What started as a series of communications setting out their respective parties’ positions on the Brexit situation has flared into a burning peak of frustrated desire, it is believed.
“It’s like something out of a Richard Curtis film, only exciting and passionate,” explained one breathless Downing Street staffer.
“You could cut the tension with a knife around here, it’s like a sexual time-bomb waiting to happen.”
Extracts of the highly personal communications have been leaked to the press, and confirm the long-suspected animal attraction between the two party leaders.
In one robust, brooding letter, Corbyn calls for the government to rework the political declaration setting the framework for Britain’s future relationship with the EU – and then enshrine these new negotiating objectives in UK law.
Responding in a late-night note possibly written on scented violet Downing Street stationery, the PM stressed her objections to keeping the UK in some form of customs union, saying this would prevent the UK making its own trade deals.
In his reply, dripping with understated longing and Brut men’s body spray, the Labour leader insisted that without changes to May’s negotiating red lines, he did not believe that “simply seeking modifications to the existing backstop terms is a credible or sufficient response to the need for a deal with the EU that can bring the country together and protect jobs”.
Proud and aloof, Theresa May scribbled a cruel response haughtily rejecting Corbyn’s idea of “dynamic alignment” – automatically keeping the UK in step with EU standards – saying this should be a UK decision. But her mind a lustful whirl, she was unable to resist adding: “In the interests of building support across the house we are also prepared to commit to asking parliament whether it wishes to follow suit whenever the EU changes its standards in these areas.”
“For God’s sake, take me, you crazy Socialist fool.”
Theatre critics who survived last night’s premiere of the 7 and a half hour epic ‘Brexit – The Musical’ were unanimous in their assertion that while it was indeed “brain meltingly suicide inducing” and “akin to having red hot pokers inserted into one’s lungs via the nose”, it still wasn’t as bad as suffering through an afternoon at The Queen’s Theatre with Les Miserables.
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