The Secret Diary of Jeremy Corbyn

by Lucien Young

  With his manifesto

  Which interprets history as a perpetual class struggle between the proletarians and the bourgeoisie.

  Still not perfect, but I’m getting better! I read it to The Boy in the hope of cheering him up, but he didn’t even crack a smile. Given the funniness of the poem, this is very worrying.

  4th February

  The Boy still exceedingly gloomy. The only time he leaves his room is to get another craft beer from the fridge. He reminds me of how I felt when the USSR collapsed! It being Saturday, I decided to take him out to the allotment. I had hoped that being among the miracles of nature would lift his spirits, as it always does mine, but no such luck. He barely had the wherewithal to tilt his watering can. After a while, I realised that a pep talk was in order. I said: ‘Son, I brought you out here so we could speak man to man. Look, I know that you’re hurting. I’ve been through a fair few breakups myself. Admittedly, most of them happened because I was marching at too many demonstrations or wouldn’t stop talking about Venezuela, but I understand your pain.’

  He said: ‘I still can’t believe it. I thought Nun was the one.’

  I said: ‘Well, life has a habit of throwing you curveballs. I was a backbencher for thirty-two years. I never had so much as a sniff of ministerial office. Who would have thought I’d end up being in charge of the Labour Party? I mean, a lot of people would say I’m not in charge of the Labour Party, but still …’

  At this point, The Boy burst into tears, which was very disconcerting. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I patted him on the back and said: ‘Solidarity.’

  9th February

  Big day at the office: the Commons has passed a bill to ‘trigger Article 50’. Still not entirely sure what that means – it sounds exciting, like something James Bond would do, but in practice it’s incredibly boring. Not wanting to defy the will of the people, I imposed a three-line whip to make sure the party went along with it. The PLP are pretty upset about this, so I was keen to avoid getting collared after the vote.

  Sneaking through the Members’ Lobby, I spotted a red-faced Tom Watson. Thinking on my feet, I hid behind the statue of H. H. Asquith until the sound from Tom’s Dre Beats headphones had subsided. Moving into the Central Lobby, I was spotted by Laura Kuenssberg, who shouted, ‘Mr Corbyn, what is your personal position on Brexit?’ and chased me down a corridor.

  Knowing that I would be unable to outrun the frightening Scottish news lady, I opted to hide in a nearby cupboard. While attempting to catch my breath, I noticed that someone else was in there: ‘Michael Gove? What are you doing here?’

  He replied: ‘Oh, I’m hiding from Boris. I duck in here every time I see him. The guy’s out of shape, but if he fell on you … Game over.’

  10th March

  Given how hard I’ve been working recently, I decided to treat myself to a snazzy new hat of the Panama variety. Though, at £20, it far exceeds my usual clothes budget, I must say I like the effect. When I looked in the shop’s mirror, I saw a suave bohemian poet gaze back at me. ¡Muy guapo, Jeremy!

  11th March

  It being the weekend and the sun having made one of its rare appearances, I thought the time was right to debut my hat. I popped the thing on my head, set it to a jaunty angle and strode down to the kitchen. After a beat, The Boy started laughing uproariously and said: ‘Bloody hell, Dad, you look like the man from the Dolmio ads!’

  While this jibe was obviously uncalled for, Mrs Corbyn and I were glad to see him so engaged. With any luck, he’ll soon be back to his old self (for better or worse).

  17th March

  George Osborne, that slimy boarding school sadist, has been named editor of the Evening Standard! Good to know that the most widely read paper in London will now function as a sort of posh-boy Pravda …

  I can’t say 2017 has been a massive improvement on its predecessor thus far. My days are all Brexit, Brexit, Brexit. The discussions are at once bafflingly vague and crushingly technical. Even my best friends wouldn’t claim that I’m a detailoriented guy, so I just nod along with what I’m told. After a particularly frustrating meeting, Diane said: ‘How are we meant to defend your position when no one knows what it is?’

