Weeks like these. Jeremy Corbyn checked through his notes. Probably not the best week to bring up racism, now that the pockets of antisemitism in the Labour party had been located uncomfortably close to those on his own jacket. Brexit was also a non-starter: he’d never managed to affect the right amount of outrage about something he was secretly quite keen on. Russia was an obvious no-no. He’d been behind the eight ball on that from the start.
The Labour leader looked thoroughly miserable as he took his seat for the final prime minister’s questions before the Easter recess. Even the NHS was off the table now that Theresa May had miraculously found some money that hadn’t been around last week. There was nothing more annoying than the government actually doing what you suggested. He looked up to see Jeremy Hunt grinning idiotically as he adjusted his School Prefect lapel badge at the other end of the house. Incredible. The man had spent the best part of the previous two years trying to kill as many patients as possible and now he was congratulating himself on saving the nation.
With time running out, Corbyn eventually settled on mental health as his line of questioning. One subject on which he could more than hold his own. Almost immediately the prime minister went half Maybot. Startled gaze, loss of language control, spouting irrelevant numbers and failing to understand what it was she had been asked.
It took a while for the Labour leader to realise just how badly she was struggling. His only goal when he had started out was damage limitation and he was so surprised to find himself getting much the better of the exchanges that he even at one point forgot to ask a question. But he gradually got into his stride and began pummelling her with facts on the underfunding of mental health provision.
May’s mouth opened and shut, but nothing meaningful came out. In desperation, she found herself inquiring about Corbyn’s own mental health. She hoped he hadn’t been too traumatised by viewing offensive material on Facebook. He had been. Though not for the reasons she might imagine. Still, he was feeling a whole lot better now than he had at the start. Who knew that PMQs could be such a fast-acting talking therapy?
Even with a few Tory toadies – take a bow, the reliably oleaginous Chris Philp – to ask her questions about how brilliantly the government was doing, the prime minister was finding the session rather less effective self-help. More like self-harm, in fact.
She failed to come up with any decent answers when both the SNP’s Ian Blackford and the Green party’s Caroline Lucas brought up improper spending and Cambridge Analytica’s role in the referendum campaign.
All they got was a dismissive shrug. If there had been anything untoward going on, it was really nothing to do with her. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. Especially in Easter week. Pontius Maybot. In any case, it was all water under the bridge. She was more than happy with the referendum result. Who cared if it had all been a bit bent? That’s just the way things rolled sometimes.
Just as she looked like she might be heading for the Welsh hills, the prime minister was ambushed by Ken Clarke. In her evidence to the liaison committee the previous day, she had let slip that there was no chance of finalising all the necessary customs arrangements before the end of the transition deal. Did this mean we might be staying in the customs union or having a post-transition transition deal after all? The hardcore Brexiters perked up, scenting betrayal. May umm-ed and ah-ed about being sure everything would be fine one way or another.
Good old Theresa. She’d just had the best couple of weeks of her time as prime minister and she’d just snatched mediocrity from the jaws of victory. Heads went down on the Tory benches. Still, at least she couldn’t be daft enough to call another general election straight after Easter. Or could she?
