Theresa May: A Divorced Dad Begging the Left for Forgiveness


Written by Jake Moss
10 Monday 10th July 2017

British Prime Minister and everyone’s mate, Theresa May, has appealed to the left for support after the self-inflicted loss of her majority at the general election. She’s come crawling back and asked the other major parties to “contribute, not criticise”, in order to ease the democratic process. Ol’ Theresa’s really changed her tune, hasn’t she? Sure, she tried to “crush the saboteurs”, but she didn’t mean it, alright? She’d had one too many cans of Oranjeboom Extra Strong and said some things she didn’t mean. We’ve all been there. But when the Oranjeboom takes you, there’s no coming back - every divorced dad knows that. She’s sorry, ok? Just, please... let her see the kids...

Theresa May: Divorced Dad

cc: The Mirror

Theresa winds up the squeaky window in her second-hand Kia Picanto. She takes a glug from her flask of lukewarm coffee, grimacing slightly. This won’t do - she pours another dash of whisky into the mix. She checks the clock on the dashboard. Theresa’s been sat here for six hours, peering at the driveway of the house that used to be her home. She looks at the brand new Lexus in the driveway - his car. The new man with his brand new car. She takes a swig straight from the whisky bottle and glares at the stupid fucking Lexus. Look at it. In her driveway. Staring back at her with its shapely wing mirrors and its arrogant Japanese bonnet. Bet it doesn’t do anywhere near the same miles per gallon as the Picanto... Stupid Lexus. A car for pricks.

Theresa sighs. Why did she leave him? She misses the kids. It was all a big mistake. She was tempted away by a younger man. He whispered sweet nothings in her ear and waved a big old majority in her face… That big, sexy majority. Ooft. The sheer heft of that throbbing majority. But it wasn’t half as big as he’d assured her. She was led on and now she’s been dumped. Theresa exhales deeply. The grass is always greener… And now it’s not just the kids - she misses Jezza too. His scruffy little beard. The warm embrace of his socialist principles. The way he always came at the same time as her for the sake of equality. She loved Jezza. Deep down, maybe she still loves him... She fiddles anxiously with the rubber strip of the window-frame. She just hopes he’ll accept this olive branch.

In the rearview mirror, Theresa catches sight of Jezza and the kids coming back up the road. She hurriedly puts down the flask and checks her breath for traces of whisky. She scrambles out of the car: “Jeremy, thank God. I’m so glad I caught you… We need to talk.” Jezza rolls his eyes. “Theresa, what else is there left to talk about? Just go home.” “Jeremy, please. I’m living in a Premier Inn… Don’t you miss me?” Jezza looks uneasy. “Not in front of the kids, Theresa.” “No… I want them to hear. We can sort things out between us. We just need to work together. Come on, kids - don’t you miss me? Nicola?” Nicola rolls her eyes and checks her phone: “Dad, yer so embarrassin’, pal.” Theresa looks at her annoying Scottish teenaged daughter, always trying to prove her independence. Theresa hates her. She turns to her son. “What about you, little Vince? Do you miss me?” Little Vince Cable looks at the floor and hides behind Jeremy. Theresa looks at her weird old son - this freakish, Benjamin Button-looking, pensioner-child. She’s disgusted by him. He never even wanted to kick a ball around with her because of his frail old man legs. What kind of son even is he, this terrifying mutant boy?

Theresa looks back at Jezza. “Jeremy. I miss you. You don’t need him. He’s living in my house… I need you.” Jezza just stands there. At that moment, the front door swings open. Stood in the doorway is Public Services: “Jeremy, come inside with the children at once.” Theresa eyes Public Services with disdain: “Pah, I should’ve cut you when I had the chance.” “That’s quite enough, Theresa. I’m asking you to leave,” he asserts. “Fuck you, you... public bastard! Jeremy still loves me! Don’t you, Jeremy? … Jeremy?” Jezza stands in the doorway next to Public Services. He shakes his head. “Just go home, Theresa. You’re embarrassing yourself.” The front door shuts. Theresa stands alone in the driveway. She kicks the Lexus and limps back over to the Picanto.

Another night in the Premier Inn. Another night without a majority. Another night on this slow march to political oblivion.

cc: The Sun

Don't Panic attempt to credit photographers and content owners wherever possible, however due to the sheer size and nature of the internet this is sometimes impractical or impossible. If you see any images on our site which you believe belong to yourself or another and we have incorrectly used it please let us know at and we will respond asap.