In a striking symbol of Britain's fractured political mood, Prime Minister Keir Starmer has become the focal point for a crude but ubiquitous chorus of public disdain. The chant labelling him a "wanker" has transcended its origins to become a unifying, if grim, soundtrack at sporting events, music festivals, and public gatherings nationwide.
From the Oche to the Terraces: A Chant Goes Viral
The phenomenon was vividly captured at the World Darts Championship at London's Alexandra Palace on 1 January 2026. There, darts professional Ryan Searle, then world number 20, paused his quarter-final match to conduct the crowd in a raucous rendition of "Keir Starmer's a wanker". This moment was emblematic of the chant's ambiguous, cross-ideological appeal. As Guardian columnist Jonathan Liew observed, Searle's gesture gave no clue to his own politics—whether his objection stemmed from the left, right, or centre.
The chant has since become a standard feature at football grounds, including during the high-profile Manchester City vs Arsenal match at the Etihad Stadium on 31 March 2024, where Starmer was photographed in attendance. It echoes in nightclubs in the early hours and at summer festivals, wherever young people gather en masse. It has evolved into a generational anthem, a crude outlet for amorphous public frustration.
Record Disapproval and the Anatomy of Dislike
This cultural trend mirrors stark polling data. Starmer's approval ratings entered a freefall shortly after he entered Downing Street and have now plummeted below 20%. A recent YouGov poll delivered a devastating blow, finding the Prime Minister was more disliked by the British public than either Benjamin Netanyahu or Hamas. His ambition to heal national divisions has, ironically, succeeded only in uniting people in their contempt for him.
Analysts point to Starmer's perceived character as a key driver of this visceral loathing. Compared to a predecessor like Boris Johnson—who was branded with a more aggressively derogatory term—Starmer is dismissed as a "wanker". This term, Liew argues, insinuates not just degeneracy but a "bashful cowardice" and an essence "beneath contempt". His technocratic, managerial style—sober, cautious, and obsessed with "fixing things"—fails to inspire any faction. To the right, he represents a boring, emotionally austere figure; to the left, he embodies the hollow, triangulating failure of centrist politics.
Amorphous Rage and a Leader Without a Shield
The anger directed at Starmer is notably catholic and inchoate. He offers no strong ideological "-ism" to oppose, making him, in Liew's words, "a low-fat yoghurt standing in front of a union flag". This vacuum turns him into a blank canvas for projection. Engaging with complex systemic failures is hard; singing a simple, offensive chant about the Prime Minister is easy and serves any grievance.
Furthermore, Starmer's entire political project appears designed to avoid such hostility. His piecemeal reforms, cautious rhetoric, and overtures to papers like the Sun scream "smallest possible target". This very desire not to be hated, Liew suggests, invites the kicking. The public intuitively senses a politician's deepest fear and exploits it.
While the coarsening of political discourse is alarming, this moment offers a perverse clarity. In a nation agreeing on little, contempt for Keir Starmer has become a rare, unifying force. The howl of discontent in mid-2020s Britain, for now, has six unmistakable syllables.
