The Secret Diary of Jeremy Corbyn

by Lucien Young

  The Boy arrived home around midnight to find me waiting in the sitting room with the lights off. Switching on a lamp, I held up the book and said: ‘I believe this belongs to you …’

  He stammered: ‘D-Dad, it’s not what it looks like.’

  I said: ‘Oh yes? Well, you’d better have a good explanation for bringing this capitalist filth into my house!’

  Of course, he made the usual excuses – he was looking after it for a friend, he was just using it to conceal his porn mags – though eventually he was man enough to admit the truth.

  He said: ‘I’m sorry, Dad, but I’m interested in the workings of the free market’.

  After a long pause, I said: ‘Son, this isn’t you. The book, the depression, the getting drunk every night, it’s all connected. We can get you help – a psychiatrist or something …’

  At this he became rather irate, saying: ‘Look, the reason I’ve been down lately is that I don’t know what to do with my life! Not everyone has a one-track mind like you … I mean, God, Dad, you haven’t changed your opinion on anything since 1962!’

  I said: ‘That’s not true at all – I flirted with Marxist socialism before settling on democratic socialism! Plus, I’ve been married three times!’

  There followed a long argument, not without tears, which culminated in our agreeing that The Boy should be exposed to any ideology he wishes, as long as it’s a safe amount and he warns me beforehand.

  FURY

  10th December

  Another load of reactionary bile in today’s Guardian. The article was full of anonymous quotes from ‘senior Labour sources’ and ‘members of the Shadow Cabinet’. One said: ‘Jeremy is an unbelievable catastrophe – it’s like Chernobyl and the Hindenburg had a baby.’ ‘I like Jeremy,’ said another, ‘but he once turned up to a Shadow Cabinet meeting fifty minutes late because he was measuring a marrow.’

  First the leaks, now this!

  Thought I should do something for The Boy after our spat the other night, so I slid a copy of Eric Hobsbawm’s The Age of Empire outside his door. The thing about parenthood is that you have to let kids come to the truth their own way.

  11th December

  Marched into Tom Watson’s office to have it out with him about the lack of support from my own MPs. I made what I thought was an impassioned and persuasive speech, though much of it was drowned out by the Mogwai album he was playing. Nonetheless, I pressed on: ‘All I’m asking for is a little loyalty.’

  He said: ‘To be fair, Jeremy, when we were last in power, you voted against the whip more than any other Labour MP. Four-hundred-and-twenty-eight times, if I recall. It seems a bit rich that you’d expect the PLP to toe the line now.’

  I decided to leave him to his mid-Nineties post-rock.

  12th December

  Another Clarkson dream last night. He came drifting in through my bedroom window, murmuring something about Belgians, then, after a beat, turned to face me. He said: ‘Oh Lord, I’m haunting you again, am I? Well, how’s it been going, you leftie twerp? Not too good, judging by your poll ratings …’

  I explained that this wasn’t my fault – after all, how am I meant to lead the party to victory when my colleagues brief against me at every turn?

  Clarkson replied: ‘Urgh, more leftie liberal whining. Here’s a better question: Why do you think you can be prime minister when you’re too much of a wet blanket to get your own party in shape? You should be telling those MPs that if they don’t keep schtum, you’ll back over their balls with a steamroller.’

  I started to reply that I believe in a democratic form of leadership, with less emphasis on top-down hierarchies, and—

  ‘Bullshit!’ said Clarkson. ‘A leader’s job is to lead. If some little squit questions you, you’ve got to nip it in the bud. Back in 2006, Richard Hammond started acting like a big shot. You think that crash was an accident?’

  He swooped down at me again and I choked on the smell of gasoline and those little tree-shaped air fresheners. ‘Listen Jezza, you’ve got to build workplace relationships based on loyalty and respect. That’s how I’m able to run a functioning set.’

  I said: ‘Didn’t you get sacked from Top Gear for punching a producer in the face?’

