by Lucien Young
Out of interest, I asked Julian if I could see a full list of the PMQs submitted by the public. After a few attempts to dissuade me, he opened his laptop and showed me the following:
Would the Prime Minister agree that Jeremy Corbyn is a scruffy, clueless throwback who should resign immediately?
This is Dale from Cheadle Hulme. Can the Prime Minister explain why it hurts when I wee?
How come any immigrant can walk into a job as a doctor just cos they have a PhD in medicine?
Oi, Jez, why are you so shit?
Dear Mr Corbyn, I ‘poked’ my grandkids on Facebook and they have not ‘poked’ me back. It’s been 48 hours – please advise.
Go back to Rusher u hippy!!!1!
jeremy is daddy. i want him to rub that beard all over me lol.
BY REFUSING TO PRAISE COMRADE STALIN, CRYPTO-FASCIST CORBYN HAS EXPOSED HIMSELF AS A NEOLIBERAL TRAITOR. HE WILL BE LIQUIDATED IN THE REVOLUTION.
And so on and so on … and I’ve left out the really bad ones.
2nd October
Apparently there are those in the party who worry that I’m insufficiently ‘cool’ to connect with younger voters. What complete rubbish!
Anyway, manhole cover update: Thames Water, hexagonal with pattern of small raised hexagons, by Stanton plc.
5th October
Today I was introduced to Ms Sally Finch, who has been sent over from Labour HQ to ‘revamp my image’. I was unaware my image had been vamped in the first place, so this came as something of a surprise. Anyway, a little after lunchtime there was a knock on my office door. I glanced up from my copy of Ethical Cyclist to see a stern, business-suited lady in her fifties. She gave me a stiff handshake and shot a disapproving look at the Karl Marx figurine on my desk.
She said: ‘I’m a communications and public relations professional, specialising in client-facing solutions and the consumer/trendsetter nexus. I’ve been performing image management for senior figures in the party since the start of New Labour.’
I did my best to stifle a wince, then explained to her that we don’t like that phrase around here – New Labour is in the past and Old Labour is the future.
She frowned, then said: ‘Nevertheless, it’s my job to make you seem like a viable prime minister. On that note, I’ve set up a meeting this afternoon, so that the team can discuss optimising your perception matrix moving forward.’
I just blinked and nodded.
The meeting was more awful than I could have imagined. Sally explained that she wants to make me ‘more me’, which seems to entail changing every detail of my appearance, behaviour and voice. According to her, it’s vital to the party’s fortunes that I dress better, as befits a PM-in-waiting.
She said: ‘No offence, but you look like a geography teacher whose wife’s kicked him out.’
A related goal of Sally’s is to stop me wearing my ‘Lenin cap’. I pointed out that this headgear wasn’t exclusive to Comrade Vladimir, and is also commonly known as the mariner’s or fiddler’s cap. She responded by questioning this logic, asking if I would wear a Hitler moustache. I told her obviously not – that would mean shaving my beard. Julian attempted to come to my beard’s defence.
Sally said: ‘I’m sorry, is he here on some kind of work experience?’
Eventually I got bored. These endless meetings make me feel like I’m back in school, which I hated so much that I only got two Es at A Level, in a heroic protest against the oppressive exam board system. Perhaps noting my distraction, Sally raised her voice, saying that I need to show people I can compromise in order to win them over. I replied that the commentariat and the Parliamentary Labour Party may be resistant, but members of the public love me.
She said: ‘If only that were the case. We’ve done extensive polling and these are the results,’ then waved a bunch of graphs in front of my face.
I said: ‘You can prove anything with numbers.’
She said: ‘Fine. We’ve also been running a series of focus groups with core Labour voters. When asked to choose a word to describe the Leader of the Opposition, the most common were “catastrophe”, “liability” and “shit-pocalypse”. With all due respect, Jeremy, you may not like my methods, but you most certainly need them.’
