“So would you press the nuclear button? Go on, would you?”
Jeremy Corbyn didn’t know what to say, so he reached for his emergency erhu. It had never let him down yet.
Theresa May tried to keep her lips strong and stable, but as soon as the warm, greasy chips were in her hand, she could feel the Other Theresa breaking free. Young Theresa, with a fag in her mouth and a tin of speccy brew. She could hear the wheat fields calling.
He had risen to the top of the Labour party, been deputy Prime Minister, but all he ever wanted was a daemon.
Four hours, Dougie thought. Four hours. It’s like she’s never been in a bloody bakery before.
This was the bit where they held him aloft, passed him from audience member to audience member like the rebel Remainer he was. He jumped. They were definitely going to catch him.
“One, two, three, and STEP. One, two, three, and STEP.”
They’ll realise I’m missing soon, Nicola Sturgeon thought. One day I’ll get out. Just keep doing what they tell you.
Take me home with you, the man seemed to beg. Rabbits and walks. I’d like that.
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