Oh, what a spectacle we’ve been served today, courtesy of the House of Commons—a tragicomedy so bleak it might make even Dante weep into his cornflakes. Once upon a time, Britain was the sort of nation that nursed the sick, shielded the weak, and stood sentinel at life’s fragile edges with a stiff upper lip and a cup of tea. Now? We’re debating whether to turn doctors into grim reapers and the state into a soulless abattoir, all under the sanctimonious banner of “dignity in dying.” Spare me the legislative silk; this is bureaucratised euthanasia, a bill so drenched in despair it could drown a nation’s soul.
Let’s strip away the euphemisms, shall we? This Terminally Ill Adults (End of Life) Bill—bless its cold, calculating heart—proposes that some lives are simply too tiresome to sustain. The criteria? Terminal illness, a six-month countdown, a nod to “mental competence” (as if a panel of psychiatrists could weigh a soul), and a rubber stamp from two doctors in a fortnight. Death, dispensed like a prescription for indigestion. Progress, they call it. I call it a surrender to the abyss, orchestrated by a Labour government so inept, so craven, so utterly undeserving of the reins of power that it might as well be a troupe of clowns juggling Molotov cocktails.
And who’s the ringmaster of this dismal circus? Step forward, Keir Starmer—oh, what a pitiful figure you cut, you hollowed-out husk of a leader. With your sanctimonious smirk and your poll-driven cowardice, you’ve turned Westminster into a mausoleum of moral bankruptcy. This is your legacy, Keir: you are a man so devoid of spine that you'd sign away the elderly, the disabled, the defeated, all while preening about compassion. Compassion? It’s a license to kill, wrapped in your clammy hands. Autonomy? A blank cheque for violence against the divine spark in every human, scribbled by a Prime Minister who couldn’t find principle with a map and a flashlight. Control? You’re not controlling life or death—you’re controlling the timetable, as if you, Keir, were some petty godling with a clipboard, too timid to face the messiness of existence.
It begins, as these things always do, with the tear-jerking tale—the terminal diagnosis, the public sob story, the earnest plea. But mark my words, it ends with coercion, corruption, and a cultural drift from care to killing, all under your watch, you spineless architect of decline. Today it’s six months to live; tomorrow it’s mental distress. Today it’s choice; tomorrow it’s expectation. Today it’s terminal illness; tomorrow it’s “too much of a burden.” The slope isn’t slippery—it’s a greased chute, engineered by a government too cowardly to build a society worth living in.
Look to Belgium, where they’ve taken to euthanising teenagers with the casual efficiency of a factory line, or Canada, where the disabled are offered death when your ideological kin refuse them a roof. This isn’t theory; it’s a ledger of shame, and you, Keir, with your vacant stare and your Ipsos-approved approval ratings, are scribbling the next entry. A society that no longer believes in truth, nation, or life itself—why should we expect restraint from you? What once was sacred is now situational, thanks to your fumbling, unworthy stewardship. What once was duty is now “choice,” a word you wield like a dagger while hiding behind parliamentary procedure.
This isn’t modernity, Keir—it’s moral collapse, and you’re its poster boy, a man so tragically unfit for power that you'd dignify death as an answer to suffering rather than muster the courage to offer support. What civilisation boasts of preserving statues while signing away its most vulnerable? What state, under your flaccid leadership, trades its dignity for a vote count? When this bill passes—and oh, how it stings to predict it—something ancient will die in Britain, something no chamber, no court, no poll can resurrect. Not just life, but the very idea that life is worth the struggle, even at its bleakest.
And you, Keir Starmer, will stand there, hands wringing, as the door swings open to this power— a power the state will never relinquish, only expand. From that death, we may never recover, and the saddest part? It’s overseen by a government, and a man, too feeble, too craven, to deserve the name of leadership. Let the vote be cast. Let the Commons wail. But know this: the soul of Britain slips away, and you, Keir, are its undertaker.