  The Boy continues to languish in his room, sighing and listening to the Smiths. I can’t stand Morrissey myself – the man gives humourless, preachy vegetarians a bad name!

  29th March

  Theresa May has signed a letter triggering Article 50 (which I’ve just now got to grips with). This is a highly consequential moment in our nation’s history, but you wouldn’t know it from the robotic monotone in which she made the announcement. Commentators are always saying I lack charisma, but this woman makes me look like Muhammad Ali …

  12th April

  Like one of those Hammer horror films where Dracula fights Frankenstein’s monster, today’s news brought together the Daily Mail and Donald Trump. It seems that Dacre’s lot are grovelling to Melania and paying her something in the region of two million pounds in damages for publishing an article including ‘false and defamatory claims that questions the nature of her work as a professional model and republished allegations that she provides services beyond simply modelling’. I’d say she got off pretty lightly – the Mail has called me much worse!

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Prime Minister makes a surprise announce-ment. Differing opinions on my chances of victory. I travel the country, only to discover that crowds like me more than the media.

  18th April

  Arrived at the office to find everyone in a state of extreme panic. I approached John and Diane and enquired as to the cause of all this wailing and gnashing of teeth. Was it the Rapture, as predicted by evangelical Christians? Were nuclear missiles about to rain down upon our heads? No, it emerged that Theresa May has announced a general election to be held on the 8th June. All around the room, staff were staring into the middle distance or frantically updating their CVs. John muttered: ‘Well, that’s torn it … The jig is well and truly up.’

  I argued that this was excellent news – an opportunity to take our bold, progressive vision out to the country and establish me as a viable prime minister. After a long pause, Diane said: ‘Sure, Jeremy. Sure it is.’

  My colleagues are just nervous because the polls have us around twenty points behind. But who cares about that? Bookies put my chance of securing the leadership at 100 to 1. When the polls say I have any hope of winning, that’s when I’ll start to worry!

  While making tea for some of my more shell-shocked colleagues, I overheard Sally outside the kitchen, talking on her phone. She said: ‘We’ll obviously be annihilated – the BBC graphics department’s going to run out of blue pixels. Still, at least it’ll sort out the situation with you-know-who …’

  Well, dear Diary, I don’t care what the nay-sayers say (mostly ‘nay’, I imagine). The truth is, I feel more energised than I have in a long while. After all, what’s an election but a series of rallies and demonstrations and opportunities for people to chant your name? Most importantly, no one gives a damn about details!

  Mrs Corbyn, as ever, has been wonderful. The moment I got home, she said: ‘You are my husband and I believe in you. I know you’ll go out there, stay true to your principles and fight with everything you’ve got. Plus, when the election’s done, we can go on a lovely long holiday together.’

  I said: ‘Well, not if we’re moving into Downing Street.’

  She paused a moment, then said: ‘Yes, that definitely could happen …’

  20th April

  Today saw our first meeting on the subject of Labour’s 2017 manifesto. I am keen to adopt a non-hierarchical approach to policy, so we are accepting pitches from everyone in the office. After outlining some of my own ideas – setting up a database of good picnic spots, the establishment of a National Allotment Service, etc. – I opened the floor. There was a long silence, then Julian suggested something called the ‘Corbyn footprint’.

  John McDonnell said: ‘What
the hell is that?’

  Julian said: ‘Well, it’s, like, a play on “carbon footprint”?’

  John said: ‘Yes, but what does it mean?’

  Julian said: ‘Could be an environment thing?’

  John said: ‘Enough of this piffling crap. We need to give our supporters some red meat – sorry, Jeremy, poor choice of words.’

  We spent the next few hours fruitlessly searching for promises that would appeal to our base without alienating the wider electorate. Sally said: ‘We could do with something that appeals to millennials.’

  After a beat, Julian said: ‘Nationalise Tinder?’ John responded to this vituperatively.

  I said: ‘Now, John, there are no wrong answers.’

  He said: ‘Yes there are! I’ve been hearing them all morning!’

