The Secret Diary of Jeremy Corbyn

by Lucien Young

  15th May

  Stormzy popped round again today. While he’s certainly a fine young man, I’m a solitary person who cherishes their free time on a Sunday. Nonetheless, he was insistent that I listen to what he called a ‘grime remix’ of ‘The Red Flag’. He played me the ‘demo beat’ off his phone and I smiled politely, despite it being far too loud and chaotic for my taste. He asked if I would be inclined to ‘spit a verse’ and I demurred (wisely, I think). He then proceeded to quiz me on my policies regarding transport infrastructure, devolution and (shudder) the EU. Discussing politics must be a fun weekend activity when you’re a rapster …

  After a couple of hours, during which he resolutely ignored all hints that I might wish to head to the allotment, etc., Stormzy declared that he needed to go to a music video shoot. However, he said I shouldn’t worry, as he would be back for dinner tomorrow(!).

  STORMZY

  16th May

  Arriving at the office, I approached Julian (the youngest person I know) and asked if he had ever heard of a musician called Stormzy. He said: ‘You mean Michael Ebenazer Kwadjo Omari Owuo Jr, AKA Wicked Skengman and the Problem? I’ve loved him since he dropped his first EP, Dreamers Disease!’

  In the nine months Julian has worked for me, I’ve never seen him become so animated and I must admit to a certain amount of jealousy. When I mentioned that Stormzy had invited himself to dinner at mine this evening, Julian’s eyes near popped out his head. He said: ‘Jeremy, please, please say I can come! As a public-school-educated white man, I love grime more than anything!’

  Well, I didn’t have the heart to refuse him.

  Stormzy arrived at seven on the dot, keen to continue our political discussions. However, his face fell upon spotting Julian, who was quivering as they shook hands. Julian said: ‘Oh my God, Stormzy, mate … I might actually be your biggest fan? I had “Shut Up” as my ringtone for, like, five months.’

  The grime artist muttered, ‘Thanks,’ then shot me a look of betrayal. The rest of the meal consisted of Julian peppering the poor bloke with questions about his lyrics, frequent collaborators and cover art, while Mrs Corbyn and I were unable to get a word in edgeways. After half an hour or so, Stormzy rose, apologising that he had to attend a charity function with Nick Grimshaw. I said: ‘You must come round again!’

  He replied, in a manner that was far from convincing: ‘Yeah, yeah, maybe …’

  17th May

  I’m afraid that the longer this idiotic referendum campaign goes on, the darker and more xenophobic it gets. I may not be a huge fan of the EU (or any capitalist organisation, for that matter), but I’m certainly not one of those UKIP weirdos whose mouths start frothing at the sight of a baguette. There are two types of UKIP bloke: the ones who wear burgundy chinos and eat a Sunday roast for every meal, and the ones who are perfectly spherical and have rage-induced heart attacks when they see a black newsreader. Somehow, though, this bunch of cavefish who were too wimpy to join the BNP have managed to turn a vote on membership of a supranational organisation into a chance to stigmatise immigrants. The Leave campaign now habitually refers to ‘illegal’ immigrants ‘flooding’ across our ‘open borders’. Choose Brexit, they claim, and everything will revert to the Fifties, all privet hedges, village fetes and cricket on the lawn, with nary a brown face to trouble you.

  All this nonsense makes me sick. For over thirty years I’ve had the honour to represent a constituency with a high number of immigrants. My life has been infinitely enriched by working with immigrants, laughing with them, celebrating and commiserating with them. I’ve even married a couple! Come what may, I will always be proud of my work as an anti-racism campaigner and my arrest for protesting apartheid in South Africa.

  This evening I felt compelled to embrace Mrs Corbyn and tell her that I will always defend her right to live, work and love in this country. Unless, as threatened, she throws out my stamp collection, in which case she’s getting deported. She wasn’t amused by that last part.

  18th May

  The Boy says he and Anunciata (whose middle names, I’ve discovered, are Hortensia St Marie McGonegal Claridges, by the way) plan to spend the weekend skiing in Klosters. I have no idea when The Boy learned to ski, but kept my disapproval to myself.

