As Theresa May skipped across the stage with all the carefree gayety of a naughty 11 year old wheat runner, her mind was no doubt playing 8mm video of a crowd cheering as she apologised for the election result, took that BoJo cunt down a peg or two, and demanded the unity of her loyal and admiring party.
The imaginary 8mm film soon got trapped in the projector though and went up in smoke quicker than Council cladding, along with her hopes and dreams as she took to the podium of doom like Susan Boyle in a Miss. World contest.
Throughout her speech, the letters on the wall behind her magically dissapeared like a dossier on paedophile MP’s. A comedian handed her a fake P45, and she coughed and spluttered more than a Fiesta with a fucked engine.
To say it was a disaster is putting it mildly. If I were the kind of guy who lived off avocado and coconut oil, thought vaccines were the work of the devil, and shopped at Holland and Barret, I’d be checking Boris’s rucksack for a fucking voodoo doll and book of spells.
This is exactly how she’ll deliver the 20lb turd that is Brexit. From the wrong hole, without anaesthetic or gas and air, and with no cunt holding her hand.
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