The Print exclusively obtains a letter from Theresa May to Donald Trump over the summer.
My dearest Donald,
Thank you so much for your letter. You know how they brighten my abysmal days here in London without you. The personal touches were lovely; I really did appreciate the orange smudges from your fake tan across the page. I could smell the coconut scent, and it reminded me of our times together so vividly.
While parliament is in recess, there is no rest for the wicked (literally, am I right?) and I’ve been busy as ever. It’s hard work picking out hideous outfits and making poor decisions. Working with the DUP has turned out to be the shitshow I thought it would be and we’re not even two months in. As much as I do agree with them on their policies, as you know I do, pretending not to and acting like I give a shit about poor people is really difficult.
Philip wanted to make love last night. I try to humour him but he’s nothing compared to you, Donald. I agreed to it if he kept the TV on and luckily, you were featuring on the ten o’clock news at the time so it was just like making love to you, Donald. I can’t say it was as wonderful as that night we shared in Washington after our first coy hand hold down those stairs, but it was almost as good as the real thing.
I don’t know if you heard but we had a huge fire in London and hundreds of people were killed. I tried to seem compassionate but honestly, fancy having to work during your summer holiday! I was outraged! I had to smile and speak to dirty firemen – you will not believe how long it took me to wash that grime off my hands after I shook theirs. Absolutely disgusting. And, even worse, it meant I couldn’t go to Marbs with David and Boris! It’s about time I let my bowl cut down!
Oh, Donald! I almost forgot to mention, your speeches about North Korea are inspiring. I personally hate those Koreans – they’re much too foreign for my liking! You need to teach me how to speak so strongly like that; every time I made a speech I look like I’m on the verge of tears, and I still have no idea how to combat that.
I’ve been having some problems with Mr. Corbyn again. He’s taken the trolling to a whole new level. I thought he was being a kind gentlemen by offering me some homemade boysenberry jam, but as soon as I took a taste he fell about laughing claiming he had spat in it not a moment before! It was mortifying! Jeremy is so grotesque. I don’t understand how I can be mocked for eating a bag of chips, and how he is celebrated for eating a Pringle! At least I shower; last time I caught a whiff of him in the Commons he reeked like a compost heap!
Anyway, Donald, I must head back to my duties as Prime Minister. I have some fake smiling to do. I can’t wait until your state visit and we can roll around in a wheat field together.