  I restated my desire to meet the young lady, saying that I hoped he wasn’t keeping her away from us. I asked, half-jokingly: ‘Are you embarrassed that your old man’s not posh enough?’

  He replied: ‘Oh, that’s not why I’m embarrassed of you!’

  20th May

  Was walking past St Stephen’s Tavern when I saw a familiar and ruddy face: it was Nigel Farage, a cigarette in one hand and a pint of lager in the other. He called out: ‘Oi, Corbyn, fancy a round?’

  I observed, somewhat stiffly, that it was half nine in the morning.

  Farage scoffed and said: ‘Ha, that’s your whole problem. People look at you and see an abstemious killjoy, whereas I’m a man of the …’ (here he let out a belch) ‘… people.’

  I feared the man would engage me in further conversation, so was relieved when he became distracted by a passing barmaid, whose breasts he commented upon in an ungallant manner. I moved swiftly on, reflecting that the chap reminds me of the nocturnal Clarkson in my recurring dream. Farage really is a different order of magnitude, though: a ghastly, purple, toad-faced anachronism. Strange to think that he’s fifteen years younger than me.

  When people say I’m too blasé about this referendum, I would point them no further than Farage. Many on the Remain side are beginning to panic, but I refuse to believe that the public could be swayed by that alcoholic chancer. Tom Watson feels differently. Today he told me that I need to get serious about campaigning pronto, or he won’t be able to prevent a rebellion among the PLP. Given the way they talk about me at the moment, I’d hate to see what an insurgency would look like …

  Tom said: ‘You need to stop with this lukewarm crap. The polls aren’t looking good for us.’

  I said, rather wittily: ‘It seems that we’re worried about polls, while the other side are worried about Poles!’ My joke didn’t have the intended effect. Instead, Tom looked so ferocious that I swore on my honour that I would step up my defence of the EU.

  Later: Mrs Corbyn and I have decided to go on a spur-of-the-moment holiday! Details to follow …

  Chapter Eight

  Mrs Corbyn and I take a restorative trip. I encoun-ter various language barriers, despite my fluency. Interactions with the very public I was trying to get away from. An epiphany while queuing.

  23rd May

  As mentioned above, Mrs Corbyn and I are heading off on holiday, partly to celebrate my birthday on the 26th, but mainly to get away from the nastiness of British politics. All the squabbling and ill-will is, quite frankly, doing my head in and I would happily spend a few days in an active war zone if that meant escaping it. In the event, our chosen location is Marbella, where we will be able to enjoy sun, sea and sand, as well as utilising our Spanish (Mrs Corbyn is a native speaker and I’m highly proficient myself). The last few days have been a flurry of preparation: booking flights, changing currency, buying numerous pairs of cream-coloured shorts to sport on the beach. At home, The Boy will keep an eye on El Gato (and vice versa).

  In the office this morning, I took Julian to one side and explained my getaway plans. He said: ‘Oh wow … This Thursday? Not, like, after the referendum?’

  I replied that a refreshing break would allow me to come back to campaigning with a surplus of pro-European vigour.

  He said: ‘Right, it’s just … I don’t think Tom Watson will be happy about that. Or Sally, or John, or Diane, or the papers … In fact, I think pretty much everyone will be super upset.’

  I made it clear to him that, firstly, I am the leader, so what I say goes. And secondly, he was on no account to tell any of those people. I said: ‘Just do what you can to clear my diary, then let everyone know once I’m in the air.’

  The young man looked rather qu
easy, so I patted him on the back and gave him a thumbs up.

  25th May

  Tomorrow’s my birthday! And what better way to celebrate than by escaping this rotten country? Of course I don’t mean that, but it will certainly be a blessed relief to get away from the rain, the greyness and the constant negativity. To this last end, I’ve decided to leave my phone at home – I doubt there will be any major developments and, if there are, I’m sure Julian will be able to smooth things over.

  26th May, Casa del Socialismo, Marbella, Spain

  ¡Feliz cumpleaños a Jeremy! As I write this, I am sipping a cool jugo de naranja (orange juice) and watching the puesta de sol (sunset) while sitting on a silla (chair) on our veranda (veranda).

