THE prime ministerial glumbucket was back.

After returning from Buck House where HMQ asked her to form a new government, the PM returned to a heavily fortified Downing Street in the Government silver limo.

As she strode up towards the lectern, with her bin man Philip dutifully by her side, she was met with a cacophony of clicks from cameras of all shapes and sizes.

The photographers and cameramen from all over the world were two ranks high and two ranks deep as they sought to get that vital snap of a premier outwardly looking strong in Tory neon blue but inwardly trying desperately to hold things together in the face of a humiliating election result.

With the whirr of a helicopter overhead it was difficult to make out some of her remarks as the camera clicks continually played their cacophonous music.

It seemed clear, however, from her words that, despite the calls for her to go, Mother Theresa was determined to stay put; for a while, at least.

Stressing how what the country needed was certainty – aye right – she insisted it was only the Conservative and Unionist Party, with a clear emphasis on the word Unionist, that had the legitimacy and ability to provide that certainty by commanding a majority in the Commons. The phrase "strong and stable" did not cross her lips. Funny that.

Then came the rub. She mentioned the Tories’ good friends and allies in the DUP, or the undertakers as they are known because whenever they get involved in propping up a government, you can bet the administration in question has a limited lifespan; remember the Major government.

No doubt, all those lovely roads, shopping centres and sport arenas that Northern Ireland has been crying out for will suddenly materialise as the DUP names it price for its loyal support to their fellow Unionists across the water.

Such an alliance, a coalition of chaos her opponents will brand it, would be necessary to deliver Brexit, which, of course, Northern Ireland voted against.

As husband Philip, hands clasped behind his back, stood silently behind the PM one could not help thinking that personally he was telling himself: “I could really do without this. Might be time to take out the bins.”

After her speech, the head girl turned and stood on the No 10 doorstep looking as grim as grim could be, epitomising the description of a “glumbucket,” which one hack lovingly gave her.

Before the famous black door closed behind her, polite applause rang out from the staff inside. But it seems clear that it will be some considerable time before Thezza feels like celebrating.