by Lucien Young
To make matters worse, the press is being appalling about yesterday’s minor oversight. ‘CORBYN SPITS ON WAR DEAD’. ‘JEZ SEZ F.U. TO VETZ’. ‘HANG THIS TREASONOUS TROT BY HIS BEARD’. And that’s before we get into the really harsh stuff … Still, what can you expect from centrist rags like the Guardian?
For dinner this evening, I whipped up my famous Chickpea Surprise.fn1 As I brought out our plates, Mrs Corbyn volunteered that she wouldn’t mind doing a spot of cooking now and then, especially as I’m so busy these days. I was touched by her kind offer, but made it clear that I consider my culinary endeavours a vital blow against traditional gender roles. Plus, it’s a win-win situation, what with all the delicious vegetarian fare we get to eat! Unfortunately, Mrs Corbyn wasn’t feeling too well, so I had to pour most of her meal on the compost heap.
18th September
It’s now been two whole weeks since I last had time to visit the allotment. How overrun with weeds it must be! I relayed these concerns to Mrs Corbyn, and finished by saying: ‘If I don’t tend to my allotment, it will soon become an a-little-ment!’
Mrs Corbyn remained strangely silent. When I asked if she was feeling all right, she replied: ‘I’m fine, it’s just that your joke felt a bit laboured.’
‘I would hope it was laboured,’ I said, ‘given the party I lead!’
This witticism was received no better than the first, and so I went into the garden to replenish the bird feeder.
19th September
The papers are still being awful. The cream of today’s headlines was: JEZ-POT – LABOUR’S LEFTIE LOON IS A TOTAL DICK-TATOR. I decided I needed to clear my head. Usually, I like nothing better than to amble around Islington and have a natter with my constituents, writing down their problems in a black notebook. Nowadays I can’t do that, what with the constant threat of being ambushed by journalists, desperate to pry into my views on Trident and the EU. In the end, I decided to go for an invigorating bike ride, taking in the sights, sounds and many smells of north London. Everywhere I went, happy people waved and shouted out: ‘You go, Jeremy!’, ‘Good on you, mate!’ and a couple of things I’m sure I misheard.
These excursions always instil in me a tremendous sense of tranquillity and perspective. Sure enough, I found myself reflecting on when I volunteered in Jamaica as a young man. I was a carefree, freshly bearded chap back then, and would often try my hand at poetry. In fact, I was so happy with one verse I submitted it to the New Statesman. Never heard back, sadly. Anyway, upon returning home, I felt inspired to write the following:
AN ODE TO MY BICYCLE
By Jeremy Corbyn
‘Four wheels bad, two wheels good’
George Orwell might have written
If he hadn’t been so busy
Having a go at the Soviet Union
Via the medium of animals.
As for me, I’ll say it loud and proud:
I like
My bike.
It’s better far
Than any car
And benefits both my personal health and that of the environment.
I hope this verse inspires
The reader to re-inflate their tyres
And with all drivers make a schism
As we peddle forward to socialism.
Cyclists of the world unite!
You have nothing to lose but your chains!
Not a bad effort, after all these years! I read it to Mrs Corbyn over dinner and she was so overwhelmed by the sentiment of the thing she could barely finish her mung bean linguini.
20th September
Another journalistic atrocity: the Sun has chosen to lead with a photo of me on my bike, apparently swerving to avoid a small boy, with the headline SHARP LEFT TURN. The photo is clearly doctored – after all, I’m a highly experienced cyclist, so there was never any danger of me hitting that child. And if there was, it was his fault anyway. John McDonnell is very insistent that I can no longer cycle around Islington whenever the mood takes me. Apparently the security people are concerned that, unless I use a ministerial car, they ‘cannot guarantee my safety’.
I said: ‘No need to worry about safety. I always wear a helmet.’
John shouted: ‘For goodness’ sake, Jeremy! What if you get run down by a terrorist?’
I replied: ‘Better that than to terrorise the earth with carbon emissions!’ I thought this was rather witty, but he didn’t seem to see the funny side.