  He said: ‘Yeah, well, in my defence, I wanted a steak and I was offered soup instead. You won’t understand this, as a vegetarian, but no one comes between a man and his meat.’

  I happily conceded that I didn’t, in fact, understand.

  He said: ‘Right, I’d better go sit in a four-wheeled penis replacement and say something demeaning about the French.’

  With that, he drifted back towards the window and disappeared. I woke up in sweat-soaked sheets with a parched mouth. I should very much like to have a word with my subconscious about all this.

  14th December

  I have realised that the solution to The Boy’s problems is for him to secure a role at Labour HQ. Given his general listlessness and the rightward drift of his politics, this strikes me as a way of killing two birds with one stone (not that I condone any form of avicide). After a few phone calls, I managed to snag him a job in the Comms Office, which is apparently understaffed – they are having trouble recruiting at the moment, for some reason. I briefly worried that my intervention might be seen as hypocritical, given my fierce opposition to nepotism. However, I reassured myself that The Boy would almost certainly have got the position, even if he weren’t my son. Some people mistake his inaction for laziness, but really he’s just conserving energy until he can find something to really put his mind to. Fingers crossed that this will solve his malaise …

  When I told him, The Boy wasn’t as appreciative as I might have hoped.

  He said: ‘But, Dad, everyone at your work is so miserable and lifeless – it’s like The Walking Dead meets Yes, Minister.’

  16th December

  A particularly unpleasant exchange with Little Lord Cameron at PMQs today. He went the colour of a bruised pig as he called me a ‘chippy allotment bounder’ and ‘Putin’s boyfriend’, all the while accompanied by a ‘MMMMMYYYYYYEEEEEEEAAAAARRRRGGHHH’ from the toads on the Tory benches.

  Funnily enough, I ran into him shortly after the session had ended. He had resumed a normal human colour and seemed perfectly calm – a world away from the man who had just been yelling epithets at me.

  I said, rather stiffly: ‘David, I must say I disapprove of your constant personal abuse. It’s not constructive and it gets in the way of building a kinder politics.’

  Cameron smiled and said: ‘Oh, that? That’s all just for show. You oughtn’t to take things so seriously, old boy. Learn to chillax – I spend most of my time in Downing Street playing Fruit Ninja on my iPad and everything seems to turn out all right for me.’

  This only made me angrier, and so I asked him how he was able to sleep at night, while presiding over the brutal austerity that’s destroying the welfare state and tearing our nation apart.

  He replied: ‘It’s like we used to say in the Bullingdon Club – if it ain’t broke, why not break it, then let Daddy pay afterwards?’

  At least it’s nearly the holidays – I’ll be glad to get away from this place …

  25th December, Christmas Day

  I tend to think of Christmas as a bourgeois construct that enshrines materialism as a replacement for genuine human connection, but, still, it’s nice to have the family together. Today, as I carved the tofurky, I looked around the table at Mrs Corbyn, The Boy, my other two sons and their spouses, and felt like the luckiest subject of late capitalism alive.

  I’ve been using the Christmas break to catch up on my reading (The RHS Allotment Handbook & Planner, 101 Facts about Storm Drains and Quotations from Chairman Mao Tse-tung, which I like to revisit each year). Most recently, I finished George Grossmith’s The Diary of a Nobody. Its protagonist is a guy called Charles Pooter, who has a rubbish beard and potters around Islington doing trivial things, while annoying those around him with his pomposity. Very am
using, but a bit exaggerated, I thought. After all, who in real life would be so lacking in self-awareness?

  31st December, New Year’s Eve

  Well now, we’ve made it through another solar cycle! Mrs Corbyn and I threw a party to see in the New Year, with kale blinis and quinoa caviar, as well as board games like Cluedo (highly instructive on how class tension can result in outbreaks of violence) and Risk (I always play as Russia). The turnout was pretty decent, considering the spate of illness that seems to have befallen most of the people in our address book. Several members of the Hornsey Tiddlywinks Society attended, as well as Julian (I made it clear that attending was one of his duties as my assistant) and The Boy (he did everything he could to get out of it, until I threatened to make him start paying rent).