With that, she finally drew the meeting to a close and everyone returned to their desks. I turned to Julian and said: ‘Right, that’s quite enough for one day. I’m going manholing.’
‘Wow, okay …’ he replied. ‘Is that some kind of Grindr thing?’
After a somewhat awkward exchange, I made it clear that I was referring to my hobby of inspecting manhole covers, rather than having anonymous sex with other men. Not that I have any objection to that sort of thing – I stand in solidarity with our friends in the LGBTQ+ community. The upshot is, I spotted an exquisite coal plate (fleur-de-lis design, John C. Aston & Sons LD, 70 Essex Road, Islington), so the day did end on a high note.
12th October
Julian seemed glum this morning, so I brought him a cup of tea and asked what the matter was. The lad replied that, while he still believes in our socialist project, the universally negative press coverage has dented his confidence.
I said: ‘You can’t go getting distracted by what people think. That is, if you even count journalists as people.’
He said: ‘But doesn’t it, like, get you down, all of them saying you’re unfit to be prime minister?’
I replied that I often take comfort in the words of Shakespeare: ‘Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.’
He responded: ‘Wasn’t the character who said that, like, a vain idiot?’
Will have to investigate …
14th October
It’s been a draining couple of weeks, so I decided to perk myself up by going on a demonstration. I forget what we were actually marching for or against, but the atmosphere was electric. Young people with piercings and multi-coloured hair kept asking me for ‘selfies’, and, around lunchtime, I whipped out the Tupperware and started handing out Cajun-style Quorn balls. I had such a splendid day that I didn’t realise my mobile phone had run out of battery. Upon arriving home, I plugged it in to charge and was confronted with the following texts:
JULIAN FORBES: Hi Jeremy, was just wondering when you’ll be arriving at the office today. Obvs no sweat, J.
JULIAN FORBES: Hi Jeremy, just to let you know that Sally’s looking for you. Hit me back when you get the chance.
JULIAN FORBES: Would be super cool if you could call Sally. She’s doing a lot of pacing …
JULIAN FORBES: Okay, so Sally just shouted at me and I gave her your mobile number. Hope you don’t mind :(
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Jeremy, this is Sally. Call me back.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: As I’m sure you remember, you’re meant to be doing an interview with someone from the Observer. Please answer your phone, Sally.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: The guy is sitting in your office and there’s only so many cups of tea Julian can make him.
TOM WATSON: Mate, check out Johnny Marr’s album Playland if you get the chance. Obviously it’s not up there with the Smiths, but there’s definitely a few bangers on there.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Jeremy, where on earth are you?
UNKNOWN NUMBER: OH FOR GOD’S SAKE.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: The interviewer has now left. Apparently, in lieu of a profile, he plans to write a piece called ‘Jeremy Corbyn – The Invisible Man’.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: In future, I would appreciate it if you could let me know when you’re going to pull this sort of stunt.
BATEY (NEXT DOOR): This is your last warning about the roses. If you don’t sort them out, I’m cutting them down myself.
Well, there you go – do we need any more evidence that modern technology makes us unhappy?
15th October
In what I suspect is an attempt to keep tabs on me, Sally is insisting I relinquish my trusty old Nokia and start using a smartphone. She says this will help me ‘focus on t
he job at hand’. A device was promptly brought to the office and Julian went about setting it up. I am generally dismissive of such consumerist rubbish, but changed my mind when he started demonstrating the phone’s many cool features. The thing’s got a built-in camera! Think of all the fascinating manhole covers I’ll be able to capture … Plus, it has the internet, so I can Google facts wherever I am! Spent the rest of the day photographing various drains, then selecting the ideal filter to go with them. So, in a way, Sally did keep me focused!
21st October
The press has its knives out once again, this time due to my choice of clothing. In a piece headlined ‘ACCEPTABLE IN THE SEVENTIES’, I am accused of being a dowdy ‘fashion victim’, who exclusively wears outfits that were last in style decades ago. I read out this unprovoked hit piece to Mrs Corbyn at the dinner table. She said: ‘To be fair, dear, I’ve often said your wardrobe could do with an update.’