Things were relatively quiet at the office today, so I managed to squeeze in an hour or so of manhole cover spotting. Found a gorgeous specimen: Durham Brothers, Bow Road, London – mosaic pattern with concentric circles. Mrs Corbyn doesn’t understand my second life as an operculist and would no doubt prefer I spent these hours on something more productive. However, I see no harm in this hobby of mine. Manhole covers never hurt anybody.
Update: Having consulted Google, it seems that injuries resulting from defective manhole covers are, unfortunately, quite common. Still, I’m not giving up the pastime, mortal peril be damned.
21st September
The Daily Mail is reporting that David Cameron, while studying at Oxford, ‘placed a private part of his anatomy’ in a dead pig’s mouth. This is just the sort of baseless ad hominem attack that poisons our discourse and distracts from important issues.
That said, it is extremely funny.
Chapter Two
I travel to Brighton. Inauspicious beginnings to the party conference. I write a decent speech and a great poem. Celebrations get out of hand, resulting in embarrassment and a difficult journey home.
27th September
Off to Brighton for my first conference as party leader! It will certainly make a change to be at the centre of things, rather than just speaking at fascinating fringe events, like ‘Solidarity with Traffic Wardens’ and ‘The Future of the Cheese Industry’. Mrs Corbyn has chosen not to come. She says she would love nothing more, but worries that she would be a distraction from my leaderly duties. I trust in her sincerity, though I do note that she’s ordered several bottles of Prosecco on the weekly shop and updated her Netflix queue with various films I consider to be barely concealed American propaganda.
Grabbed the 8:15 from Victoria. As a lifelong socialist, I unconditionally love all forms of public transport. That being said, I tend to have unpleasant experiences on trains, and this trip was no exception. For starters, there was no fair trade coffee available from the buffet car. After some discussion, Julian and I concluded that the social change I could achieve by being alert outweighed the evil of buying an unfair coffee. However, the moment I picked up the cup, its plastic lid flew off and the majority of the scalding liquid went down my shirt front. My first instinct was to shout at the server for not attaching the lid more securely, but that would have been a violation of class solidarity. As an under-unionised victim of the private rail industry, he was doubtless exhausted by having to work untenable hours, so I kept quiet and retreated to a toilet to rinse my shirt. While struggling to fit my soiled garment in the tiny sink, I must have activated the hand-drier’s motion sensor, which caused the shirt to be blown out of my hands, and the left sleeve to fall in the toilet bowl. In my haste to retrieve it, I inadvertently elbowed the ‘Open Door’ button, causing my bare torso to be exposed to the rest of the carriage. I’m sorry to report that my fellow passengers let themselves down by laughing at my misfortune.
If I thought these indignities might abate when I reached the hotel, then more fool me. As an ardent republican, I had naturally refused the party’s offer of a ‘king-sized’ room, but at the very least I was expecting to have one to myself. Alas, having arrived at reception, I was informed by the spotty young man behind the desk that my suite was double-booked and so I would have to share with Julian. Again, I didn’t want to add to the oppression of the proletariat, so kept any resentful feelings to myself as I was handed my key.
Now, I’m not one to indulge in conspiracy theories, but all of my cabinet colleagues seem to have ended up wi
th suites considerably larger and more luxurious than mine. Not that I require luxury – I’m a humble man and so can make do with a humble hotel room. In fact, I prefer it. Looked at this way, the whole business has actually worked out in my favour.
Speaking of senior Labour folk, while I was still in the lobby, my former adversary in the leadership competition, Yvette Cooper, walked straight past me. I choose not to see this as a deliberate snub – people are always telling me I have remarkably unremarkable features.
After lunch, John and Diane popped round to my hotel room, suggesting that we head over to Brighton Pier and play some games at the arcade. Apparently it makes you seem more ‘relatable’ if the press get a photo of you having a go at air hockey or winning a Minion from the claw machine. I had to remind them that I don’t approve of games, which tend to create an unhelpful dichotomy of winners and losers. They went off without me, giving me time to read Das Kapital on the pebbly beach.