  A few hours into proceedings I delivered some prepared remarks, which I thought were quite good and will share with you here:

  Allow me to say how delightful it is to see you all here tonight. You are my friends, my family and, most importantly, my comrades. It is especially sweet to be able to relax together after such a tumultuous few months. This has been a mad year, full of cataclysmic events and shocking developments. The Boy lost a job, which has been painful. I gained a job, which has been excruciating. But, in the end, what defines us, as socialists, is our optimism. Our belief that, by working together, we can make the world a better place. So, as dark and overwhelming as 2015 has often been, it seems to me that the only sensible course of action is to be optimistic. I propose a toast to 2016, the year in which everything will start to make sense!

  Right, time for bed … Dear diary, I shall see you next year. Here’s hoping it’s a good one!

  2016

  Chapter Six

  Boris Johnson declares for Leave and things get all Brexit-y. Journalists obsessed with my position on the EU. Outrageous scenes at PMQs. I am bullied by some posh boys.

  17th February

  To my great dismay, I have lost all of my entries from 1st January to 16th February! These were the events leading up to the calamity: by way of marking the New Year, I had switched from writing in a 99p WH Smith notepad to the snazzy number Mrs Corbyn bought me for Christmas. Its ivory-coloured pages (70 g/m2, acid-free, lined) were a dream to write on, offering the perfect amount of nib-resistance for smooth cursive. However, something about my study had been bothering me and, last Saturday, I realised what it was: the walls are painted a Conservative blue, putting them at complete odds with my political beliefs. One trip to Homebase later, I set about daubing the room red. I was very pleased with the results (though Mrs Corbyn said the shade was too loud and gave her a headache). Unfortunately, the paint took a long time to dry, and the fumes remained pungent some four days later. Sitting down to write yesterday’s entry, and finding that an open window didn’t do enough to banish the pong, I lit a joss stick (I have a tonne of authentic Seventies Nag Champa in the attic). This helped somewhat, but I must have knocked the holder when I got up to fetch a digestive biscuit from downstairs, causing the lit stick to fall onto the open pages. By the time I returned, the notebook was thoroughly scorched and a month of my records rendered illegible! I’ve bought a notepad of the same make so as not to upset Mrs C, but the thought of those lost entries rankles. As such, I will now summarise their contents to the best of my ability:

  Diplomatic relations with our neighbour, Mr Batey, remain fraught. His current gripe stems from his belief that I and/or Mrs Corbyn habitually put food waste in our black bin bags, thus attracting foxes. I hugely resent the suggestion that I would ever ignore the rules of refuse collection – I happen to take rubbish very seriously.

  The Boy – though bright and industrious, deep down – has struggled to settle into his role in the Comms Office. His manager claims that he is unreliable, truculent and constantly watching Netflix at his work station. The Boy claims that his manager is old fashioned, small-minded and dismissive of his revolutionary ideas.

  He said: ‘It’s a nightmare, Dad. I want to modernise – set you up on Snapchat, put some memes out there – but I can’t get a look in. The only reason they don’t fire me is because you’re my father.’

  I asked him what a ‘meme’ is. Some time later, I admitted defeat and said: ‘Look, every job has its frustrations. Mine’s essentially a living hell 99 per cent of the time. But the answer isn’t to give up – it’s to get your head down, be humble and trust that you’ll be rewarded for your hard work.’

  He said: ‘How are you being rewarded for your hard work? Isn’t your approval rating, like, minus twenty?’

  Once again my sound advice is met with derision!

  Following on from a New Year’s resolution to be more open and honest, Mrs Corbyn has told me that my cooking is not to her taste and that she has felt this way for a while. This was, of course, very difficult to hear, but marriages are all about communication. After a tricky couple of weeks, we agreed that she would supervise my culinary endeavours and enjoy veto powers over any shared meal. I suppose I shall have to wait until she’s out of town to perfect my kale strudel.

