There’s something odd going on… something is afoot that is incredibly fucked up. But no-one is talking about it.
Theresa May has said she will resign if MPs vote through her Brexit ‘deal’.
There’s so much wrong in that position and no-one seems to be pointing it out. Perhaps it needs unpacking a bit. Or unstuffing, much like the whole wider situation.
She wont go unless MPs grant her one last wish, which is at the stroke of a pen to poison the well for decades to come. One last act of gross betrayal, then she’ll be gone.
The sheer fucking nerve of it!
And what if the MPs don’t capitulate to her? Will she go on and on and on like a duracell bunny dipped in shit?
She’s like that miserable peavish kid you invited to your child’s birthday party. Let’s call her little Theresa. She threw all the birthday cake in the sandpit, burst all the party balloons, gave the cutlery away to the pikeys squatting next door, and now she’s taken over the swimming pool and has connived to get all the other kids out of it in fear.
You demand her mother take her home at once before she does any more damage to bonhomie and property.
But she won’t go. Not until she’s had a shit in the swimming pool. If you let her do that, she’ll gladly depart amicably.
Her mother, from whom she derives her power, agrees with her. So do some of the kids whose toys she stole, currying favour in the hope they’ll get their toys back. And so, in the face of such an unreasonable demand and in-spite of self-interested collaborators, you stand firm.
The stand off commences. Rock and a hard place? Devil and the deep blue sea?
Either way, little Theresa’s presence has soured things and things will stay sour for the foreseeable future. Because little Theresa had to have things her way, and to hell with everyone and everything else.
Eventually, the sun goes down and the stand-off ends by running out the clock and everyone going home.
Sitting down, with a glass of wine, you are furious, having stood firm on an important point of principle and power. You are saddened that the party was ruined for everyone – it was ruined before you ever faced your dilemma – and you lament the money spent, the items destroyed and all the good faith and harmony amongst the school-gate community seriously jeopardised.
The phone pings. It’s your Facebook feed. Theresa’s mum has told all her friends about your appalling behaviour, accused you of violence and called social services. Half a million people have told you to die with a pick-axe in your rectum.
The police arrive at 11pm and advise you that it is not safe for you to remain in your home. With the clothes on your back, you are whisked away with your family in a police van. As the van pulls away, you catch a glimpse of fire and smoke in the mirror. It seems to be coming from a house that looks unfamiliar, inverted as it is. Perhaps it’s the one next door?
After driving through the night, you arrive at a secluded 2* hotel in Argyll. For your own safety. All of the other residents are asylum seekers who are, you are assured, peaceful.
Clothed against the cold, you fall asleep on a thin damp matress, wondering, ‘who the fuck invited little Theresa to the party anyway? Stupid cunts.’
A few hours later you wake up with a fright. It was you. You invited her, you stupid cunt.