The Secret Diary of Jeremy Corbyn

by Lucien Young

  He said, and I quote: ‘Bloody hell, Dad, you made a noise like Tarzan caught his dick in a door!’

  Mrs Corbyn was less sympathetic than I might have hoped – she says I shouldn’t have been wearing such loose sandals. Well, tight footwear increases one’s risk of fungal infection, so who’s being safety conscious now?

  8th November (Remembrance Sunday)

  Laid a wreath at the Cenotaph this morning to honour those who died in the two world wars and all wars since. The solemnity of the occasion was slightly undermined by my back, which is still kicking up a terrible fuss. As such, I was only able to give a subtle bow, though I can’t imagine anyone will object.

  The Boy was out late last night and only deigned to grace us with his presence around 1 p.m. As he looked rather worse for wear, I asked how he was feeling.

  He said: ‘Not great – had a lamb kebab that didn’t agree with me.’

  He realised he was in trouble the moment the words left his mouth. I said, with all the restraint I could muster: ‘I take it you’re no longer vegetarian?’

  The Boy assumed an even sicklier shade of green and, after stammering a while, replied: ‘Oh, no, I definitely am in principle, but, y’know, every now and then …’

  I said nothing and instead went for a nice warm bath, which always calms me down.

  9th November

  The Boy was out drinking again last night. Apparently someone called Gavin was celebrating a promotion at his private equity firm, so he and a bunch of the ‘City boys’ went to a wine bar in Shoreditch. I can’t say I approve of my son associating with capitalists – if he wants a bit of rowdy excitement, why doesn’t he join me at a meeting of the Islington Local Historians? I hope he isn’t falling into a life of decadence. The Boy always did have an addictive personality: I quite sensibly banned all sugar from his diet as a child, until one day he got his hands on a rogue pack of Chewits and caused mayhem at Jorvik Viking Centre. A dark day.

  10th November

  I’m to join the Privy Council tomorrow and some in my office are worried I might not be up to meeting the Queen. John McD said: ‘Now, Jeremy, we don’t want another anthem-gate on our hands. I’m as much of a republican as you, but – God knows why – the public loves those inbred weirdos.’

  I promised to be entirely courteous and spent the rest of the afternoon in my office, practising small talk on a fifty-pence coin.

  11th November

  I woke up feeling conflicted about today’s meeting with Her Majesty. On the one hand, I’m a fervent republican who rejects outright the notion that anyone is born more important than anyone else. On the other, she seems like a very nice old lady and I didn’t wish to be rude. By the time I’d finished my muesli, my mind was made up to follow the necessary protocol. While I remain unwavering in my anti-monarchist principles, I’m also keen not to kick up a fuss.

  At my team’s pleading, I agreed to take a car to Buckingham P, rather than cycle. I’d never been inside the place before – all very grand. Ran into David Cameron in the waiting room. He gave one of his Flashman grins and said: ‘Well, if it isn’t the MP for Leningrad South. Fancy seeing you here … I must admit, I was surprised when I heard you were going to bend the knee. Not gone right wing in your old age, have you?’ I reacted to these vicious attacks with quiet dignity. In fact, I wish there had been cameras present, so that everyone could see just how quietly dignified I was.

  In the end, my nomination ceremony went quite well, barring one unfortunate incident. I had done some Googling on the way to the palace (mainly to work out what the Privy Council actually does) and I discovered that it’s considered an unforgivable breach of etiquette for any commoner to turn their back on the monarch. As such, I made sure that I was facing Queen Elizabeth straight on from the moment she entered the room. I managed to maintain almost constant eye contact right up until the point at which I had to kneel before the Queen and kiss her hand.

  However, as I backed away, disaster struck: unbeknownst to me, one of our monarch’s corgis had snuck up behind me. I tripped over the creature quite spectacularly and, in an effort to break my fall, grabbed hold of a nearby wall hanging, which ripped and came crashing down on top of the hound and me. Crawling out from underneath a sea of fabric, I looked at the Queen in horror. Fortunately, she cackled and guffawed, struggling to catch her breath as she slapped her knee with her sceptre. Cameron, on the other hand, didn’t see the funny side. Instead, he turned an asphyxiated shade of puce and screamed: ‘Corbyn, you oik! That tapestry was given to Henry VIII by the Marquess of Berkeley!’

