Prime (in name only) Minister Theresa May has been sittin’ on the dock of the bay for a very long time now. Nobody can persuade her to move, and she has a permit to sit there until 2022.
Originally she was surrounded by a whole gang of optimistic supporters, waiting for their ship to come in. One by one, her companions have drifted away, as they became aware of the futility of their task.
Some have even jumped ship in an effort to drag her away from the precipice. So far this has had no effect, as she sits there, a rudderless figurehead, captain of a sinking ship.
LCD Views asked her what she was doing there. “I’m watchin’ the ships roll in,” she said, “then I watch ’em roll away again.” A plausible response, except that she was sitting on Ramsgate’s disused harbour watching the ferries run by Seaborne Freight.
That won’t do, we said. There must be more to being Prime Minister.
“Yes, I’m sittin’ here restin’ my bones,” croaked May. “And this loneliness won’t leave me alone. But I’m Primed for action, should it be required.”
You know this makes you Prime Suspect in The Case of the Missing Brexit, don’t you?
“I can’t do what ten people tell me to do,” she droned obliquely, staring blankly out to sea. “So I guess I’ll remain the same.”
This business with hating brown people makes you more Prime Gammon than Prime Minister. It’s not a good look.
“I’ve got nothin’ to live for,” she moaned. “Looks like nothin’s gonna come my way, so I’m just sittin’ on the dock of the bay, watchin’ the tide roll away with all my hopes and dreams.”
We left her there, more sub-Prime than Optimus Prime, sittin’ on the dock of the bay, wastin’ time.