It’s hard to imagine a more excruciating hour. One that was meant to re-establish the prime minister’s authority over her party ended in pity from an audience who could scarcely bring themselves to look her in the eye. Open ridicule would almost have been a kinder reaction.

Theresa May had always intended her speech to be personal; she just had no idea it was going to get this personal. She began by trying to rid herself of her Maybot image. Her election campaign had been too presidential. Too scripted. She said, reading awkwardly from a script. Even when she is trying to be engaging, sentences don’t come naturally to her.

“The British. Dream. That. Is what I am. In politics. For,” she repeated leadenly time and again as she tried to reinvent herself as a three-dimensional entity. But each time she said it, she only sounded more automated. Emotional intelligence is even harder to master than artificial intelligence.

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Then the British Dream turned into a nightmare. First the comedian Simon Brodkin, dressed as a conference delegate, wandered up to the stage. “Boris asked me to give this to you,” he said, handing her a P45. Which Theresa gratefully accepted. Because in her heart of hearts, this was what she had always really wanted. Being PM just wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. It was too stressful. No fun.

Theresa’s mouth opened and shut, gulping for words that wouldn’t come. After a 30-second break, she eventually got round to making a lame gag about wanting to give Jeremy Corbyn his P45. Thinking on her feet does not come easily to her, but the conference gave her their first standing ovation. Willing her to recover. Not because they necessarily believed in her leadership, but because they couldn’t bear to watch her discomfort any longer.

Play Video 1:11 Prankster interrupts Theresa May's conference speech to hand her fake P45 – video

It rapidly got worse. Once Brodkin was escorted out the hall, it was the turn of Theresa’s voice to make its own protest. By going awol. This time she knew what words she wanted to say, she just couldn’t get them out as her voice had its own psychosomatic, narcissistic, breakdown. She tried to clear her throat. She drank water. Still nothing came out. Eventually the chancellor handed her a cough sweet which temporarily did the trick.

“The British. Dream. That is. What I. Am in Poli. Tics for,” she croaked in a barely audible whisper. By now almost everyone in the audience was feeling almost as uncomfortable as her. People started muttering and staring at the floor. Opera heroines have died a less public, less agonising death.

Theresa stared desperately at the lectern. She still had half of her speech to get through. What to do? The panic in her eyes suggested her first instinct was to make a dash for the exit. To wrap the whole thing up with a quick: “You know what? This isn’t working, is it? You’d rather be anywhere but here, I’d rather be anywhere but here, so why don’t we just cut our losses?”

But then she caught sight of the ambition reflected in the eyes of several members of the cabinet who were sitting in the second row and carried on. To piss them off, if nothing else.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Cabinet members listen as Theresa May delivers her speech at conference. Photograph: Rupert Hartley/Rex/Shutterstock

Still though the words would barely come out. In the battle between Theresa and the frog in her throat, the frog was winning hands down. She tried another “The British Dream that. Is what I am in. Politics for” – but the frog just started laughing at her. Everyone else was just dying a bit inside. Along with her.

For a while the frog did give her a bit of a respite and she made a mad dash for the finishing line. But even though she was now speaking no one was really listening. They were just willing it all to end. For her to be put out of her misery.

So no one heard her try to reinvent herself as the new Ed Miliband with a social justice agenda. Probably just as well, as that hadn’t worked out particularly well for him. They also didn’t hear her say anything about Brexit. Though that was because she hadn’t got anything to say about it.

As she reached her final appeal for the party to stop squabbling – a bit rich after she had spent the previous three days saying how united the cabinet was – the frog got the upper hand again. This time it didn’t limit itself to obstructing her throat, it also hopped across the stage and started knocking letters off the slogan, Building a country that works for everyone, on the screen behind her. First the f of for disappeared. Then the last e of everyone fell to the ground. Theresa’s world was literally falling apart around her.

Her husband rushed to give her a hug. The ovation that followed was one of sympathy. The sendoff to an elderly relative whom you probably won’t be seeing again. In adversity, the Maybot had finally found her humanity. But almost certainly lost her job.