  I said I could only apologise for my clumsiness.

  He said: ‘Oh, don’t pretend it was an accident – you clearly tore it down as an ideological attack on our beloved monarchy!’

  I volunteered that, while it’s unlikely I could afford to replace the tapestry, I would be happy to ask my friends at the Harringay Embroiderers to have a go at making a new one. Her Majesty very kindly averred that this would not be necessary, as she had ‘always hated the bloody thing’. She then ended the meeting, on the grounds that ‘one is fiending for a tall glass of gin’. I was slightly surprised, this being some time before lunch, but who am I to judge?

  When I reported these events to my colleagues in the Leader’s Office, I expected them to be utterly aghast. Instead, they all looked rather relieved. John McDonell said: ‘Thank goodness you only fell over – we thought you were going to start quoting Stalin at her!’

  13th November

  Finally gave in to Sally’s entreaties and agreed to go on Andrew Marr this Monday. She thinks it’s a perfect chance for me to reintroduce myself to the British public and come across as warm and likeable, rather than a grumpy monk with pants made of nettles.

  Bought some undershirts (non-nettle-based) at the local market. Spent the rest of the afternoon playing with my phone.

  16th November

  Spent the morning dreading my interrogation at the hands (and large ears) of Andrew Marr. As the interview was scheduled for 9:45, I decide to go for a walk to calm my nerves. And then I spotted it: square, with pattern of alternating squares and rectangles, Denbigh, EN 124, B 125, R + B ductile. The jackpot! And that’s not all – nearby there lay a nineteenth-century drain grate whose manufacturer was unfamiliar to me. However, when I stooped down to photograph it, catastrophe ensued. The phone, being so damnably light and thin, slipped from my grasp and fell through the slats into the sewer. My horror was compounded when I realised that I hadn’t the first idea where the Marr interview was supposed to take place. I considered using a phone booth, but realised I’d neglected to memorise any of my colleagues’ numbers. This is what modern technology does to you! There was nothing for it but to head back to the office and face the music.

  THE DRAIN

  Shortly after I got there, an ashen-faced Sally stormed up to me, demanding to know where I’d been. I explained, causing her to turn yet greyer. ‘You dropped your phone down a drain?’ she said, with a dangerous quiver in her voice. I pointed out that, in my defence, she bore some responsibility: say what you like about my old phone, it was far too chunky to fit through a grate.

  23rd November

  Wonderful news! I have been given an honour beyond anything I might reasonably have expected: an invitation to join the Highbury Pottery Club! I’ve lobbied to be a member of this venerable institution for years and had pretty much given up hope. However while checking my emails this morning, I saw that the name ‘Howard Bibb, President’ had graced my inbox. He said that, while the club was exclusive, and open to only the most ardent potters, my status as a famed Islingtonite and committed hobbyist had persuaded them to fast-track my application! Our first meeting is this Wednesday and I plan to spend the intervening period boning up on Etruscan vases, PMQs be damned! The Boy made a flippant joke about me being ‘addicted to pot’, which I disapproved of, both as someone who has never taken drugs and as a man who is deadly serious about earthenware.

  25th N
ovember

  I was unable to concentrate at work today. All I could think about was firing, slipcasting and having a good time in the company of like-minded potters. After an interminable wait, I managed to escape the office and make a dash for Highbury. Soon Mrs Corbyn and I were happily sitting at our potter’s wheels, throwing, bulging, fluting and incising to our hearts’ content. I met so many fantastic people all of whom I expect will become my dearest friends. The only person I didn’t click with was a fellow named Greg, whom I accidentally jostled on my way to the bathroom, causing his clay to collapse. Still, I shall make it up to him! I’m sure I’ll have plenty of opportunity over our years of wheel-throwing ecstasy.