  Things got off to an inauspicious start when it became apparent that I’d set the alarm clock for 3 a.m. rather than 6 a.m. However, Mrs Corbyn had pretty much forgiven me by the time we arrived at Gatwick. We also managed to get to the airport without any members of the public recognising me. Whenever this happens I feel a mixture of relief and concern for my electoral prospects. Annoyingly, I set off the metal detector at security and was baffled as to why, until I realised it was the paperclip I’d been using in lieu of a missing shirt button.

  Had an altercation with the guy at the check-in desk, who claimed my suitcase was too big for carry on. I told him that I had personally measured my case’s dimensions and they fell comfortably within the range stated on the airline’s website. The man insisted they didn’t and said that I would have to pay fifty quid for it to go in the hold. Fifty quid! At that point, I decided to deploy a bit of the old Corbyn charm.

  I said: ‘Listen, mate, I get where you’re coming from. We’re both victims of an oppressive airline. I’m the customer who’s being exploited and you’re just a cog in the machine.’

  He said: ‘Please don’t call me a cog, sir … That’ll be a hundred quid.’

  I said: ‘You just told me it was fifty!’

  He said: ‘I don’t believe I did, sir. Now, do you want to get on the plane, or stay here with me?’

  This might have escalated further, had Mrs Corbyn not stepped in and volunteered to pay. I railed against the monopolistic practices of the airlines for our entire flight, which I think may have cost me my complimentary bag of peanuts.

  My grumpy mood lifted when I looked out of the window and saw the beauty of Andalusia spread beneath us. We soon landed at Málaga airport, then hopped into a waiting taxi. The driver, a nice chap called Alejandro, said: ‘English, eh? You guys are going crazy with the Brexit stuff, no?’

  I said: ‘Nothing to do with me, mate – I’m not into politics.’ Once we’d arrived at our villa and unpacked, Mrs Corbyn gave me my birthday present: a brand new Casio wristwatch with built-in calculator! I was touched by this and wrapped her in a warm embrace. Let’s just say I’m hoping for another present later tonight …

  (Batteries to go with it.)

  27th May

  Woke to the sound of seagulls and the blissful realisation that I wouldn’t have to deal with any MPs or journalists today. Mrs Corbyn was keen to have a lie-in, so I went for a solo wander down the beach. God, it feels good to wear sandals in a country whose weather justifies them!

  While observing the flight of a particularly large gull, I stumbled over a pair of sunbathers. They were a couple roughly my age: the man round and sunburned, the woman leathery and wearing a truly enormous hat. The former cried out: ‘Oi, watch yourself, mate!’

  This, combined with their Union Jack beach towel and the three lions tattooed on the bloke’s bicep, led me to conclude that the pair were English. I apologised and we soon got to talking – they introduced themselves as Glenn and Deborah, a married couple from Chelmsford.

  He said: ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere? D’you host a gardening show or something?’

  As they seemed a nice enough couple, I decided to come clean and admit to being the Right Honourable Jeremy Corbyn MP, Leader of Her Majesty’s Opposition.

  Deborah said: ‘Blimey, he is and all!’

  Glenn said: ‘Sorry, mate, we’re not really into all that politics crap. Gets on me bloody tits, if I’m honest.’

  I confessed that I feel much the same way – in fact, this was largely the basis for my going on holiday.

  Glenn said: ‘Tell me about it! I’m in bathroom supplies and a couple of weeks ago I thought: “If I see another urinal cake I’m gonna scream.”’

  We continued chatting in this vein for a while, before I realised I should be getting back to my wife. However, we agreed it would be lovely to meet up at some point, so I gave them the address of our villa.

  Later, walking through the city centre, I marvelled at all the exotic manhole covers, pointing out each and every one of them to Mrs Corbyn. A little after noon, we became peckish and so decided to stop at a typical Spanish restaurante (restaurant). I decided to order off menu, to make it clear that I’m a seasoned traveller and not some wide-eyed tourist. Mrs Corbyn settled on a potato omelette, while I opted for broken eggs. I approached the counter and introduced myself to the waiter.

  I said: ‘¡Hola! ¿Puedo tener la tortilla de patata y los huevos ranas, por favor?’

