Keir Starmer is a very rum package. His body and his manner seem to belong to different organisms. His physique is martial, sturdy, invincible. The square jaw, the trunk-like neck, the unsettlingly symmetrical face, the blue but eerily lifeless eyes. But his personality has no trace of manliness at all. He seems grannyish, nervy, over-delicate, like an unobtrusive footman who finds himself lord of the manor following a paternity test.
There’s something about him that doesn’t ring true. His voice is like the creak of a door in a chapel of rest. But he’s an effective debater. He enjoys using statistics to inflict horrors on his opponent. Today, he unleashed himself against the Prime Minister. Last week, Boris had suffered a corona shambles. He needed a convincing win.
Starmer began by quoting the government’s advice on 12 March that predicted that the infection wouldn’t reach care homes.
‘No,’ said Boris, confidently, ‘it wasn’t true that the advice said that.
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