Dear Keir: Want dignity at work? Take your inspiration from Sisyphus

The lows include Freebiegate, a drubbing in the local elections and a series of humiliating U-turns. The highs include the time I got to meet Arsène Wenger. Despite a stagnant economy and historically poor poll ratings, I’m optimistic that I can turn things around in Year Two.

Did I make mistakes? A few. On welfare reform, I should have set out the moral case for impoverishing disabled people. There definitely is one, and I plan to make it any day now.

I’ll admit, my government hasn’t been the best at communication. Or legislation. Or party management. Or foreign policy. Or avoiding scandals. Apart from that, we’ve played a blinder.

Twelve months, eh? Time flies when you’re not having fun. Three hundred and sixty five days with adults in charge. A Year of Keir. Annus sensibilis.

But enough about my annus. Let’s get to your questions!

Dear Keir, I’m struggling to go about my daily life. The news is soul-crushing, the world’s on fire and everything I do feels futile. What gets you out of bed in the morning? Pascal, Balham

Hi Pascal. Before I answer your question, I’m obliged to flag something. It sounds like you’re depressed, somewhere between “down in the dumps” and “thoroughly gutted”. I suggest you seek medical assistance. Privately, though – the NHS is under enough pressure as it is.

What gets me out of bed in the morning? Often, it’s that I need a wee. In a more abstract sense, it’s my determination to make this country a better place. Or at least slow its decline. Marginally. In ways that won’t upset the Murdoch press.

You mention futility. At the risk of sounding like Boris Johnson (ie chucking out classical references to make myself sound smart), I’m inspired by the tale of Sisyphus. Every day, this bloke had to push a ruddy great rock up a hill, only for it to fall back to its original position. Still, he put his head down and cracked on. That’s what I mean when I talk about “the dignity of work”.

Dear Keir, I committed a faux pas at my best friend’s wedding. Have you ever said something you came to regret? If so, how did you make up for it? Olivia, Brighton

Thanks Olivia. I’m afraid I know a thing or two about gaffes. For instance, my “island of strangers” speech, which many considered xenophobic. To be fair, I was distracted at the time. There was an attempt to set my house on fire, which naturally resulted in me doing an Enoch. I’m not making excuses: I’m just seeking to lessen the blame attaching to a fault or offence.

Neither I nor my speechwriters had any idea how the speech would land. It was a moment of madness, and certainly not a craven, ham-fisted response to Reform winning Runcorn & Helsby. I accidentally turned the racism dial to 11 and I take full responsibility for that. In future, I will keep it at a more respectable setting, say four or five. Seven, if Farage is really breathing down my neck.

Let me be clear: those words weren’t right. Which is why, the very next day, I had several ministers go out and defend them. In cases where you screw up, I suggest digging your heels in and forcing people to back you. Then, after a month and a half, you can say sorry in an interview with your biographer. This should convince everyone that you’re a blummin’ good bloke, and competent to boot.

On a lighter note, I once put my foot in it while addressing machine operators at a Lincoln factory. Imeant to tell them that my dad was a toolmaker, but it came out as “my tool was a dadmaker”. My shame at misspeaking was compounded by the innuendo. I was understandably mortified and cut the event short.

Right, time to retire to the Downing Street flat, brew myself a cuppa and relax with my favouriteBob Vylan record. I wonder what the next twelve months have in store. Fingers crossed the minus in front of my approval rating transforms into a plus. Anyway, onwards and upwards. Things can only get Starmer.

Until next week, stay focused, stay forensic, stay Keir!

As told to Lucien Young