Hello? Over here, Keir. Yes, us. Remember us? The voters, the people who pay your wages? The people you claim to represent, the very people who utterly rejected you and your rotten, hopeless government last week?

The same people you now slander disgracefully as ‘far-Right’ by association because we had the audacity to vote for Reform UK?

The voters who according to you, a privileged, far-Left, tone-deaf North London human rights lawyer who has presided over an explosion of anti-Semitism and Islamism, are leading the country down a ‘dark path’?

How bloody dare you?

Under Starmer the neo-communist Greens and pro-Hamas extremist alliance has flourished and become a force in British politics for the first time.

Under Starmer, loyal, peaceful, law-abiding, taxpaying British Jews are forced to demonstrate outside Downing Street, in mortal fear for their own safety, while he appeases the vile pro-Gaza mob, bans arms sales to Israel and refuses to proscribe Iran’s Revolutionary Guard, actively sponsoring death on British streets.

I can’t imagine Mrs Thatcher or Tony Blair ever being booed on a visit to Golders Green. But they valued British Jews and weren’t constantly trying to appease militant Muslims in Labour constituencies (for all the good it did him last week).

Sorry, old son, but that’s what I call a ‘dark path’. And my instinct is that most of my readers would agree with me.

The other dark path Surkeir is leading us down involves imposing the highest industrial and domestic energy prices in history in pursuit of Miliband’s deranged Net Zero crusade. Then he wonders why there’s a cost-of-living crisis and Scunthorpe’s steelworks has to be renationalised.

Under Starmer, pubs and restaurants are closing every day as a direct result of Rachel From Complaints’ vindictive tax rises and Angry Ginge Rayner’s (I’ll get to her in a minute) ‘workers’ rights’ laws. Youth unemployment is soaring because of insane National Insurance increases, minimum wage rises and a ban on zero-hours contracts.

Add in the outrageous death taxes on British farmers and the class-hatred-driven imposition of ‘wealth’ taxes leading to an exodus of prosperity-and-jobs creators, and you don’t have to look far for the reasons behind last week’s massacre.

Yet just a few days after the most humiliating defeat in Labour’s history, the Prime Minister is doubling down, insisting he’s going nowhere.

His latest ‘reset’ speech is the stuff of Fantasy Island. Dead Man Walking doesn’t even come close.

I hear you, he says. No, he doesn’t, otherwise he’d have already got his coat and crawled off to his overpriced Kentish Town slum, down the road from the railway terrace where The Kinks filmed the video of Dead End Street.

Instead, he tells a sympathetic Sunday newspaper that he plans to stay in No 10 for the next ten years, even though he knows deep in the marrow of his bones that it ain’t gonna happen.

What do I keep telling you? A complete and utter lawyer.

The only reason he’ll still be there by the end of the week is because the alleged stalking horse stayed in her stable. Some woman MP you’ve never heard of – and I used to live in her constituency when it was called Hornsey and Wood Green – thought better of it when she realised that forcing an immediate leadership election might not deliver the result she wanted.

Back when John Major was struggling, there was talk of him facing a stalking horse candidate. I reckoned a real horse could beat him and invited readers of this column to ring in and vote for either Major or Red Rum.

Needless to say, Red Rum romped home. Never mind a real horse, today a clothes horse could beat Starmer.

Do all those dopey birds clapping like seals in the front row of yesterday’s press conference have any idea how ridiculous they looked?

Still, the people have spoken – the bastards. But it was back to business as usual in the Bubble.

Angry Ginge was on her hind legs at what used to be the annual seaside conference of the postmen’s union.

(Normally, I would have discussed this with Mike, my postman of 30 years, but he’s a West Ham fan so I thought discretion was the better part etc.)

Basically, she read out the statement she put out over the weekend, demanding a lurch to the Left. She even, hilariously, had a pop at the Peter Mandelson fiasco.

I say ‘hilariously’ because, as I may have mentioned, the only time I saw Ange in the flesh was when she was at the next table draped all over Mandelson, hanging on his every word like a lovesick schoolgirl.

Clearly, though, she’s given up her ambition to be PM in favour of ‘King of the North’ Andy Burnham. She obviously fancies herself as Queen of the North – even though almost every Labour councillor in her constituency lost their seats last week and she now nominates her flat in Hove, Actually, as her ‘main residence’ for stamp duty purposes.

(Incidentally, how long is it going to take for HMRC to investigate her failure to pay the correct amount of tax on the flat? Long enough to find her Not Guilty, I’d imagine.)

Ange’s speech to the posties was ample evidence of why she should never be allowed anywhere near the levers of power. She effectively blamed the Tories for getting herself pregnant at 16 and hailed John Prescott as her spiritual leader. If you’re reduced to citing Two Jags as a role model, the game really is up.

As for Burnham, if he really was King of the North, the Red Wall wouldn’t have voted turquoise in such vast numbers. They’d be gagging for him everywhere from Sunderland to Stockport. King of the North is one of those daft titles beloved of the Boys In The Bubble, like Mandelson’s ridiculous Prince of Darkness.

The truth about Burnham is that he has twice failed to become Labour leader and when he was Health Secretary tried to cover up the shameful deaths of up to 1,200 patients in the mid-Staff NHS scandal.

Which brings us to the current Bubble fave, Wes Streeting – a ‘moderate’ mate of Mandelson who is best known for wanting to push my Daily Mail colleague and friend Jan Moir under a train because he didn’t like something she’d written about a dead gay pop star I’d never heard of.

Nice people, this hashtag ‘be kind’ bunch. And anyway, at time of writing it looks as if Wes has bottled it.

Which brings us back to Surkeir. I’m afraid I missed his speech live because I was listening, like any sane person, to Ken Bruce’s Popmaster. I’d switched to Ken after Nick Ferrari on LBC, who fielded a call from the son of a Birmingham toolmaker who said his dad had told him he’d be astonished if Starmer’s old man had ever worked a lump of steel in his life.

As someone who covered a series of proper toolmakers’ strikes during my time in Brum, I’m inclined to agree.

I’ve never bought the idea of Starmer, a grant-aided grammar school boy, as the son of a horny-handed, working-class toiler. My info is that the dad owned the company.

Whatever his background, he has no empathy whatsoever with the people he purports to represent. How the hell he ever became Director of Public Prosecutions is a mystery to me. As I’ve been known to remark, I wouldn’t trust him with a little light conveyancing. He’d end up paying the buyer to take the house off your hands, just as he has with the Chagos Islands.

But he’s just part of the wider problem with the political class. As I wrote last week, how do you draw the conclusion that the millions of Brexiteers in the Red Wall who voted Reform actually wanted to rejoin the EU in all but name. Or that the voters in formerly Tory Essex really meant: What we want is Andy Burnham?

If Labour really are going to parachute Burnham into Westminster so he can become PM, then we must – I repeat for the umpteenth time – have a general election.

For now, though, we’re lumbered with Surkeir. It got me back to thinking about the Kinks’ video I mentioned earlier, which features the band dressed as undertakers carrying a coffin out of a Kentish Town railway cottage.

That’s where Starmer is today – living on Dead End Street.