Outfoxed

Oh, she’s clever, that one. The country over-under-estimated her, as did her opponents, British and European. Zombies are real. And hard to kill. Exhibit 1: Theresa May, Prime Minister. Zombie? I think not.

230. 149. 58. The nays are shrinking. But yea, for Brexit, will remain unattainable. Because, at the heart of it, Britain has no wish to leave the E.U. To do so will spell the end of prosperity, a fact well known to Boris ‘tricky’ Johnson, Rees-Mogg and the sinister Farage, zoo keepers and geneticists who breed monstrosities to entertain the mob, and now one of those beasts have escaped. Everyone thinks it’s Theresa May.

Theresa May, poor soul, is terrified, left on her own to hunt down the creature, deserted by Jeremy Corbyn and David Cameron, the latter fleeing the scene when sirens first sounded, and the former hiding his head in the sand waiting for the problem to solve itself and hoping to remain unscathed if the infection spreads and obliterates the entirety of Britain. Theresa May is terrified, oh yes, but clever.

Politicians are scoundrels, and the successful ones – to date – are either lovable or feared, and she is neither of those things. But she is a clever woman, the hunter disguised as the prey, in rose coloured dress riding confident above the knees when she sits, cream jacket and pearl necklace. The fragile beauty. And when she’s under the cosh from parliament or being battered by her own party and the polls she appears ‘au naturel’, the wrinkled contours of her eyes visible to the audience, to highlight how hard she’s working, ‘a woman’ busy doing the nation’s business, no time for the make-up chair, exhausted from cleaning up the mess men made, plodding on. And when she comes to fight! She comes full tweed and buttoned down. This zombie-like creature is clever. And hard to kill.

Friday, March 29th; the mob chased it to the end of a cliff, shot it several times in the chest and abdomen yet, it refused to expire, growing new, manicured fingernails and stylish shoes to scratch and claw and climb its way to safety, daring the mob to ‘catch me if you can’ before skirting off toward another cliff some April 12 degrees south of Dover. Zombie? I think not. This thing is uniquely British. The May fox.

This is a fox worthy of the hunt, a fox that Camille Parker could never Bowle out. This fox is piling up the sympathy points after each failure to put it down. This fox is tugging at the heart of Britain, forcing the country to forego the cruelty of the exercise, bleeding profusely yet thrashing through the underbrush in the quest to keep its children alive, hidden in Hadrian’s wall today, hunkered deep under Turf Moor tomorrow.

“I won’t contest the next election” gave it time to catch its breath. “Brexit means Brexit” gave it time to stitch up a cut here and there. “Parliament is against you the people; I’m on your side” gave it time to cloud the sights trained on it. “Pass my deal and I’ll resign’ gave it time to confound the conscience and produce another daring escape. This fox is the stuff of legend. Indispensable. The May fox, under no circumstance, cannot be allowed to go extinct.

The May fox, surprisingly, has come to symbolize what Britain has ceased to be: reason, grit, sacrifice and fighting spirit. It knows there is no other deal to be had, and it intends to fight to the last drop of blood until the Brexiters come to their senses, or she loses hers. This fox has earned an Amnesty. Long may she roam.

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3 Responses to “Outfoxed”
  1. makagutu says:

    She is a survivor, a good one at that

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