Theresa’s 9th of June

On the back of an election defeat which she should have won, Theresa May contemplates what went wrong.

It was the next day and she was still in shock. Twenty points ahead when she announced the election. How could she have lost such a resounding lead? Theresa knew where she had gone wrong but there was nothing that she could do about it now. Fox hunting, it had all started with fox hunting. She couldn’t help it if she loved the sight of one beast tearing another to shreds. I mean, it goes down better in the opinion polls than ripping poor children apart. And the public could never know about how she fantasised about that, just like they couldn’t know the pleasure that Dave gained from buggering that pig. She supposed that hadn’t been his final blow. But that had been where it started.

 

It was all the small things that built upon each other until the public’s opinion became insurmountable. Who would have thought that people, rich and poor, would not want their family homes taken while their bodies were still warm? Worse still was the u-turn and, worse yet, the fact the public had figured out that it wasn’t even a u-turn.  She would have to ensure that Rupert had calibrated his societal brain conversion rags properly next time. She knew that after that fiasco she hadn’t looked “strong and stable”, that she had started to lose control.

 

As she sipped on her brandy her hand began to shake. She was thinking about the man who stole it, her premiership, away from her. Jeremy. Holier than thou, Jeremy. He was everything she wasn’t. Principled, able to smile and, the trait she hated most, one of the people. Theresa couldn’t get his socialist ideals out of her head. Who would have thought that he would have made sure that his manifesto had been fully costed? Who would have thought that he would pledge not to snatch lunches from almost one million children, build more houses for the young and that the vast majority of people wouldn’t mind taxing her pals a bit more in order to fund the NHS. Never mind that he believes that the Human Rights Act was a good thing. Typical Communist.  Theresa still couldn’t believe it. He was supposed to be the one running the dysfunctional party, not her.

 

The party machine had thought it would try a new way to smear Jeremy. He had been in contact with members of the IRA around the time of the Good Friday Agreement. Their friends in the press had pressured him about this. But he was prepared. He pointed out the hypocrisy of the attacks on him for talking to members of the IRA while the government actively supplies the Saudi Arabian government with tanks, aircraft and weapons to fight illegal wars. No attempt was being made to try and discuss a peaceful settlement. Surely that must be worse than conversing with IRA affiliates he said? Theresa had tried explaining that we needed the money from the Saudi’s so that we could fund services like the NHS, without taxing her fox mauling pals more.

 

Panic overcame her like the landslide the day before. How was she going to explain the extra nine-hundred-million that had been added to the deficit? She had only been in power for a number of months, true, but she had been part of the government for the past seven years. She had wasted millions on trying to curb immigration, was all but useless when campaigning against Brexit. She was as guilty as Hunt and Boris. She would have to deflect, be strong, be stable.

 

Theresa had decided that she would remain the leader of the conservative party, the only remain that she had ever felt strongly about. She had only been the leader for a matter of months. Her species life span would be able to survive for a great number of year, meaning that she could slowly wear down the electorate, until such a time as Rupert could be relied on again. Until then, she decided, she would have to re-enter her tomb. And wait.