Perhaps I’m no Georgio Armani, but I think I can rock a canary-yellow short-sleeved shirt as well as the next man …
26th October
At Sally’s behest, we went to Jermyn Street to buy what she called a ‘grown-up suit’. While she sat outside the fitting room, tapping away at her iPad, I tried on a selection of outfits. However, the jackets felt too restrictive and the synthetic fabric created static against my skin, so I soon found myself yearning for the sweet embrace of corduroy. I emerged from behind the curtain and explained to Sally that, while I understand she has a job to do, there’s no sense in pretending I’m something I’m not. The way I dress is part of the Corbyn deal, like it or lump it. She agreed to resume this discussion another day and took the clothes back to the shop assistant. Unfortunately, the guy kept badgering me, so I ended up buying a tie out of embarrassment. Don’t imagine I’ll ever wear it – I already own all the neckwear I need (five red ones for work, plus a Wallace and Gromit pattern for light-hearted occasions).
SHOPPING WITH SALLY
29th October
A curious and troubling dream last night. In it, I was woken by the revving of engines and the pungent smell of petrol. Sitting up, I glimpsed, at the foot of my bed, a poodle-haired man with bulldog features, wearing a leather jacket and jeans several times too tight for someone his age.
‘Who are you?’ I cried, to which he responded, in a growl: ‘Only a Loony Left oik would ask that. I’m Jeremy Clarkson, the nation’s favourite Jeremy.’
Trying to suppress the quiver in my voice, I observed that he couldn’t really be described as such, as the title was surely held by me. The man responded in terms that were ableist regarding my mental health, so I decided to move on, asking him what business he had being in my bedroom.
‘I’d say I was the voice of your subconscious,’ he replied, ‘if that didn’t make me sound like an egghead and a poof.’
I attempted to chide this Clarkson for his homophobic language, but doing so sent him into a pink-faced paroxysm about ‘liberal snowflakes’ and ‘political correctness gone mad’. Once he had caught his breath, he proceeded to float through the air, hovering over the bed so that his jowls were inches from my face.
‘My point is,’ he said, ‘how can you hope to lead this country when you have no understanding of the common Brit? Your average bloke won’t vote for some sandal-footed, Guardian-reading, woman-respecting lentil-lover! No, if you want the man on the street to hear you out, you need to be like me.’
With that he was gone, leaving nothing behind but a whiff of lager and the faint echo of an ethnic slur. I awoke in a cold sweat and was forced to calm myself by listening to the entire A-side of Now That’s What I Call Panpipes! What on earth could have prompted this hallucination? Perhaps the goats’ cheese risotto I had for dinner, which, though delicious, had been in the freezer for several years.
30th October
The headline in today’s Sun: CHANCELLOR OF THE SEX-CHEQUER: LOONY CORBS WANTS BONKING TAX. I asked around the office and no one has any idea where the story came from. I mean, how would that even work? So much for appeasing the press!
THE NIGHTMARE
Chapter Four
Arrival of The Boy and some alarming news concerning his employment. Joining the Privy Council proves to be a social minefield. My new phone meets an untimely end. Paradise found, then lost, in the form of the Highbury Pottery Club.
1st November
Answered the door this morning and who should be stood there but The Boy! I must confess I was startled to see him – since he moved to Shoreditch, we’ve heard scarcely a peep. This didn’t seem to trouble him, though, as he greeted me with a casual ‘Yo Dad, what’s up?’
THE BOY
We moved inside, where The Boy – neglecting to take off his shoes – scooped up his stepmother in a vigorous hug. It is a fine testament to Mrs Corbyn that she has always treated The Boy as her own. In fact, she takes his side against me more often than not, which, I must confess, is fairly irritating. While they exchanged greetings, I took the opportunity to inspect my son. The Boy has always resembled me closely – perhaps a little less rugged and lacking the magnificent beard – but he’s looking rather wan these days. I do hope this isn’t a sign of dissolution. Then again, I can hardly talk; in my wild youth, I was known to drink most of a pint of cider and talk land reform until the early hours.