  In the afternoon, we discussed our wider electoral strategy. There’s an idea that we should set up another semi-affiliated campaign group, run by my most hardcore supporters. Julian suggested it be called ‘Jezbollah’ – which I think has a ring to it – but it was immediately shouted down. His other idea was an LGBT group called ‘Lezzas for Jezza’, though this was deemed problematic. Still, the young man’s trying, and I think that’s to be encouraged.

  At dinner, I told Mrs Corbyn of my intention to provide several dozen jars of gooseberry jam for the upcoming Hackney Spring Festival. She said: ‘Don’t you think you’ll be too busy, what with the election and all? Perhaps you could just make a couple of jars.’

  I replied: ‘No, I want to provide fruit preserves for the many, not the few.’

  She asked me to repeat what I’d just said. I said: ‘Fruit preserves?’

  She said: ‘No, the other part.’

  I said: ‘For the many, not the few.’ She told me the phrase was catchy and might make a good slogan. I wasn’t convinced, but said I would mention it to the team.

  23rd April

  Michael Fallon, the aggressive Secretary of Defence, has gone on Sky News to huff and puff and accuse me of being ‘staggeringly irresponsible’ regarding the nation’s security. I would humbly suggest that there is something fairly irresponsible about invading any Middle East country with a vowel in its name, or spending incalculable amounts on weapons that could end the world several times over. This view may be unpopular, but I believe we should aspire to killing as few people as possible. Of course, saying so has painted an enormous target on my back. That’s the thing about living in a militarised society: if you admit that you would even hesitate to launch £2 billion worth of missiles into an Iraqi pre-school, you get called a lily-livered hippie.

  I have no idea where these people get the idea that I’m not tough. As someone who spent five years in charge of the Holloway Crocheters’ Alliance, I’m no stranger to getting my hands dirty. Those old ladies could be vicious …

  24th April

  Speaking of deranged militarism, Tony Blair has said that he’s tempted to make a political comeback! Of course, I would be delighted for him to stand as a Labour MP. It would be ironic if he had to spend a decade on the backbench with me as leader. Ha ha! Still, I appreciate it must be difficult for Tony to see his New Labour legacy upended by an old-school socialist. Fortunately for him, he can always distract himself by doing lucrative PR work for dictators.

  Campaigning in Scotland at the moment. I’m struck by the contrast between my coverage in the national press (‘Calamity Corbyn’) and the massive crowds that come to see me speak. It really does feel like we’re building a movement – each day I look out at a sea of faces, people of every age, race and background, all screaming: ‘JEZ WE CAN!’ Of course, I’m a humble sort of guy, so I take no pleasure in this adulation. Well, maybe just a bit …

  27th April

  Boris has made his first real contribution to the electoral discourse, which is to call me a ‘mutton-headed old mugwump’. My aides and I spent about an hour trying to work out what on earth he meant. Sad to think the Tories’ great hope is this love-child of a hippo and a thesaurus.

  Spoke at a rally in Leeds, where, coincidentally, The Boy happens to be staying. He’s also been travelling the country of late, meeting with potential investors in his app. Though I don’t necessarily approve of entrepreneurship, I’m glad to see him getting out of the house and taking some initiative. Anyway, I took him out for dinner and it was just like the old days – me chiding him for his frivolous attitude; him disrespecting my beliefs, demeanour and fashion sense. I asked if he’d seen me on Channel 4 the previous night. He replied that he doesn’t watch my interviews, as he’s not a fan of horror films. I’m delighted to see that my son has got his verve back, even if that verve can be attributed to capitalism. You know, maybe politics isn’t everything …

  Chapter Eighteen

  Local elections paint a grim picture. Yet another train-based disaster. Tensions with Sally come to a head. My darkest hour.

