I see you, Theresa May.
I see your now permanently-scowling face, pinched and wild-eyed like an angry headmistress from a Quentin Blake illustration. That's probably a sensible attitude to take when you're in charge of a honking cockbasket of feverishly arrogant public schoolboys, admittedly. I see you jabbing your finger, pursing your lips, striding with furious purpose from one super-secret-definitely-can't-tell-anyone-about-it meeting to another. It hasn't been easy, has it, Theresa May? It seems like every other day there's another leaked memo or email. How can you parboil your political ideas in a colander? They'll never be ready for half-baking at this rate. Most of the time I'm expecting David Tennant to wander up and comment on how tired you're looking.
It's all gone a bit weird and authoritarian, hasn't it, Theresa May? You've angrily distanced yourself from Boris Johnson's comments on Saudi Arabia, even though it was the smartest and most honest thing that self-serving Gorgeous George lookalike has said in ages. Nicky Morgan's been banned from meetings because she criticised the value of your leather trousers. Why I'm supposed to care about your trousers, I'm not entirely sure; Cameron wore suits worth thousands, and I'm more concerned with the fact you're trying to wear Margaret Thatcher's skin.
Unsurprisingly for a cabal of repressed toffs with cupboards full of leather belts and lemons, some have responded weirdly positively to your aggressive style. You sacked Michael Gove and he's still grovelling around your ankles like a cross between a human Elf on the Shelf and Wormtongue. Ian Duncan Smith seems to be in a permanent state of near-climax at all times these days, as if he wasn't horrifying enough in the first place.
But you've had to be harsh, haven't you, Theresa May? After all, you've faced strong and persistent challenges from a focused opposition. In the form of a private citizen's legal challenge to Brexit. I'm sure Corbyn's… somewhere, maybe playing with his cyber physical systems?
But it turns out your greatest victory so far is sneaking your snooper's charter out under the cover of all the Brexit shit-slinging. After all, the creepy old-school prurience is the one thing Cameron's vision of Tory Britain was missing. Now you'll have access to all of it; all the private internet history you like. Which is gloriously ironic, when you think about it. You don't trust us to masturbate without government supervision, yet you don't want any parliamentary oversight whatsoever when attempting to dry-shaft 48% of us with a hard Brexit.
I see you, Theresa May, shaking your hair free from your eyes as you lift the helmet of electrodes. I see the panels of blinking lights, the vacuum tubes, the walls covered in circuit boards. It's all been heading to this moment, hasn't it? You're heading in to the Matrix, your powers online infinite and absolute. You can see the ones and zeros, Theresa May, and it's time to remake the world in your own image.
I see you juddering in your chair as the machinery sparks and hisses, Theresa May. I see your eyes rolling back in your head, your leather trousers squeaking against each other and hissing. Did you forget gold conducts?
I see the kaleidoscope of code and colours as you rush through the online world, Theresa May. I feel the wind blasting by. I see you spinning through the air, crashing into the ground, rolling through grass that hovers in pixels.
I see you look around, Theresa May. I see the world of cubes in their garish colours. I see you stand, looking at your hands in total confusion, slapping at your own skin and registering the impact. You've been fully digitised, yet this world feels solid, doesn't it? How can that be, Theresa May?
I hear the crashing in the distance, Theresa May. I see you spin. I see the tidal wave of cubes bearing down on you. Cubes that look like crude lettuces and tomatoes. What the hell is going on, Theresa May?
I see the old man surfing the wave towards you, wind rushing through his silver beard and lightning sparking in his eyes. I see you shriek, Theresa May. I see you turn to run. He's finally got you, hasn't he, Theresa May? He's got you, and he's about to drown you in an avalanche of pixelated vegetables.
Jeremy Corbyn's trapped you in the Internet of Things, Theresa May, and here his nonsensical word salad finally has real power.
I see you, Theresa May. I fucking see you.
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