This month sees the seven-year anniversary of the Tories’ ascension to Downing Street.

Seven is considered to be a magic number by many. Seven days of the week, seven colours in the rainbow, seven continents and seven seas on this great green-and-blue Earth. Seven Samurai, seven books in the Harry Potter series and seven fucking psychopaths.

Seven might be a magical number to some, but it certainly hasn’t proved magical for the majority of Britons over the last seven years, and it’s apparently not quite magical enough for Theresa May, who has decided to reach for five more years in the Prime Ministerial hot seat.

According to May, the snap election was a surprise even to herself. Apparently dreamt up while on a walking holiday in Wales, the idea caught May entirely unawares – especially as she has spent the first ten months of her regime affecting affront at the very idea it could happen.

For anyone with half a brain, however, it should come as less of a surprise than the excruciating cramp that follows an hour-long wanking session. Polls (which are, of course, always to be trusted to the letter) show May as having an even higher approval rating than Claudio Ranieri (wait, what?), so it only makes sense for her to make stackloads of hay while the sun is shining.

But while it shouldn’t be a surprise to the Great British population, it could well be said to represent a shock, or even a scare, or perhaps a pant-shittingly nightmarish scenario. May appears to have engineered that most rare of accomplishments – the democratic coup. Through the sheer void of opposition facing her, she may well have hammered the last few nails in the coffin of Labour, Lib Dems et al and secured the bleakest future for a post-Brexit Britain possible.

Because, let’s face it, her electoral opponents aren’t exactly much to write sonnets about. In the Lib Dem corner, we’ve got a spineless slitherer with all the charisma of a urine-filled condom and even less backbone; he’s so keen for the gentle caress of power that he’s willing to let the Tories violate his party’s nether regions once again. Having successfully won the EU tug-of-war, UKIP’s repugnant redundancy is finally beginning to sink in and their current bigot-in-chief has shifted his focus to target LGBT equality, the rights of practicing Muslims and the future welfare of the planet’s environment. North of the border, Nicola Sturgeon continues to rabbit on about independence to an increasingly disinterested electorate, while the Greens – for all their good intentions and seemingly sensible policies – remain as irrelevant as ever, squeaking away indignantly in the corner while the rest of the House of Commons shout over them like the boorish rabble that they are.

Meanwhile, the rotting corpse of the Labour Party – ostensibly the last bastion of the working classes against Tory elitism and exploitation – is desperately clawing at the earth that constitutes its own grave. With Jeremy Corbyn at its helm, the ship is being steered by a highly principled but impractically inflexible relic who has alienated half of his party and seems unwilling to lift a finger to win any of them back; in the fight to keep Labour alive, Corbyn is as much use as an anaemic vampire who’s scared of the sight of blood. Though his unwavering integrity may be commendable, he’s no match for the master bloodsucker Tony Blair and his legion of nocturnal cronies, who seem intent on devouring the party from the inside out.

All of this chaos means that Theresa May is faced with an open goal to re-election. Despite sporting the most macabre grin this side of the witching hour, all May needs to do to scoop an overwhelming majority is repeat meaningless mantras about “Brexit meaning Brexit” and “strength and stability” and the coveted prize is hers. Then, with the minimum of effort expended, she can shuffle off home, unfasten those pins that keep her smile in place, peel off the wig and feast on the bones of her enemies in front of Gogglebox. She’s such a terrifying figure that she makes Angelica Huston look like Melissa Joan Hart by comparison. RIP Labour, RIP NHS and RIP Great Britain.

So what’s the answer? Find the nearest plot of sand and bury your head in it? Up sticks and relocate to the most obscure Polynesian island you can find on a map? Turn the oven up to full throttle and wear it like a hat? Any of the above would be reasonable responses to the state of British politics if it wasn’t for one little thing – the state of world politics.

With ISIS finding ever-more inventive ways to butcher innocents, Donald Trump repeatedly poking Kim Jong-un with a stick and the climate stubbornly insisting on change, all of our own petty squabbles are sure to become irrelevant before long. Brexit or not, Labour or Tory, the human race is living on borrowed time…so just enjoy the last bit of sand in our hourglass before it gets drowned by rising tides or blown up by nuclear warheads or chopped up into little tiny bits by irrational extremists.

So, come June 8th, vote for who you like – just don’t get too upset if the result doesn’t go your way. In the long run, or even in the shortish-middle run, it won’t fucking matter.