crumpets. Here’s a chap who’s never known a day of real struggle in his life, a privately educated son of a mathematics teacher and an engineer, who decided to spend his days sipping herbal tea with terrorists while sneering at the very idea of Britain.
Patriotism? To Corbyn, that was just racism with a Union Jack. Unless, of course, you were waving a Palestinian flag—then you were a hero, a freedom fighter, a comrade in arms. Never mind the grooming gangs he stood silent on, the Islamists he sucked up to, the antisemitism that festered under his watch like a bad rash. No, Jeremy was too busy kneeling to Hamas while giving the side-eye to anyone wearing a poppy. A snapshot of Corbynism? It’s a man who’d rather hug a Hezbollah operative than salute a British soldier. And we nearly made him Prime Minister. I need a drink.
But the real poison of Corbynism wasn’t just its leader’s sanctimonious posturing. It was the ideology itself—a socialism so pure, so untainted by reality, that it could only survive in the petri dish of a university seminar. It didn’t love the poor; it needed them, like a vampire needs a neck. Keep them dependent, keep them angry, keep them voting red. Aspiration? That was the enemy. Success? A crime. If you dared to want more, to work harder, to climb the greasy pole of life, Corbynism was there to yank you back down, whispering, “Not so fast, comrade—we’re all in the gutter together, and we’re staying there.”
It loathed Britain, despised its history, and saw its institutions as punching bags for every grievance under the sun. The monarchy? Trash it. The army? Gut it. The markets? Let them collapse under the weight of a thousand nationalisations. Open the borders, empty the coffers, and watch the country burn, all while chanting, “This is fairness!” It wasn’t fairness. It was control. It wasn’t opportunity. It was obedience. And behind every smiling, Lenin-quoting grandad was a mob ready to torch Britain to the ground just to feel morally superior for five minutes.
Imagine, if you will, a Britain under Corbyn. Picture it: a land of open borders where the population swells faster than the NHS waiting lists, a market so collapsed that even the rats are on the dole, an army so gutted that we’d be defending ourselves with pitchforks and harsh language. The monarchy? Gone, replaced by a People’s Committee for the Redistribution of Crown Jewels. We’d be Venezuela in a cagoule, queuing for bread while Jeremy, from his newly nationalised manor, lectures us on the virtues of sharing. Inflation would hit numbers so high you’d need a wheelbarrow to buy a pint, and the only thing growing faster than the national debt would be Piers Corbyn’s conspiracy theories. It’s a dystopia so bleak that even Orwell would’ve said, “Steady on, mate.” And yet, in 2017, he came close. Too close. The man who couldn’t win a raffle nearly won the keys to Number 10. Britain, you dodged a bullet. A big, red, hammer-and-sickle-shaped bullet.
But here’s the rub, the bitter twist in this tale of near-misses and national sanity: we dodged Corbyn only to sleepwalk into something even worse. Enter Keir Starmer, the Fabian human rights lawyer who spent his career defending Britain’s enemies, now playing Prime Minister like a man who’s just discovered the instruction manual but can’t find the on switch. Starmer, the man who makes Corbyn look like a beacon of transparency—at least with Jeremy, you knew what you were getting: a bearded catastrophe in a flat cap. Starmer? He’s a shapeshifter, a man so devoid of principle that he makes a weather vane look resolute.
He campaigned as a moderate, a safe pair of hands, only to govern like a man who’s been taking notes from Corbyn’s playbook in secret. National insurance hikes, welfare cuts, a Labour Party that feels less Labour and more like a Kafkaesque nightmare—Starmer’s Britain is a joyless slog, a place where voters are abandoning ship faster than you can say “Reform UK.” Labour MPs are in despair, activists are vanishing, and the Red Wall is crumbling faster than a sandcastle at high tide. We thought we’d escaped the abyss with Corbyn’s defeat, but Starmer’s dragged us into a different one—a grey, soulless pit where the only thing nationalised is misery.
So here we are, Britain, in 2025, looking back at the bullet we dodged and the quicksand we stumbled into instead. Corbynism was poison, yes—a toxic brew of envy, control, and economic illiteracy that would’ve turned Britain into a socialist wasteland. But Starmer’s Labour? It’s a slow-acting venom, a death by a thousand cuts, a government so uninspiring that even the pigeons in Trafalgar Square have stopped showing up.
We rejected Corbyn because, deep down, we still remembered who we were: a nation of pragmatists, dreamers, and doers who don’t take kindly to being lectured by a man who thinks “profit” is a dirty word. But Starmer? He’s made us forget who we are, lulling us into a stupor of mediocrity while the country creaks at the seams. We survived the Corbyn cult, but the Starmer experiment might just finish us off. Pass the gin, darling—I’m going to need a double.