by Lucien Young
When the smoke cleared, a beautiful young woman approached and said: ‘Jeremy, I represent the People. We’re all very impressed with your bravery and would be honoured if you agreed to be our king.’
I said that, as much as I appreciated the gesture, I am implacably opposed to the monarchy and, in any case, am far too humble to accept such a role. At this point, Che Guevara appeared beside me and patted me on the back. He said: ‘You’re doing a bang-up job, mate – don’t let anyone tell you different.’
I awoke with a smile on my face, a little dis-appointed that it hadn’t been real.
4th July
Today Nigel Farage resigned as UKIP leader for the third time. Makes sense, given how keen he is on exiting things. That said, it seems a bit suspicious that all the prominent Leave campaigners jumped ship as soon as Brexit became a reality. It’s as though the head lemming decided, while his mates were cascading over the cliff, that he had too much to live for.
5th July
Stephen Crabb has withdrawn from the Tory leadership race after coming second-to-last in the first ballot. It would seem that the Crabb campaign went sideways. Ha! Ha! Ha!
7th July
Now Gove’s out! I’m glad I won’t be facing that creepy little swot at PMQs – he’d only have challenged me on arithmetic and Latin conjugations. It seems the Tory leadership will fall to either Theresa May (polite fascist) or someone called Andrea Leadsom (animatronic headmistress).
11th July
Spent all morning and much of last night researching Andrea Leadsom who, I’m told, could pull off an upset and pip May to the post. I can comfortably say I’m now one of the world’s foremost Leadsom experts, having become intimately acquainted with her Aylesbury upbringing, her career as a debt trader, and the ways in which her devout Christianity has informed her political views.
Later: Leadsom dropped out. Brilliant … Congratulations to Theresa May, who has become prime minister despite no one actually liking her. She must be delighted that her opponents chose to combine the final scene of Hamlet with a Three Stooges film.
Later still: Perhaps I shouldn’t have indulged in the above schadenfreude (if you’re even allowed to use such words in Brexit Britain). Angela Eagle has announced a challenge to my leadership, with Owen Smith following close behind, like a terrier nipping at her heels. Presumably they will now duke it out to see who should be my moderate opponent. How exciting: two moderates trying to out-moderate each other, a real clash of the average-sized …
THERESA MAY
Was so fed up by the time I got home, I entirely lacked the energy to make dinner. However, Mrs Corbyn whipped up some delicious vegetarian quesadillas. I should let her cook more often!
13th July
Watched Theresa May’s speech upon entering Downing Street. It was all about ‘fairness’ and ‘opportunity’, which she will presumably achieve by further slashing the welfare state, deregulating the banks and deporting anyone with so much as a suntan. Back when she was Home Secretary, she approved a scheme where a series of vans drove around London with billboards reading ‘In the UK illegally? Go home or face arrest.’ What is it with Tories and putting horrible statements on motor vehicles? Anyway, the only part of the speech that struck a chord was when she talked about job insecurity – I very much know the feeling …
In other news, The Boy has been moved from the Comms Office to the Grassroots Outreach Unit, where – in the words of his manager – he can ‘do less immediate damage’. Over dinner, I quizzed him about what had gone wrong. He said: ‘I made a lot of enemies in Comms. You tell a few people that what they’re doing is rubbish and all of a sudden they want to show you the door.’
I advised him to be less provocative in his new role, as I have always found it helpful to be quiet and self-effacing. He replied: ‘That’s all well and good, Dad, but literally everyone you work with wants to get rid of you!’
Sometimes I don’t know why I bother …
Chapter Eleven
Eagle drops out, leaving me to face an aggressive Welshman. I am forced to travel around the country in order to keep my job. Yet another unsatisfactory train journey, this time with repercussions. I spend a harrowing night in Newcastle.
