I see the fury in your eyes as you make your pointless speech, all fire and bluster aimed squarely at the MPs who have apparently betrayed you. I see you scowl, jabbing with your head on every syllable, desperate to spit your ire and win us round with all the charm and grace of a sliding tackle from Neil Ruddock. You’re on our side, aren’t you? We’re sick of all this, we’re tired of it dragging on, we just want to get back to the domestic issues like knife crime and the NHS and all those other things that you were also spectacularly fucking up. Is this really your endgame strategy? Going on telly like you’re rallying the troops and trying to convince the nation that these aren’t the droids we’re looking for?
You’re right – we’re definitely sick of it and we’re sick of you. Brexit is the never-ending farce with the hips that just won’t quit, a rollercoaster with the safety record of Alton Towers and a water landing at the end of it that we’re all now pretty sure is 90% urine. Nobody’s enjoying it but we’ve boarded now and piss-bath means piss-bath.
Once again, it falls on you to try and deflect from your colossal litany of failures. Your recklessly unilateral approach was doomed from the word go, a squib that couldn’t get any damper if Tom Hardy gyrated on it during a hen do. It’s only ever been May’s way or the highway, even when it became apparent that no deal was getting through without the consent of MPs from all over the House. If you want to deliver on that sovereign parliament we’re all apparently so keen on, maybe you ought to pull your head out of your arse long enough to remember that they exist.
This absolutely catastrophic fuck-up is your responsibility. Your arrogance left you with a minority government propped up by the DUP and Arlene Foster, the living incarnation of every mean childhood dinner lady who spat in our custard because she saw our da wearing a pink shirt. You gave yourself another impossible variable to juggle alongside the ERG and the opposition, pissing your negotiating position up the wall by vastly overestimating your popularity. You pandered to right-wing ideologues enough to poison the well of debate and you refused every olive branch, every alternative, every compromise offered to you. The feeble mess you have managed to negotiate is about as popular among the public and MPs as Lostprophets on Mumsnet’s Spotify playlist. Now you’re surprised when Bercow tells you you have to do better rather than trying to force it through on the third attempt?
It’s like we’re living in the Mirror Universe, except instead of the baddies wearing little moustaches and being all evil, everyone’s wearing a dunce cap and has forgotten how to be remotely fucking competent. Yes, it was momentarily hilarious when it turned out that the Independent Group were the only terrorist – sorry, Tory-ish – organisation that Corbyn wouldn’t open negotiations with, and well done you for laying an obvious little trap that he walked straight in to. It wasn’t enough though, was it? You made Labour look absurd for a moment but it’s still the Conservatives coming apart at the seams.
And while we’re at it, why the fuck do you get to revisit the same decision three times in the vain hope you’ll get the result you want, when the rest of us have been told over and over that the only ones who matter are the 17.4 million who voted to leave? You’ve singularly failed to rally the support your deal needs so why not just get yourself down from your own petard and give the seemingly impossible decision back to the people? We should at least all be able to agree that you ought to fuck right off, even if we’ll have to form a bipartisan consensus on just how we want you to do it.
It’s a joke, a pathetic national embarrassment that humiliates the UK on the world stage. You’ve proven yourself utterly inflexible and intransigent, a barrier to meaningful progress so hopelessly brittle and uninspiring that Ryvita could package and sell it as the food it clearly isn’t. We’re truly living in the dankest timeline, with no hero on the horizon to save any of us.
Apart from one.
I see you, Theresa May, exhausted and furious after another day of trying to ram your square peg into a round Brexit. It’s been twelve years and six thousand Meaningful Votes now. There have been twelve People’s Marches, endless delays, countless millions of signatures on petitions, protests every day and night. It’s exhausting, ignoring all of it and ploughing on regardless.
There’s only one thing that brings you comfort now the country’s ground to a halt. It’s your warm little bowl of gruel, the evening treat that sits in your stomach and reminds you that you, the new Iron Lady, are not for learning. There is only one way forward, and to hell with the rest of them.
I see you sit, Theresa May, staring blankly forwards as you lift the spoon to your mouth. I see your lips close on empty air as the metal dips away from your touch, the handle bending and dropping the porridge back into the bowl with a wet splat.
I see you turn to the window, and outside I see him. I see the dark figure with the fingers of one hand pressed to his temple, the other arm outstretched, fingers waving as he weaves his spell upon you. We’ve come to this, Theresa May. Our last hope, our best option, our final roll of the die for any kind of desirable outcome, all resting on the shoulders of the ludicrous twat outside your window. You sealed your fate the moment you touched Winston Churchill’s spoon on his cadillac. Just how useless have you got to be for the man who was friends with Michael Jackson for years to finally decide he’s witnessing behaviour that requires telepathically correcting?
Save us, Uri Geller. You’re our only hope.
I see you, Theresa May. I fucking see you.
