Wright Political Couple

Mr Wright had considered himself an important member of the party. Among many of his peers, he saw Margaret Thatcher as a Goddess—a true dominatrix. As a boy, he had a postcard of Winston Churchill, who he considered the greatest politician who ever lived. Taking what seemed to be another week of annual leave, he was sworn in by the prime minister to attend another one of those meetings regarding Brexit. Like in the last few letters, Mrs May insisted that the fate of the world depended on it. And like the last one, it ended up as a practice run for Strictly Come Dancing.

“We won’t be having a three-course meal at Christmas this year,” Mrs May announced amongst the sound of jeers.

An elderly man picked up his hat. “Well, in that case, I’m resigning.”

“Me, too!” said the man next to him.

“We’ll be having a four-course meal to celebrate the hard work we do for our country.”

“I’ll retire later.”

“Me, too!”

Mr Wright wasn’t interested in meals. He just wanted Brexit to be over and done with. He and his wife quarrelled to no end, to the point she even suggested voting for Labour. She would often volunteer to attend the Tory mingling, but tonight, she was at a rally with Jeremy Corbyn. Unsure when she would return, Mr Wright acted casual. He only hoped no one asked any questions.

“Where’s your wife?” Mr Johnson asked.

He blurted out the first thing that came to his mouth. “Babysitting.”

“Bless her little cotton socks. She hasn’t really gone to Corbyn’s rally at Cockfosters, has she?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “That’s just Trump news.”

“I thought they called it fake news.”

What a knobhead, Mr Wright thought to himself. If only he shot off back where he came from. A few hours in what seemed to be the most awful party he’d ever attended, his wife rolled down the stairs with a red dress, skimpy enough for the Daily Mail to write an article over.

“Babysitting, eh?” Mr Johnson laughed, patting his shoulders. “Good one!”

“Ah, Mrs Wright.” The Prime Minister rushed over to her. Like a witch hunt, the party flocked around her. Lips loose and fingers waving, they made even the scruffs on The Jeremy Kyle Show appear refined.

“Hello, Mrs May.”

“We all saw you petting Jeremy Corbyn’s cheek on Twitter!” The Prime Minister was giggling like a schoolgirl and shook her hand. “You’re a cunning swine you are. Using what your mother gave you to wreck the Labour and their foolish fantasies.”

“Yes. Of course.” Mrs Wright smiled, biting her lip. Her husband saw this as his ticket out of here.

“And I believe it’s time for us to go!”

“Do stay for some drinks,” the Prime Minister begged.

“I’m afraid we can’t.” Mrs Wright held her hand onto her heart and explained. “We’ve got important Brexit plans.”

“Oh, how delightful. Do tell me more in the morning.”

Mr and Mrs Wright returned to their boat, where they were greeted by sleeping children and a snoring nanny. Mr Wright grabbed a whisky bottle from his pocket. “So, what were all those shenanigans all about then?”

“You don’t understand.” Mrs Wright burst into tears. “If Brexit goes through, then the country is doomed. They’ll close all the libraries. Strawberry cheesecake will be illegal, and I’ll have no friends on this side of the ocean.”

“You talk to me, I’m your husband. Plus, we can go a world cruise with all your friends, it will have a library, and you eat all the cheesecake you want.”

“You’ve been promising me this for years and you still haven’t delivered!”

“Well, what do you expect? I’m a politician!”