The Filth of It All: Starmer, Rape Gangs, and the Media Shitstorm

This country’s drowning in its own bile, and I’m wading through the sludge of X today, trying not to puke. The signal-to-noise ratio is so fucked it’s like trying to hear a whisper in a chainsaw factory. Here’s the raw truth, stripped of the tabloid glitter and patriot posturing: Keir Starmer, that beige wallpaper of a man, actually did something right. Yeah, I know, it’s hard to believe. My liver’s still processing the shock.

Months back, Starmer tells this Casey woman—some kind of no-nonsense investigator type—to take a look at the rape gang mess. You know, that festering wound of a scandal that’s been rotting for years. Her first skim? “Looks clean enough, no need to dig deeper.” Starmer, being the cautious, cardigan-wearing bureaucrat he is, takes her at her word, shuts down calls for a new inquiry, and gets his party whip to keep the MPs in line. Fine. Procedural. Dull as dishwater, but fine.

Then Casey comes back, months later, with a full report. Surprise, surprise: the original investigation was about as thorough as a drunk’s Tinder profile. Holes everywhere, shoddy work, the kind of half-arsed job that lets monsters slip through. So Starmer, to his credit—and I don’t say that lightly—does a 180 and announces a proper investigation into the rape gangs. That’s it. That’s the story. Simple, straightforward, and dare I say, the right fucking move.

But oh no, this is 2025, and the truth doesn’t get to breathe before it’s smothered in a pile of steaming media shit. The tabloids, those click-hungry vultures, are screeching about “U-turns” and “flip-flops” like Starmer’s some spineless opportunist. They barely mention Casey’s report, because why let facts get in the way of a juicy headline? Meanwhile, the X feeds are a goddamn circus of plastic patriots and self-styled martyrs jerking off to their own outrage. “Coverup!” they scream, like trained parrots with Union Jack tattoos. Reform, Tories, every grifter with a keyboard—they’re all piling on, claiming credit for “forcing” Starmer’s hand. Even that pint-sized conman, the one who’s always playing the victim card, is out here crowing, “I can take a break now.” Break from what? Tweeting himself into a frenzy? Get fucked.

These clowns were baying for an inquiry. They got one. Casey read the files, found the rot, and Starmer acted. But are they happy? Are they hell. They’re still screaming, still flooding the feeds with conspiracy porn and bad-faith takes. It’s not about justice for them—it’s about clout, clicks, and keeping the outrage machine humming. The truth? Nobody gives a shit about the truth when there’s a culture war to be won.

Starmer’s no hero. He’s about as exciting as a tax return. But credit where it’s due: he’s delivering. He listened, he adjusted, he acted. That’s more than you can say for the screeching mob on X or the hacks peddling their half-baked narratives. Wake up, you brain-dead scrollers. The world’s burning, and you’re too busy retweeting lies to notice.

This is Spider Thompson, signing off, because I need a drink and a shower after swimming in this digital sewer.