Got back to the hotel around 9 p.m. As I approached my room, dreading the sight of Julian in his pyjamas, I became aware of the sound of thumping bass and many voices coming from Andy Burnham’s suite. I knocked on the door, which was soon answered by the man himself, who had a cocktail in his hand and a lampshade on his head. Revellers were mingling behind him, while the sound system played ‘Things Can Only Get Better’ at full volume.
Andy winced and said: ‘Hello, Jeremy. Anything I can do for you?’
I said: ‘Oh no, I just heard you having a party and thought I’d swing by.’
He said: ‘Ah, sorry, no party here, mate.’
At this point, Tom Watson popped up and clapped Andy on the shoulder, saying: ‘Great party, man. Mind if plug my phone into the dock, play some Modest Mouse?’
Burnham turned back to me and said: ‘Yeah, so I’m probably heading to bed now? Laters.’
Before I could respond, he had slammed the door in my face. I must confess this hurt my feelings.
28th September
Terrible night’s sleep thanks to Julian’s snoring. Donned my sandals for an early-morning stroll by the seaside, to wake myself up. Brighton’s lovely, though I don’t like to be out of Islington too long (unless it’s on a cycling trip around a former Soviet bloc country). Still, this is the sort of place I would like to see replicated throughout Britain: 80 per cent of businesses are antique shops, the pubs sell only vegan snacks, and you’re never more than ten feet away from a concert of Ugandan psychedelic funk. Plus, they’ve got the nation’s only Green Party MP, which I think is great (though my colleagues beg me not to say this in public).
Returned to my hotel room, where Julian, John, Diane and I put the finishing touches to my big speech. Diane said: ‘Maybe you could try and sound a little less – and don’t take this the wrong way – bewildered?’
John said: ‘Mmm, yes, and it would be great if we could ease off on the pained expressions. You do sometimes seem like you’re being held at gunpoint.’
I replied that I am being held at gunpoint, along with all my fellow citizens – the gunpoint of income disparity, the gunpoint of unaffordable housing, the gunpoint of NHS cuts.
Diane said: ‘Okay, Jeremy, save the speeches for tomorrow.’
I have decided to read my words from a teleprompter. Ed Miliband got rid of the practice back in the day, opting to memorise his speeches instead. I won’t be doing that – if I go learning speeches off by heart, it might force important things out of my brain.
In the afternoon, I went to speak at a fringe event I do every year, entitled ‘Improving Britain’s Bollards’. This is usually a lot of fun, and I was heartened to see attendance up massively from last year’s audience of five. I gave a rather inspiring speech, whizzing through such subjects as bollard placement, minimum girth regulations and the ever-contentious ‘steel vs concrete’ debate. I thought I was in for a decent round of applause, if not a standing ovation. However, as soon as I finished, I found myself being peppered with irrelevant questions: ‘Jeremy, will you be campaigning for Britain to stay in the EU?’, ‘Jeremy, what do you say to those who claim you’re weak on defence?’, ‘Jeremy, why do you think members of your own party are saying you’re unelectable?’ When I made it clear I would only be responding to bollard-related queries, there was a brief pause before they continued with their previous lines of enquiry. With a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, it dawned on me that these new attendees were not bollard enthusiasts at all, but rather members of the hated mainstream media. I mumbled my apologies to the event’s organisers and went for a stroll to soothe my jangled nerves.
I don’t mind admitting that I felt pretty dispirited with how the conference had gone so far. Still, walking along the High Street, I spotted a very impressive manhole cover, festooned with rhombuses and a proud knop. When I got back to my hotel room, I felt inspired to jot down the following:
MANHOLE
By Jeremy Corbyn
How might this feeble pen of mine extol
The subtle majesty of thee, manhole?
Cast-iron seal that keeps the sewer’s stench
From dear old ladies sat upon a bench.
Though functional, your style must be described:
Divinely patterned, beautifully inscribed
So often has it thrilled my heart to see
On thee ‘T. Crapper, 1863’
And, furthermore, it makes my eye grow misty
To think of how you represent our hist’ry.