As we sat around the kitchen table, each furnished with a hearty bowl of steamed quinoa, The Boy explained the reason for his visit. It seems he has quit his employment at the Kind Hands Organic Seed Company. Of course, I said he should march back to their office and withdraw his resignation immediately, to which he responded: ‘It’s no good, Dad – they’ve sacked me! Those guys are so short-sighted and risk-averse – it was all “ethical” this, “sustainable” that. If I’m honest, I’m glad to be shot of the place. That said, there is the question of where I’ll be living, now I can’t pay my rent …’
After a long pause, I suggested he consider a solid, respectable job, like working on a collective farm.
He said: ‘Actually, I was thinking of something in finance? Or retraining as a lawyer? Maybe something more entrepreneurial …’
I need hardly tell you that, upon hearing this, I felt the blood drain from my face. The word ‘entrepreneurial’ has never been uttered in the Corbyn household and I pray to God (in whom, admittedly, I don’t believe) that it never will be again. To be fair to The Boy, he was immediately conscious of his faux pas and returned to the subject of accommodation. Naturally, I told him that he had a place with us for as long as he needed it.
‘I’m very grateful for that, Dad,’ he said. ‘It’s pretty embarrassing. But, you see, rent in London is so expensive …’
I said: ‘No need to apologise. The lack of affordable housing is a national disgrace. Someone should do something about it.’
‘Isn’t that literally your job?’ The Boy replied.
Talk about gratitude!
THE BULLIES
Spent the rest of the day helping The Boy move his possessions from the Shoreditch warehouse space where he’s been living. We hired a white van man, who soon recognised me as a senior politician, and so devoted most of the journey to providing me with his views on immigration (he’s not a fan). I’m a fervent defender of the working class, but sometimes talking to them is quite counterproductive …
2nd November
As may have been apparent from the above entry, I had certain reservations about The Boy moving in. It gives me no pleasure to say that my doubts were swiftly confirmed: he chose to celebrate his first night back in the family home by going out drinking with his mates ‘from the City’. On top of that, he was surly and hung-over this morning, vociferously objecting when I played a Gambian funk record at full volume (a vital part of my morning ritual).
6th November
To be a socialist at Westminster is to be constantly subject to abuse from class enemies. I was innocently Googling facts about London’s sewage system in the Commons dining room this lunchtime, when I
was assailed by those toff bullies Boris Johnson and Jacob Rees-Mogg.
Boris cried: ‘I say, Moggers, look at Corbo! The bearded shabbaroon goes about spouting communist piffle-paffle, but he’s still happy to use a smartphone. Talk about champagne socialism!’
Rees-Mogg smirked and said: ‘Cura te ipsum …’
I responded that I do not approve of the term ‘champagne socialism’. Firstly, I don’t drink champagne. Secondly, why should nice things be the reserve of the 1 per cent? As far as I’m concerned, we should have a National Champagne Service, so that anyone who wants champagne can have it! But again, not me – it gives me a headache.
Johnson and Rees-Mogg walked on, chortling and swapping Latin puns. I hoped that my spirited rebuttal had given the poshos pause for thought, but no – a couple of minutes after I’d returned to browsing Joseph Bazalgette’s Wikipedia page, I was struck on the side of the head by a bread roll and, looking up, saw the pair of them giggling into their sleeves. Alas, like Gandhi or Nelson Mandela, I must suffer for my beliefs (though neither of them had to deal with the hurling of baked goods).
7th November
I was putting the last of The Boy’s boxes in the attic when I slipped off the ladder and did my back a disservice. Fortunately I was only a couple of rungs up, but it was still a nasty shock. Not that you would have known this from The Boy’s reaction, which was to hoot with derision and pronounce my tumble ‘classic’.