  The waiter blinked, then said: ‘¿Huevos ranas?’

  I said: ‘Si.’

  He said: ‘This is not something we do, señor.’

  I replied (in perfect Spanish) that I would appreciate it very much if el cocinero could sort some out for me.

  He said: ‘I really don’t think you would like it …’

  This debate soon became heated, with me deploying some of my most strident vocubulary. Eventually Mrs Corbyn interceded, explaining that I had meant to order huevos rotos (broken eggs) rather than huevos ranas, which means frogspawn. Of course, I apologised to the waiter, but this error – which I’d say was rather minor – cast something of a pall over lunch. However, I soon cheered up when we walked past a stand selling vegan ice cream.

  In the evening, we received a call from Glenn and Deborah and agreed to meet at a local watering hole called La Barba Blanca. They were delighted to be introduced to Mrs Corbyn and proceeded to order a cascade of cervezas and a tsunami of tequila. I became somewhat merry after drinking a ‘virgin’ mojito which I suspect may have had a couple of encounters round the back of the bike shed. Perhaps a little boisterously, I began to outline my core political philosophy. I said: ‘The problem with Westminster is it’s all about process, ritual, pointless bickering and public-school debate. That’s not the kind of politics I believe in. Ultimately, what connects all of us is love. We’ve got to have more love in public life. Man or woman, rich or poor, black, white, gay or straight – everyone should just come together. We need to come together every day, in every possible combination!’

  At this, Deborah gave my thigh a supportive squeeze and Glenn exclaimed: ‘Jez, I don’t care what the telly or the papers say – you’re all right in my book!’

  He and Deborah were keen for us to come back to their villa for a nightcap, but Mrs Corbyn and I were exhausted, so had to decline this kind offer. They really are the friendliest couple! How ironic that we had to travel to Spain to meet acceptable members of the British public …

  28th May

  Mrs Corbyn and I decided to spend this morning on the beach. She was keen to get out there and swim in the sea and, as such, became rather restless when I spent half an hour applying suncream (SPF 100 – you can’t be too careful with that kind of thing). Eventually we headed out and, as my darling wife splashed about in the surf, I decided to explore the shoreline. I was happily admiring some algae when suddenly a blinding pain shot up my leg. With a yelp, I looked down and saw that a small crab had gripped my toe in its pincer. Fortunately, I was able to shake it off before much damage was incurred. I’m ashamed to say I nearly picked up a stone and smashed the thing, though I soon thought better of it. I said: ‘Scuttle along, my cancrine comrade – I forgive you!’

  Upon returning to the villa, I disc
overed that, in spite of my SPF 100, I had developed a markedly rosy complexion. While my wife has the resilience of her Mexican forebears, those born with the name Corbyn have a tendency to get sunstroke if they so much as turn on a lightbulb.

  Around lunchtime, we made a Skype call to The Boy on Mrs Corbyn’s iPad. As soon as he answered, I could tell from his expression and frazzled tone that something was wrong. He said: ‘Okay, don’t get cross, but El Gato was hungry, so I gave him some milk out of the fridge. Y’know, a bowl of milk – that’s the classic meal for a cat, right?’

  I said: ‘Not poor old El Gato – he’s lactose intolerant!’

  He said: ‘Well, I know that now, don’t I? Anyway, he got some pretty serious diarrhoea and started running around the living room … Made a real mess.’

  I let out a despairing moan. The Boy continued: ‘Yeah, it’s been pretty stressful, but now I’ve calmed him down and cleaned everything up, so you don’t need to worry.’ At this point he looked to one side, cried, ‘Oh God, he’s doing it again,’ and ended the call abruptly.

  Mrs Corbyn said: ‘Well, at least he hasn’t burned the house down …’

  Spent the rest of the day sightseeing, then went over to Glenn and Deborah’s rented villa for some drinks. I’m sorry to say that this was much less enjoyable than our previous evening together. Around 11 p.m., Deborah sat down beside Mrs Corbyn and began stroking her hair, while Glenn disappeared into the bedroom and emerged moments later wearing naught but a silk robe.

  He said: ‘All right, why don’t the four of us get down to business?’