14th July
Had a run-in with Owen Smith in the Portcullis Cafeteria. He walked in and assumed a stance that was no doubt intended to be powerful (chin jutting, chest thrust out, feet about a metre apart). Unfortunately, it looked as though he’d forgotten to take the coat hanger out of his jacket. Upon spotting me, he boomed: ‘All right Jezza?’
I said: ‘Hello, Owen.’
He said: ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Here, are you having a go?’
I replied that I meant no offence. He said: ‘Now, look you, boyo! Better watch yourself, yeah? You may have beaten Yvette and that lot, but you’ve never had to throw down with the O-Dogg.’
When I expressed the view that there was no need for us to antagonise each other, he observed that I had no idea how hated I am among my MPs. He said: ‘If you think what they say in the press is bad, you should hear what they say behind closed doors.’
I said: ‘Well, it’s all just politics, isn’t it?’
He said: ‘Yes! And we’re bloody politicians!’
I suppose he’s got me there.
19th July
Today the Leader’s Office received word that Angela Eagle has dropped out of the leadership race, in order to give Owen a clear shot at toppling me. Spying the chance for some levity, I remarked: ‘I guess you could say the Eagle has crash-landed!’
John McD replied, rather unkindly: ‘Yes, Jeremy, you could say that, but you definitely shouldn’t.’
21st July
In a development that makes UK politics seem somewhat less insane, Donald Trump has officially been named Republican nominee for president. Donald Trump! That Frankenstein’s monster of American capitalism! A McDonald’s cheeseburger come to life! The poor man’s version of Alan Sugar! Watching Trump bluster and mug his way through interviews, it occurred to me that the guy has a touch of Boris about him. Not just the ludicrous blond nest on his head, but also that oily sense of entitlement. In any case, the guy represents everything I hate about America, the West and the world in general (though he does have a point about lying journalists and fake news).
Today also saw the first hustings of the leadership challenge. Owen and I faced off in Cardiff, which I initially thought would give him a home advantage, but no. It seemed as though his tie was cutting off the circulation to his head. Afterwards, I asked Julian how he thought it had gone. He said: ‘Yeah, you were great during the bits I was awake for.’
I’m writing this in a fairly depressing Travelodge, miles from the city centre. My room commands a majestic view of the refuse area and the trouser press is prohibitively temperamental. Oh, how I yearn for my beloved Islington! Was cheered somewhat by a call from Mrs Corbyn and The Boy. Apparently my son is enjoying his new role in the Grassroots Outreach Unit. He said: ‘It’s brilliant – literally no one has any idea what we’re meant to be doing, so we just spend all day reading Vice and watching YouTube compilations!’
If I wasn’t so firmly committed to workers’ rights, I might have something to say about that …
11th August
Once again, I must apologise for the egregious gap between entries. To be honest, I’ve been at something of a low ebb recently, and not much inclined to record my experiences. However, this was changed today by a truly appalling train journey (I suppose that’s one thing Chris Grayling’s accomplished!). While travelling up to Gateshead for a leadership hustings, I had the misfortune to find myself dealing with Virgin. Through typical capitalist greed, the train had been totally overbooked, with not a free seat to be found. After fruitlessly wandering through several carriages, I was forced to sit on the floor, uncomfortably close to a bin.
THE TRAIN
As I languished there, trying to ignore the stench whenever the toilet door slid open
, I felt the poetic muse come upon me. I believe it was Wordsworth who said that poetry ‘takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity’. Well, with all due respect, I wrote this while fuming on the floor of a Virgin train:
RAM-PACKED
By Jeremy Corbyn
We’ve all gone off the rails,
We’re in a mess, a Branson pickle,
Sardined in squalor, sweating,
The buffet car is out of vegan wraps.
A desert of commutered seats
With no oasis for the weary arse,
Therefore I sit upon the floor
And weep.
They’re cross in King’s Cross.
They’ve gone mental in Glasgow Central.
Clapham Junction’s ceased to function.
I’m dreading my trip to Reading.
Yet still, on top of this
Are ticket prices surgin’
So, though it seems a paradox,
You’ve really screwed us, Virgin.
