After the shock election result, MPs flock toward the O2 Arena. Their massed, marching bodies form grey rivers in the streets. It’s a decisive moment in British politics, and nobody wants to miss the conclusion.
There are several ways to resolve a hung parliament: a game of rock-paper-scissors is traditional, but Theresa May’s dry, chitin claws can’t form the right shapes. Failing this, candidates often resort to Horseshoes, freestyle breakdance, or Yu-Gi-Oh; with the loser being ceremonially hanged. However, Mr Corbyn didn’t want to deprive poor horses of their shoes, neither wants to ruin their nice suits, and Mrs May only owns the spell-card Pot of Greed.
There aren’t many options left. The O2 goes silent, and spotlights fall on the centre ring.
“This match is for the Parliamentary Belt!” cries the announcer, who looks suspiciously like Amber Rudd wearing a fake moustache. “The following contest is scheduled for one-fall! Introducing your champion, your empress, my personal Queen of Hearts – the strong, the stable, THERESA MAAAAAY!”
For a long time, nothing happens. The crowd chuckles warmly: Mrs May’s ‘not showing up’ gag is well-loved in Westminster, but they know this is too important to miss. On cue, her theme blares – “Fields of Wheat” by Little Chief – and she emerges down the ramp, carried by a host of billionaires. By squinting hard, you can see the strings attached to her pale banshee-limbs.
With a surprising burst of strength, she leaps clear over the top ropes into the ring. She shoots her fans the middle finger, and they roar with pleasure.
Suddenly, silence falls. The sun begins to rise over the horizon, glimmering nervously, like someone waking up after election night.
“Next to the ring,” cries not-Amber Rudd, “the demonic terrorist-sympathiser – Jeremy Corbyn!”
Light fills the O2. Jeremy Corbyn steps onto the ramp. No theme song. He deposits his £1 bus ticket into a nearby recycling bin, pauses to bless a newborn lamb, and bestows the first 5p Freddo bar in years upon a low-income family. His halo grows brighter and brighter, and his feet seem to hover centimetres above the floor. At last, he arrives in the ring. He throws off his shepherd’s shawl to reveal a body sculpted by Zeus himself. A few cries of “Weak!” and “Unfit!” ring in the audience, but are swiftly choked by shame and awe.
The bell rings.
May opens with her signature Claw Strikes, driving Jeremy into a corner. He absorbs the blows in solemn silence, then shuts his eyes, focusing. He speaks:
Mrs May freezes. Her eyes bulge in their sockets, and her mouth drops open, revealing her forked tongue. She glances at not-Rudd, who waves her arms in a panic. The bell dings frantically as men in black march toward the ring, aiming to apprehend Mr Corbyn.
“This match has been ruled a no-contest!”
The audience groans. Theresa’s fans are in dread: the next game lined up is Straight Answers, which Mrs May is especially bad at.
Then, a collective gasp. Theresa is climbing the turnbuckle! Yes, she’s standing on the top ropes, awkward in her fashionably cheeky leopard-print heels. The crowd knows she’s lining up for her finishing move, the Northern Powerhouse! The men in black hold Mr Corbyn’s arms, exposing him to the deadly attack. Theresa’s grin spreads wider than her face, and her eyes glow red as she braces…
And slips, inexplicably hitting herself with the move! Theresa May has knocked herself out!
This hung parliament could keep the UK in chaos for several years, leaving Plaid Cymru and the SNP to inherit the ashes.