  1st May

  Had a rough time on the campaign trail today. Of course, there were the usual chants of, ‘NICE ONE, JEZZA!’, as well as the hordes of young people wanting selfies with me (which I don’t mind, even though they always make me look rather bewildered). Unfortunately, I met with a fair amount of reticence – if not outright hostility – on the doorstep. Comments included ‘Posh Trot’, ‘Bearded liability’ and ‘I wouldn’t trust you to run a cake sale.’ The latter remark stung, given that I have organised several cake sales, all of which were very well attended.

  Most frustrating was a gentleman who said: ‘Sorry, Jez – I agree with pretty much everything you say, but I can’t vote for you.’

  I asked why not, to which he replied: ‘Because you’re unelectable.’

  I said: ‘Surely I’m only unelectable if people like you won’t vote for me.’

  He said, ‘Yeah, well, I don’t make the rules,’ then closed the door in my face. I must admit this rankled and caused me to snap at Julian when he was unable to source any almond-and-chia-seed granola clusters in the middle of Rotherham.

  Though I felt drained by the end of the day, my hotel room was terribly stuffy and I found myself unable to sleep. I tried to call Mrs Corbyn, but her phone went straight to voicemail. Having given it some thought, I decided to call Diane. After all, we’ve been through a great deal together and she always knows how to cheer me up. The phone rang a few times before she answered and said: ‘For goodness’ sake, Jeremy, I was fast asleep. This better be party business.’

  However, her tone soon softened when she realised I was in a bit of a tizzy. I’m afraid I rather played the sympathy card and kept her talking about Soviet civil engineering until 3 a.m.

  2nd May

  I feel terrible for Diane! She went on Nick Ferrari’s LBC show this morning to talk about police funding and – due to her exhaustion – got her numbers muddled up. Naturally the media vultures have piled onto her, with an eagerness they would no doubt replicate for a white male politician …

  The situation is all the more painful to witness, knowing that it’s my fault! I would volunteer to explain to journalists what happened, but Mrs Corbyn would be furious if she knew I’d been talking to another woman about Soviet civil engineering. Feel very rotten about the whole thing.

  5th May

  Yesterday’s council elections were a bit of a setback, all told. Labour lost about 380 councillors, while the Tories made big gains. Of course, everyone assumes this is a prelude to us getting mauled in the general. Julian seemed especially dispirited. I told him not to read too much into these results – it’s just that voters who went to UKIP because the Tories weren’t racist enough are returning to the fold. Plus, I said: ‘Who votes in council elections? They may as well have a minimum age limit of eighty-five.’

  He said: ‘Sure, but what will you do if the pattern holds for this election?’

  I said: ‘Look, if Labour gets wiped out, that’s just evidence we weren’t left wing enough. Don’t worry, I’m going nowhere.’

  He still looked quite worried.


  It’s important that I’m brave for my staff, but I must admit to being nervous. For all that I try to take myself out of the equation, I can’t say I want to be remembered as the guy who drove the party off a cliff (apart from anything, I don’t have a licence).

  7th May

  Heartening news from the French presidential election – the Front National’s Marine Le Pen was handily defeated by the centrist Emmanuel Macron. Macron may be a bloodless, austerity-loving technocrat, but at least the world has been spared another Trump-style authoritarian. It’s a strange feeling when the fascist coming in second feels like something to celebrate …

  9th May

  Was up until 3 a.m. again last night putting the finishing touches to our manifesto. I’m rather proud of it. In fact, I’d go so far as to say it’s my second favourite manifesto, after the communist one. My colleagues made me remove my idea for free sandals on the NHS, but hey, politics is about compromise.

  Later: Disaster! Was re-reading the manifesto on the train when I inadvertently nodded off. Waking up, I was so groggy that I exited my carriage and left the printout on the seat next to me. Very embarrassing, as the thing is meant to be top secret until next week. Still, I’m sure it’ll be fine – someone will just have binned it.

  10th May

  The manifesto leaked. The papers are beside themselves with glee and everyone in the office is acting like it’s doomsday. I told Julian that I needed to liaise with the Deputy Leader. He said: ‘Yeah, I tried to talk to Tom, but he just stormed into his office and started playing Rage Against the Machine at full volume …’