  In UK political news, there was a lot of banging on about Brexit, plus the usual moaning about my leadership. There now: we’re up to date!

  20th February

  Was stirred from a reverie about trains by Mr Batey aggressively jabbing at our doorbell. When I answered the door, he pushed his face so close to mine that I was afraid I’d give him whisker burn. He said: ‘Listen here, Jeremy, I’ve tried to be patient with you, but this time you’ve gone too far!’

  He claims that the smell from my compost heap is drifting out of my garden and onto his property, to the extent that it’s upsetting his kids. I maintained that I have been following proper compost technique to the letter and am unaware of any excess scent. After an increasingly terse exchange, Mr Batey called me an ‘obstinate old git’ and stomped off. Honestly, he’s even worse than the Shadow Cabinet!

  Later, out of curiosity, I went into the garden and stooped to sniff the heap. Pungent, yes, but pleasingly mulchy. I don’t know what the man’s on about!

  21st February

  Boris Johnson has declared for the Leave campaign, sending my hopes for a quiet Sunday up in smoke. After days of theatrical silence, he set out his stall in an article for – where else? – the Sunday Telegraph. He writes: ‘This is a moment to be brave, to reach out – not to hug the skirts of Nurse in Brussels.’ A surprising metaphor, given that 90 per cent of the Tory Party seem to have a psychosexual fixation on nurses and nannies.

  Switched on the telly to see him puffing and preening in front of reporters, talking about how the decision had caused him a ‘huge amount of heartache’. This is ridiculous – Boris has never had a human feeling in his life. Every single action he takes is designed to bring him closer to Downing Street. He was doubtless born trying to win the vote of the obstetrician. People act as though the man is a harmless P. G. Wodehouse character, but he’s more like Bret Easton Ellis. It pains me to think that this dead-eyed clown lives in my beautiful Islington!

  Apart from anything else, he’s not even that funny. I, on the other hand, was once declared a ‘laugh riot’ by the head of the Crouch End Philatelist Association. Where’s my invitation to host Have I Got News for You?

  22nd February

  Perhaps inevitably, the Boris bombshell has stirred the pot (mixed metaphor, but it’s been a long day). The wretched denizens of the journalistic underworld are pursuing me with renewed vigour: ‘JEREMY, WHAT’S YOUR POSITION ON THE EU?’ ‘JEREMY, WHY ARE YOU DISTANCING YOURSELF FROM THE REMAIN CAMPAIGN?’ ‘JEREMY, DO YOU EVEN CARE ABOUT ANY OF THIS?’ At one point I had to hide in a Costa Coffee lavatory for a quarter of an hour before they moved on. I’m sorry, but I can’t be bothered to share my Brexit opinions with you, dear Diary, let alone some creep who spends their days hacking dead kids’ phones and rifling through the binbags outside Danny Dyer’s house.

  Mrs Corbyn went out with friends this evening, so was left to my own devic
es in terms of dinner. Ended up having a bowl of brown rice with a handful of white rice for dessert.

  24th February

  I have become more or less inured to Cameron’s vindictive assaults at PMQs, but today’s vitriol took the biscuit. He made a totally uncalled-for commentary on my dress sense, telling me to, I quote, ‘put on a proper suit, do up your tie and sing the national anthem’. Personally, I don’t think you should ever mock someone else’s appearance, especially if you yourself resemble a finely glazed ham.

  26th February

  Yet more bullying! I was walking through the Members’ Lobby when a sort of plummy bellow stopped me in my tracks.

  PMQs

  ‘Jezza, you frightful oik! What in Beelzebub’s name are you wearing today?’

  I turned to find Boris Johnson and Jacob Rees-Mogg loitering beside the statue of Disraeli.

  ‘Now, Boris,’ I replied, in a tone of some dignity, ‘our politics shouldn’t be about personal attacks or making fun of people’s appearances.’