In ev’ry manhole cover I divine
The glories of municipal design.
I stare at thee that I might ne’er forget
The great accomplishments of Bazalgette!
I think this is easily the best poem I’ve ever written (at least on the subject of civil engineering). I called up Mrs Corbyn to read it down the phone, and she was suitably impressed.
29th September
After a fitful sleep, I awoke on the day of the big speech. Was I nervous? Yes, I can’t deny that. I was more nervous than the time I spilled a bowl of soup on John Prescott. Perhaps I should have spent last night learning my speech instead of writing that manhole poem … Unfortunately, I had no time to rehearse beforehand, as I’d agreed to speak at the event ‘Hummus and Hamas – Building Solidarity Through Middle Eastern Cooking’.
It turns out I needn’t have worried – my words were rapturously received. Even though my MPs are determined to act like a bunch of sourpusses, the membership still loves me. The delegates cheered so long and so frequently that my twenty-minute speech ended up taking an hour! Exiting the stage, I found my team looking rather grim, considering the applause still thundering behind me. As is so often the case with members of his generation, Julian was glued to his phone screen. When I admonished him for being a typical millennial, he explained that he was checking the Twitter reaction to my speech.
He said: ‘The Mail’s calling it “the deranged ramblings of an imbecile”.’
I said: ‘Could be worse.’
He said: ‘This is from the Sun: “Like watching your grandad shuffle around the nursing home.”’
I said: ‘Not terribly constructive. But what do you expect from those right-wing rags? How about the friendly papers?’
He said: ‘The guy from the Mirror just tweeted that he’s had enough, so he’s heading down the pub.’
I turned to John and Diane and said: ‘Who cares what the commentariat thinks? I’ve never seen a conference crowd so fired up.’
John said: ‘That’s all very well, Jeremy, but those are just a few thousand people.’
I said: ‘Quality not quantity.’
Diane said: ‘I’m pretty sure that’s not how elections work …’
At this point, Julian thought it prudent to read out the following: ‘“An absolute f-ing abomination. The man should be taken out in a field and shot.”’
I said: ‘Listen, I don’t think we need concern ourselves with the words of some anonymous troll.’
He said: ‘That was Polly Toyn
bee.’
Well, the sceptics can cavil and carp all they want. Their voices will be drowned out by the cheering crowds of young people inspired by my message. I’m comfortable that I made an entirely acceptable speech and will now go out to celebrate. In fact, despite my usual abstemiousness, I may even have a drink or two …
30th September
Horribly hung-over on my way back to London. Last night’s merriment got entirely out of hand and I’m afraid I made rather a fool of myself. I arrived at my favourite Brighton pub, the Worker and Comrade, around 7 p.m., where I was greeted with hearty cheers. After leading a spirited rendition of ‘The Red Flag’, someone handed me half a pint of lager shandy, which I was silly enough to down in one. From that point onwards, I remember only snatches of the evening. I’m ashamed to say I gave the time of Marx and Engels’s first meeting as November 1843 instead of November 1842. Julian tells me that I clattered into our hotel room around 2 a.m., shouting ‘VIVA LA REVOLUCION!’, then kept him up for another hour with a slurred account of Castro’s march on Havana.
Was relieved to get home, where I found Mrs Corbyn looking cheerier than she has in yonks. I said, jokingly: ‘I hope you haven’t been having too much fun without me.’
Dropping a couple of empty Prosecco bottles into the recycling, she smiled and replied: ‘No, nothing like that – mainly just ordering takeaways and watching Sex and the City …’
Chapter Three
One Sally Finch is brought in to improve my image. The biased right-wing media step up their attack. I am forced to upgrade my phone. I have a strange and unsettling dream.
1st October
Awful headlines this morning. Some in the office want me to mount a ‘charm offensive’ with Murdoch et al, but there’s really no point. You can’t win with these people – just look at Ed Miliband, who got attacked for eating a bacon sandwich the wrong way. In my view there’s no right way to eat bacon at all, but that’s neither here nor there.
