By Ben Pensant

After the explosive events of the last week you’d be forgiven for thinking you knew everything there is to know about flame-haired Shadow Chancellor Angela Raynor’s clout. Indeed, actual Chancellor Ritchie Sunak is said to be furious that the media never got this excited about his red box.

Yet amazingly, the acres of coverage given to Angela’s nether regions barely scratched the surface of this amazing orifice, primarily focussing on the effect it has on horny Tories and whether or not it drank brown booze at a swingers party in Durham or somewhere.

Because as well as having the power to hypnotise sex-starved Prime Ministers in the blink of a thigh, Angela’s snatch also possesses an array of startling super skills, all of which will be valuable assets in the fight against fascism. Especially fadge fascism.

Indeed, while puny weakling Keir Stormer is apparently too scared to take on Elon Musky as he destroys Twitter with his evil plot to force progressives to read hateful tweets from Alec Jones and Donald the Trump, Lord Corbyn has already sounded out Angela and her growler with a daring plan to harness its power and put a spell on the billionaire weirdo.

Still, we shouldn’t forget just how traumatic the whole experience has been for Angela, repeatedly asked to comment on such a trivial story while people are eating out of bins, then constantly commenting on the same trivial story while people are eating out of bins. This has been a deeply draining week for Labour’s top girl, as anyone who saw the various TV interviews she gave under duress will testify. (Though not in a court, obvs.)

Indeed, it seemed the only way for Angela to stop people talking about her minge was to keep on talking about her minge. But why wouldn’t you, when you’re in possession of the most powerful political weapon in the eastern hemisphere, a magical mound so magical and moundy it has the potential to swing elections, invade countries, and hypnotise serial shaggers?

But let’s not dismiss the pain this sordid, slanderous, demonstrably true accusation of tuppence-baring has caused liberal pundits and newspaper editors, forced to pore over every detail and exploit the open goal handed to them by dozy Tories, not remotely relishing the chance to score a point and claim some much-needed victimhood for professional white women fed up of right-wing misogyny.

Still, a mott as robust as Angela’s won’t play the victim for long. (Though it should.) And luckily, Angela’s brain is as robust as that mott. So for those of you yet to marvel at the jawdropping tricks itching to burst forth from this extraordinary MP’s knickers, here are six things you never knew about Angela Raynor’s fadge. Lap it up.

IT’S NON-BINARY!

You better believe it. Angela’s gash has been gender fluid for as long as she’s been teasing ministers with it, causing panic and fear among reactionary right-wingers petrified of catching trans.

Ms Raynor’s leg-crossing antics may have got Bastard Boris hot under the collar but he should be thankful she didn’t really put the shits up him by flashing her punani at him while identifying as a burly transwoman with a cock like a teddy bear’s leg.

IT SMELLS OF ROSES!

Red roses, of course. Labour red in fact, though not the shade beloved by closet Tory Keith Starmer, who wouldn’t know a proper red if it walked up to him with a megaphone and demanded to see his papers. No, Angela’s downstairs aroma is a feast for the nostrils, combining the mesmeric scent of the beloved left-wing perennial with Angela’s natural northern musk, a delicate, earthy blend of blood, steel, and Monster Munch.

But that’s not all, as Angela’s pie also has the chameleon-like ability to switch things up, dramatically altering its bouquet so that her ladyhole smells of Nestle Roses; a sweet, silky, cocoa-infused confection with a soupcon of fondant and a nutty surprise that only reveals itself when Angela goes commando on special occasions, such as Prime Minister’s Question Time or Fidel Castrol’s birthday.

Altogether now: Thank you very much for your fragrant fanny, thank you very much, thank you very, very, very much.

IT GLOWS IN THE DARK!

Capitalising on the peculiar way pervy Tories are instinctively drawn to red lights, like raffish, racist, sci-fi bulls, Angela has been known to deploy her va-va-vagina to confuse and distract callous Conservative MPs right before voting on dangerous legislations like legalising lynch mobs or giving bigoted parents the right to murder trans toddlers.

Once lured in, hypnotised by the bright lights illuminating Angela’s crimson sugar walls, her flange incapacitates the hapless right-wing whoremasters, forcing them to miss the vote and taking one small step towards freeing this sceptic isle from the yolk of Tory fascism.

It also comes in pretty handy in Angela’s native Scunthorpe when she’s walking back from Abrakebabra after chucking-out time.

IT SPEAKS TWENTY LANGUAGES!

That’s right. Twenty. While the cooches of female Tories like Pritstick Patel and James Clevercunt can barely string a sentence together in English, Angela’s front-bottom is multilingual. (Not to be confused with ‘cunnilingual’, the transphobic sex act beloved by lesbian TERFs.)

As a result, her pussy is a gaping temple to diversity, welcoming penises of all genders, nations, and cultures, just as long as that nation isn’t Israel or Chequars. Indeed, Angela’s fairy is so inclusive that despite mastering a multitude of mother tongues it refuses to say ‘no’ in any of them.

It can say plenty of other words though, as Boris the Butcher found out at the despatch box last week when Angela sat opposite him and cackled as her charlie snarled ‘fuck off you ponce’ in Turkish.

IT’S CALLED WINNIE!

Named after the pioneer of progressive murder, Winnie Mandelboy, Angela’s hoo-ha shares much in common with the South Afrikan goddess, not least their mutual enthusiasm for brutalising teenage boys.

Needless to say, this telepathic connection with the important fight against apartheid will be hugely beneficial in the equally important fight against slave-trading playboy astronaut Musky and his deadly plans to turn Twitter into a lawless wasteland where people are allowed to be right-wing.

Take that to the fucking moon, brainiac.

SHE’S GOT SIX OF ‘EM!

Yep, six. And it would have been seven if one hadn’t been lost down the back of a chair during last Monday’s Karaoke sesh’ in Stranglers’ bar. But Angela has plenty more fannies where that came from, all concealed in strategic locations like those horlicks things in the H***y P****r films. However, unlike the problematic world created by the patron saint of transphobia, these fadgical charms are not hidden inside snakes or dwarves, but carefully dotted around Westminster to cause maximum torment to any Tory predator who stumbles across them.

At this point the remarkable hive mind shared by these six busy beavers kicks into gear, as each one works in unison to snare and trap the unlucky sod who tried to get handsy with them: the perp is blinded by a flash of brightest red, screamed and hollered at in French, Arabic, and Esperanti, tarred and feathered with a bucket-load of rose petals and melted chocolate, made to question his sexuality as he’s attacked by a giant, wind-milling girl-cock, then tied to chair and assaulted with pliers while a burning tire smoulders gently around his neck.

Fannytastic!

Still, as much fun as it’s been to educate my army of five readers about Angela’s exceptional clunge, it’s really not the place of a straight white man (sorry!) to dominate the narrative around this fabulous woman’s privates.

Sure, as a male feminist I’m well within my rights to aid my sisters in the battle to reclaim misogynistic slurs, hence my dedication to filling this blog with as many slang terms for muffs as possible. But the only voice that matters in this whole amazing tale is Angela’s, as well as the husky foreignish one that pipes up every time she lifts her skirt. In the meantime allies like us simply have to take a step back and listen to women when they tell us about the grim realities of sexism and objectification.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I must dash. These ten astonishing facts about Amber Ruddy’s hairy bum-hole won’t write themselves.