May’s new deal, you know it makes sense
Theresa May addressed the nation once more earlier today with that special brand of charm usually reserved for a Head Mistress announcing a fatal collision involving a class mate.
Yes, it’s that time of the month again where Parliament all get together and pretend they’re voting on something new to appease the strong and stable nutter in the corner, hoping that this time she’ll just accept the result and go and sit next to some other poor bastard on the bus.
“It’s different this time.” She assured us, the desperation in her glare piercing our souls like the first time you witness a parent cry “There’s two more pages, and it’s double spaced!”
We all nodded collectively and threw each other a knowing sideways glance.
“Of course it is love.” We reassured her, secretly thinking about how sad these delusions are.
Then after twenty minutes of discomfort a chorus of press piped up;
“But Mrs. May, when are you fucking off? Is it when the deal gets voted down again or in June?”
It’s tragic really if you think about it. All our jokes about May being a robot but no sign of an off button.
Watching somebody slowly unravel in front of you is a lot less fun than I’d anticipated.
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