  26th November

  Terrible news! I am no longer a member of the Highbury Pottery Club! My dreams now lie as shattered as a dropped pot. It seems that, after yesterday’s meeting, Greg went around pouring poison into every ear he could find. It was determined that the HPC was an apolitical organisation and therefore the presence of a high-profile politician on the membership rolls could only serve as a distraction from its core activities. My voice shaking, I read out the heartbreaking email to Mrs Corbyn. At this point, The Boy entered and, noticing my despondency, said: ‘Wow, Dad, what’s with the glazed expression?’ This struck me as a low blow, but I was too mortified to tell him off.

  They say a career in politics prepares you for any ups and downs that life may throw your way. Whoever ‘they’ are, they have clearly never experienced the pain of being rejected from north London’s premier ceramic group. One moment you’re on top of the world, the next you’re banned from using the communal kiln.

  In the evening, I sat in my armchair, processing my grief and watching the rain fall. As I went to the kitchen to prepare a mug of Horlicks, I noticed that El Gato had been out in the garden and tracked a load of muddy paw-prints across the linoleum. I’m sorry to say that I threw some heated words in his direction. As someone who prides himself on remaining calm in the face of adversity, this shook me.

  After the trauma of my expulsion from the HPC, I think I have a better understanding of the young men who snap and become suicide bombers.

  27th November

  Woke up this morning feeling much more stoic about the whole business. Firstly, the HPC would have taken up time better spent on more important things (maintaining my allotment; generating mulch). Secondly, their mistreatment has made me think rather less of the group. To paraphrase Groucho Marx, I wouldn’t want to be in any pottery club that wouldn’t have someone like me as a member.

  Alas, my mood soured when I came downstairs to find El Gato shredding my briefing notes with all the fervour his little claws could summon. Revenge, no doubt, for yesterday’s yelling incident. As a result, I gave a fairly shambolic performance at today’s meeting of the Parliamentary Labour Party. John McD was apoplectic, even when given an explanation: ‘So, you’re literally saying the cat ate your homework?’

  Well, of course it sounds ridiculous when you put it like that …

  30th November

  Another enervating meeting with Sally about my ‘image’. Now she’s after the beard! Says it makes me look like ‘Santa Claus on hunger strike’. I replied, rather firmly, that I have been awarded ‘Parliamentary Beard of the Year’ no less than five times and, more to the point, Mrs Corbyn says it’s my best feature. Imagine if Samson had cut his hair just because a focus group told him to!

  Chapter Five

  The situation with The Boy becomes untenable, so I secure him a new position. My office is plagued with leaks (figurative, not literal). I confront party disloyalty before taking a much-needed break.

  1st December

  I am becoming increasingly concerned about The Boy. His room is fetid, and when I went in there to tell him about a particularly impressive starling I’d seen, he barely reacted. I’m convinced that his current funk stems from a lack of direction. A person needs a calling, almost as much as they need food and shelter. I have a calling in the form of my allotment and, to a lesser extent, politics. What is The Boy’s vocation, I wonder?

  2nd December

  My son’s room is still a tip. I suggested he tidy it, only for him to reply: ‘What’s the f-ing point? Everything’s a f-ing mess anyway!’

  I was about to tell him that, while he’s under my roof, he’ll abide by my rules, then I remembered that I don’t believe in private property, so really it’s humanity’s roof. Very frustrating. Went to the garden to do some composting, which soon cheered me up.

  BREAKFAST

  3rd December

  Entering the office, I glimpsed a copy of the Sun on the coffee table (I would prefer we didn’t fill Murdoch’s coffers by ordering the thing, but apparently it’s important to know what’s being said about me). The headline read COMRADE CORBYN IN CORGI COMMOTION. With a sinking feeling, I opened the paper. Sure enough, they had a full account of my unfortunate stumble at the Privy Council, along with a caricature of me backflipping over the aforementioned dog. I asked John if he thought Cameron had leaked the story, to which he replied that, given the timing, he reckoned it came from within the Leader’s Office. He said: ‘Jez, someone in here is leaking like a broken fridge. We need to find them and sack them before the results of your last colonoscopy end up on Newsnight.’ I told him that a witch hunt wouldn’t be necessary – there are other ways to instil discipline.

