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On The Campaign Trail With Theresa May



When you’re Prime Minister of a major country such as England, sorry, Great Britain, you have little time for the things most people take for granted. Take for instance walking holidays in North Wales with your husband, Dennis. I had to plan this way ahead, because you never know what beastly terror cells are hiding away in deepest, darkest Snowdonia. Some of the people still speak Welsh when you walk into the gift shops which have just been swept for mines and listening equipment, you know. I know I’m still unpopular with the Sons of Glyndwr – this is why my holiday cottage is protected 24/7 by Special Forces armed with fire extinguishers and buckets of water. However, these are the small sacrifices one makes when you’re the Prime Minister of England. Sorry, Great Britain.

My husband Dennis is a quiet man. However, he has been getting a bit agitated recently as a result of the “hoo-ha” (to quote Alec Pacino) over the snap election which I called because I’m the Prime Minister and that’s my job. Oh, and of course the whole Brexit thing. Myself and Dennis have long been quiet people, people who are happy to sit in our armchairs and read books. Sometimes these books have pictures, and sometimes they don’t have pictures. Sometimes they have just words. Lots of them. I’m a huge fan of Hammond Innes, and Dennis likes nothing more than to bury himself in one of the many (79) autobiographies of Sir Ian Botham. In the last one, Dennis informed me that Sir Ian is now one of the best paid Sky pundits, the establishment are a bunch of stuffed shirts and that he’s had the last laugh. Quite.

You may have read in your newspapers or heard on the news that my recent dinner with Jean Claude van Juncker had gone very badly for me. I should say now that this is absolute nonsense. We all sat around this big table, having a jolly time drinking wine and eating food. Well they were eating one type of food, whilst I insisted on an English roast dinner. Sorry, British roast dinner.

As I tucked into my meat medley of beef, pork, lamb and gammon, Jean Claude Van Damme Juncker started to get a bit uppity. “Why do you stupid English come abroad and eat the roast fish & chips with the John Smiths bitter when you could be enjoying everything that we have to offer here on the continent?” This is, of course, typical. They have no idea of the fact that we regard a meat medley roast dinner as a national icon: like the black & white flickering footage of Margaret Thatcher’s coronation in 1953, it’s part of our heritage.

As we go into the final stretch of the run-up to the General Election, I should tell you that life on the road is no picnic. It’s up at 6am for a quick shower, full teeth hygiene session and a half-hour workout with Kenneth, my personal trainer. We alternate between kick-boxing, dead legs and 1970’s-style all-in wrestling. As the Prime Minister of a proud nation, these preparations are vital. Jeremy Corbyn may appear as much as use a chocolate spanner in a blast furnace situated in the heart of the Sun, but I have to be prepared for every eventuality that comes my way (actually, he’s useless but I am rather fond of rolling around the floor with Kenneth in a sweaty, English, sorry British clinch).

I assure you all that my plans for taking England, sorry Britain, out of the EU are in the best interests of the best interests. What I’m aiming for isn’t necessarily a Hard Brexit. In Angus Steak House terms, what I’m looking for is a well done Brexit, with peas and chips, with mushroom soup for starters. However, what we must remember is that the likes of Jean Claude van Juncker may come to the table in his daft waiter’s uniform (because that’s what he is) and tell us that that’s off the menu and we’ll have to start with garlic mushrooms and have BBQ Chicken as a main. I don’t have to tell you that I will fight for England’s, sorry Britain’s right to over-cooked, rubbery steak and frozen chips if it kills me.

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