Dear Keir: Let’s leave emotions to the Americans

Dear Keir, I’ve fallen in love with a close friend. I don’t want to ruin our friendship, but my feelings are undeniable. What should I do?

Tyler, Consett

Hi Tyler. I’ve never had this problem, because all my mates are blokes. Not that blokes can’t fall in love with each other. I marched in the London Pride Parade (the last time I wore glitter voluntarily) and saw plenty of bloke-on-bloke action. Fair play to them, but it’s not my thing. Do I experience the occasional frisson in the changing rooms after five-a-side? Of course. That’s more about respect, though. For my fellow players’ fitness, their hygiene and their ball control.

Sorry, I got sidetracked. My advice is to repress these feelings about your friend. I’ve always been a fan of repression. For instance, I feel dread at the following:

• My approval rating (-41%, according to Opinium).

• The inchoate sense that Britain faces many existential crises with which my brand of establishment-hugging managerialism is ill-equipped to deal.

• The suspicion that I’m an empty vessel, a cipher, a human screensaver.

But I push that dread down, like recycling when your bin’s full and it’s several days until collection. Some claim repression is pointless, that one’s feelings inevitably bubble up in strange and destructive ways. I say they’re not repressing hard enough.

When I’m in Wickes, do I weep uncontrollably in the tool aisle? Yes. But I’m not about to see a therapist. With the best will in the world, mental health is for Americans. The last thing I want is to get in touch with my emotions. At most, I’ll send my emotions a curt email every few years to make sure nothing is going on. I suggest you do the same.

Dear Keir, I work as an assistant zookeeper. I love every part of the gig except one: mucking out the orangutans. It’s doing my head in – should I quit?

Freya, Grimsby

Look, Freya, there are good and bad aspects of any job. My advice is to half-arse the bits you don’t like (say, communicating with the public) and focus on the bits you do (flying around the world to take photos with other leaders).

Whenever I have to handle some nonsense, like talking to MPs to get legislation passed, I simply imagine my next trip to Davos.

As I told the News Agents, I much prefer Davos to Westminster. In case you haven’t been, it’s a Swiss town where the World Economic Forum holds its annual meeting. Every January, plutocrats – your Gateses, your Soroses, your Schwabs – descend on the Alps to rub shoulders with senior politicians like yours truly.

Some people find Davos sinister, which baffles me. (My guess is, they’re mixing it up with Davros, creator of the Daleks.) What could be less sinister than a group of billionaires getting together to decide mankind’s future? Anyway, I hope this answers your question about monkeys.

Dear Keir, my husband smokes weed every night. He says he does it to relax and that it’s no different to a glass of wine, but I worry he’s addicted. Am I being a buzzkill?

Beth, Sittingbourne

Dear Beth, cannabis is a class B controlled substance under the Misuse of Drugs Act 1971. In an ideal world, you would report your husband to the police. If that sounds harsh, so be it.

My government is determined to tackle the scourge of spliff, using drones and AI to prosecute potheads. Before I became Labour leader, I expressed support for decriminalisation, but – you’ll be shocked to learn – my position has since evolved.

It’s not just wacky tobaccy that we’re cracking down on: it’s disco biscuits, it’s chang, it’s Purple Heseltine. We need to stop drugs stunting young lives.

To this end, I had the Department of Health come up with some catchy slogans: “You’ll never go to LSE if you’re taking LSD; You’ll never win a Bafta if you’re smoking bifta; You’ll never appear on Bake Off if you’re baked and off your nut.”

Perhaps you’re reluctant to dob your partner in. If so, encourage him to find legal ways to relax. For instance, I wind down of an evening by reading football statistics, flipping through my copy of Constitutional and Administrative Law, and practicing meditation. After an enervating day at the office, I like to plonk down in lotus position and start using my mantra (instead of “Om” or “shantih shantih shantih”, I endlessly repeat “my dad was a toolmaker”).

Right, I’m off to suspend more MPs. If I’m going to beat Farage in 2029, I need as few people on my side as possible. Until next week, keep Starm and Keir-y on.

As told to Lucien Young

This article was amended on 18 July