Renationalise the railways!
Renationalise the railways!
RENATIONALISE THE RAILWAYS!
As I read these words back, I decided the general public had a right to know about my horrific treatment. Having instructed Julian to record me on his phone, I came out with the following: ‘This is a problem that many passengers face every day on the trains: commuters and long-distance travellers. Today this train is completely ram-packed. The reality is there’s not enough trains, we need more of them. And they’re also incredibly expensive. Isn’t that a good case for public ownership?’
Stirring words, I’m sure you’ll agree, and all off the top of my head. Julian observed that he’d never heard the phrase ‘ram-packed’ and asked whether I meant to say ‘jam-packed’.
I replied: ‘No, I would never associate jam with something negative.’
Later: Hustings was the usual sort of thing: Owen saying that he’s more electable than me, despite looking like an accountant who describes himself as the ‘office legend’. Afterwards, I stepped out of the venue for a breath of fresh air. To my surprise, I was hailed by a group of Geordie gentlemen who were clearly in an advanced stage of drunkenness. ‘Fook me, it’s that Jeremy Corbyn off of the telly!’ said one of them.
‘Aye, it fookin’ is, like!’ said another.
The third, who I would come to know as Gaz, said: ‘How, Jezza, mate! Wanna gan oot on the town and get lashed?’
As a man of the people, I felt I had to oblige. What followed was a night that I would love to forget, but fear I never shall. I saw tattooed men brawling outside kebab shops in the Bigg Market. Scantily clad young women crawling down Northumberland Street amid rivers of urine. A bloke wearing a traffic cone on his head, who walked up to a police horse and knocked it out with a single punch. All these elements merged into a vomit-flecked kaleidoscope as I witnessed intoxication, depravity and wanton destruction on a scale I’m unable to describe. It was as though Hieronymus Bosch had been tasked with depicting an especially rowdy Wetherspoons. I asked Gaz whether he’d ever seen anything like it. He replied: ‘Standard Thursday night.’
Some call New York ‘the city that never sleeps’. Based on what I saw today, Newcastle should be known as ‘the city that passes out’ …
Chapter Twelve
Another troublesome development regarding The Boy. Constituency work and a canine misadventure. I retain my position, if not my joie de vivre.
15th August
Suffered a real blow today – The Boy has been sacked from the Grassroots Outreach Unit!
Apparently he took the department’s laissez-faire attitude to work too far. He said: ‘I thought I’d be fine, what with my dad being leader and all, but it turns out they really don’t respect you!’
To my chagrin, The Boy seems entirely un-perturbed by this development and is happy to spend his time cavorting around country houses with Anunciata. That girl is having a bad influence on him – he actually referred to me as ‘Pa-paaaah’ the other day! Upon seeing the change in my expression, he apologised and corrected himself to ‘Dad’. If he starts wearing a cravat, I don’t know what I’ll do …
Spent much of the day in surgery, meeting with the constituents of Islington North. While more careerist MPs may find it a drag, this is among my favourite parts of the job. Hearing the hopes, fears and concerns of neighbours keeps me connected to ordinary life and reminds me why I went into politics. Obviously, most of the people who come to see you are weird malcontents, but one has a duty to represent them too.
Had one slightly awkward meeting, in which a lady called Patricia complained about dogs ‘running wild’ on the streets of Highbury. She proposed that I introduce legislation to require all dogs be kept on a leash. I told her – very politely – that I could never support such a policy, as canines have just as much right to roam free as humans. When I refused to back down on this point, she became agitated and furnished me with some choice words (‘leftie ponce’, etc.) before departing. This is unfortunate, but, then again, I’ve got one of the safest seats in the country, so I can afford to annoy a few people!
THE DOG
16th August
Was cycling through Highbury this morning when a small dog came bounding across my path. I swerved violently, which almost caused me to collide with an organic burrito stall. The woman manning it (womanning it?) yelled: ‘Oi, Jeremy, learn how to ride a bike!’
