A scene:
Theresa May looks down triumphantly. She's a couple of steps up the ladder away from claiming the belt. Nuttall is lying in a crumpled heap after slamming his own head into a ringside table. Robertson stormed out of the arena after being counted out. Farron is tangled in the ropes, incapable of making it to his feet. Corbyn's been smashed with so many copies of the Daily Mail that he can barely even find the strength to raise his arms.
And then, with his last desperate breaths, he slams his body into the ladder. It wobbles, it starts to topple sideways, but it doesn't quite go far enough. It's too strong, too stable. It rocks back the other way and begins to steady, as May prepares to reach upwards.
BUT WHO'S THIS?!?! A crowd of young people have broken through security, their weapons made out of smug thinkpieces about Millennial apathy unable to beat them back!! They reach the ladder, and before anyone can stop them, before the Nuclear Nine can make it into the ring, they give the ladder an almighty shove and it falls, and with it so does May.
The crowd are screaming, delirious with joy as these young heroes form their bodies into a human pyramid for Corbyn to climb towards the prize. Almost unnoticed, one of the brave students has peeled off and walks towards May. As she cowers before him, he lifts her up with one mighty arm.
Something's wrong though. That's not a face... it's a mask! Slowly, savouring the moment he raises his other hand and slowly peels it from his face. And so his true identity is revealed:
"It was me, Theresa! It was me all along!" screams Boris Johnson.
