I see the blank vacuum behind your lifeless eyes, the passion for the job now completely eroded and washed out by the sea of inequities you’ve presided over. You’re still here, aren’t you? You’re unflappable, unmoving, as cold and detached as John Wayne Bobbitt’s penis. You’re both greying at the roadside and yet somehow new and renewed – Brutus came at you with a spork, unable to penetrate the handbag-leather of your vulture’s carcass, and now the Conservatives are stuck with you for a whole new year. What a difference a week makes, Theresa May. You’re shiny and reborn, recast as ‘determined’ rather than laughably incompetent by a fawning press that just a few days ago was threatening to eviscerate you.
Now’s the time to get on with it, with ‘it’ presumably being delaying the vote on your pauper’s Brexit until either your critics or the EU blink first. The stakes have never been higher and now YOU’RE the determined one? The woman who runs away from a debate she proposed? The woman who cancels a vote at the last second when it finally dawns on her that she has no hope of winning? What fucking oopsie-daisy upsie-downie parallel world are we now living in, doomed as we are to repeat the same never-ending spiral of backstabbing, incompetence and total fucking mendacity? On what planet have you been anything other than spectacularly ineffective? The Daily Express could print a photo of you tackling soup with a chopstick at this point and would still somehow find a way to claim that yours is the only way forward to our glorious soup-laden future.
It’s a hotter mess than a jacuzzi full of norovirus victims, the hypocrisy as rank as it is brazen. That Jacob Rees-Mogg doesn’t want to accept the result of a democratic vote because he thinks a 63% margin doesn’t give you a clear mandate would be laughable if he didn’t understand full well the irony of it all. If there’s some small consolation from all this it’s that the arch-Brexiteers massively overplayed their hand, reinforcing once again that their obsessive vision isn’t one shared by anything even vaguely resembling a parliamentary majority. Now all we need is an opposition offering something a bit more concrete than Keir Starmer looking disappointed on the news every now and then and we might actually be getting somewhere.
And at the end of it all, whatever the outcome? You’ll be done, Theresa May. Free of the leaden burdens that crush your weary shoulders. You’ve announced your departure and exit means exit, primed as you are to reach that glorious Conservative nirvana.
I see you, Theresa May, your tail wagging as you trot down the dirt path. I hear the chirping of birds and I smell flowers and honey on the air. Somewhere in the distance a cow bellows, a low, happy sound, and it rolls across the golden hills and over the white picket fences.
You’ve finally made it to the farm, Theresa May. You’ve put in your long self-service, far more than anyone ever asked of you, and it’s time for your aching bones to rest. Once you’ve run through the field of wheat, your tongue lolling joyously out of your head, that is.
I see you spin, Theresa May, barking happily as you scramble under the gate. I see the farmhands nod at you, welcoming you. I see David Cameron whistling as he emerges from a pig sty, a smile on his face, his hand moving to zip up the flies of his overalls. They’re all here, Theresa May. All the Tories past, now content to shove their faces into the caviar trough and doze away their final days.
I hear you whimper as the shot rings out, Theresa May. I see your hackles rise, your body flattened against the ground. I see you scan for its source and in the distance I see the shed.
It’s an old, rickety thing, mouldering and lopsided. I see the farmer appear from behind it, cracking the shotgun over the crook of his arm. I see him removing the empty shells.
They’re all here, Theresa May. All the failures, the liars, the tired old dogs.
There’s peace in it, but history always catches up with them in the end. You all end up behind the shed, one way or another.
I see you, Theresa May. I fucking see you.