  Without wasting a moment, I called a general meeting to discuss the leaks. As one of the world’s most humble men, I pride myself on my placid demeanour. However, it occurred to me that this very persona may have given those in my office the impression that they can do as they please. With that in mind, when everyone was assembled, I feigned an incandescent rage, stomping around and shaking my fist. At one point, I even attempted to snap a ruler over my knee, but the thing proved remarkably resilient. Once I was finished, the team filed out in silence, leaving only me and John behind. He said: ‘Wow, that was quite a performance.’

  I said: ‘Sometimes you’ve got to act tough,’ to which he responded: ‘I’d say that was “certifiable” rather than “tough”, but I suppose either could work.’

  4th December

  Someone leaked the details of the leaks meeting! Today’s Sun headline was MEEK JEZ PIQUED, FREAKS RE: LEAKS. This was accompanied by an unflattering photo of me, digitally manipulated so as to be sitting in the turret of a Soviet tank.

  John said: ‘Unbelievable – the bastards are actually leaking about leaks!’

  Julian said: ‘Whoa, this is just like Inception.’

  I demanded to know what he meant. He explained that Inception is a Hollywood movie. I made it clear that I don’t approve of movies, as their bright colours and loud noises distract from good socialist praxis. John called us a pair of idiots and stormed out.

  Given the failure of my disciplinary efforts, I’ve decided to do some investigating. I’ve made a list of every prominent member of the Labour Party who might want to bring me down (had to send Julian out to buy more notepads). I also attempted some snooping: hiding around corners of the office, crouching behind the water cooler, etc. While I didn’t glean any info about the leaks, I did hear several of my staff do unkind impressions of me, and one of them say: ‘I’d call Jeremy a political dinosaur, except the dinosaurs were impressive.’

  I suppose that’s what I get for eavesdropping …

  5th December

  Woke up feeling a bit melancholy, so went for a stroll around Camden. Witnessed something on my way back that I felt obliged to get down in poetic form:

  UPON SEEING AN ABANDONED BIKE

  By Jeremy Corbyn

  Proud two-wheeled steed! What fool

  Hurled your frame into the murk

  Of Regent’s Canal

  There to rust

  For riderless eternity?

  You could have taken someone to

  A meeting of the local residents’ association,

  A Peruvian poetry circle,

  A talk on Ukr
ainian tractor production in the Thirties,

  Or other wondrous places.

  You could have been mine.

  Ashes to ashes,

  Rust to rust,

  The wheels on this bike

  Do not go round.

  Quite an emotional poem, that one. I’m not ashamed to say I shed a tear while writing it. Perhaps this is the result of an unsettled mind.

  7th December

  Sat through another ‘media strategy’ meeting with Sally. The gist of it was that voters are scared by my so-called ‘radical politics’ and would feel far more comfortable if they got to know my ‘human side’. She said: ‘I’m thinking we invite a couple of magazines to take photos in your house. You with your wife, the cat, maybe one of your less nerdy hobbies?’

  I replied that I am a politician rather than a pop star, and would on no account have a journalist under my roof. Furthermore, I declared: ‘This all sounds like personality politics and I’m not a personality.’ Now, I can’t be certain, but I’m pretty sure I heard John mutter, under his breath: ‘He barely has a personality …’

  Things went from bad to worse when I returned home. Walking past The Boy’s room, I saw that it was still as messy as a pub that had hosted a Bullingdon Club reunion. Thinking it might shame the lad into action, I decided to give the room a tidy myself. While making his bed, I discovered something appalling hidden under the mattress: a copy of Adam Smith’s The Wealth of Nations. Waves of nausea washed over me, as I desperately tried to think of an explanation. Could the book have been planted there by subversive elements? But no, there was only one conclusion: my own flesh and blood was reading a right-wing economic text, and I would have to confront him with it.