This hair-raising experience forced me not only to swerve, but to make a U-turn on the dog-leash issue. It turns out Patricia had a very decent point (apart from calling me a ponce) and I will begin drafting legislation ASAP. I think it’s important that leaders be flexible in their thinking. The supple reed may bend where the mighty oak would fall!
18th August
Hustings in Nottingham. Owen was asked what my best quality is and replied, with a smirk: ‘He’s got a very nice line in cream suits.’
Now, as a pacifist both politically and personally, I take great pride in my self-control. However, at that moment, I couldn’t help but fantasise about strangling the goon with his own tie. You don’t go after a man’s cream suits. That just isn’t something you do.
9th September
Owen Smith has given an interview saying that he fought off ‘hundreds of lads’ to get his wife, thus proving that he knows how to win. Big deal! I persuaded three different women to marry me, despite the fact I only buy four pairs of underwear per decade!
12th September
The first anniversary of becoming leader. I’m celebrating in a soulless hotel room in Swindon, as I dot from town to town, fighting to keep my job. I doubt Paperchase has a card for this particular situation.
14th September
Back in the Leader’s Office, between endless, pointless hustings. While making some herbal tea for the IT guys, I overheard a conversation between John and Diane. He was saying: ‘Look, I need you out there, doing more interviews in support of Jeremy.’
She expressed a great deal of reluctance, adding: ‘What am I meant to say when they ask if he’s electable? Or whether I trust his judgement? We both know I’m very fond of Jeremy, but the guy could get lost in a compass factory!’
With friends like these …
17th September
Another debate against Owen Smith, in Glasgow this time. By now the pattern is well established. First question: ‘Mr Corbyn, a lot of people say that you’re rubbish. Do you agree?’ Second question: ‘Mr Smith, would you agree that Mr Corbyn is rubbish?’ Despite this blatant preferential treatment, Owen still manages to be about as inspiring as a flat tyre. When asked about our key policy differences, he said (I’m paraphrasing): ‘I like all of the things people like Jeremy for liking, except I like them in a more electable way. I’m secretly a massive socialist, but I’m also a sexy vote-magnet. So, if you want Jeremy Corbyn, you should definitely vote for Owen Smith.’
Another debate, another Travelodge. While lying in my hotel bed this evening, it occurred
to me to watch a film on pay-per-view. However, as the only options were The King’s Speech and Despicable Me 2, I decided to call The Boy instead. His job search was not going well, he said: ‘You know what it’s like, what with austerity and the credit crunch … It’s basically impossible to find a decent job where you can work seven hours a day tops.’
I responded that it must be tough being unemployed. He said: ‘Not really – I’m having a great time. Nun and I just got really into water polo! Plus, it’s great to be away from Labour HQ – that place is so depressing.’
After the last couple of months, I can’t say I disagree!
24th September
The whole sorry business of this leadership challenge drew to a close today, as I was re-elected leader with 62 per cent of the vote. When my opponent and I were given the results before the announcement, I said: ‘Look, Owen, I appreciate that this has been a difficult few months for everyone concerned, but I hope we can now work together to make this country a better place.’
He turned to me with a face like thunder and said: ‘Fat chance! You may have turned Labour into your own weird little cult, but good luck winning an election!’
And so ended a thoroughly unimpressive coup. Honestly, it was like the assassination of Julius Caesar, if Brutus et al had been wielding plastic spoons.
As I walked on stage to give my victory speech, I could hear hundreds of people chanting ‘JEZ WE CAN! JEZ WE CAN!’ I looked out into the crowd and saw a sea of hopeful faces gazing back at me, cheering in spite of all this rancour and kerfuffle. That’s something, I suppose. Still, I can’t claim to be particularly happy. Over the last couple of months, I’ve been forced to squander tremendous amounts of energy that could have gone on more important things, like cultivating maize or re-grouting the downstairs bathroom. And bringing down this Tory government, of course.
