by Lucien Young
Contents
Cover
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Lucien Young
Title Page
Dedication
2015
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
2016
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
2017
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Copyright
About the Book
In the grand tradition of The Diary of a Nobody comes the secret diary of the twenty-first century’s most unlikely hero: Jeremy Corbyn.
Jeremy Corbyn is a committed allotment holder, expert jam maker, dedicated manhole cover inspector… oh, and occasional Leader of Her Majesty’s Opposition. When not cycling around his beloved Islington or tending to his courgettes, he spends his time frantically dodging MPs, spin doctors and vicious journalists craving his opinion on Brexit. In these tumultuous times, everyone wants a piece of the beardy firebrand. So who is the man behind the corduroy?
The Secret Diary of Jeremy Corbyn plunges readers into a world of dizzying highs, crushing lows, fervent loyalty and bitter treachery – and that’s just the section about the Highbury Pottery Club. Readers will be moved, amused and astonished by the wit and insight of politics’ greatest outsider: the man, the legend, Jeremy Corbyn.
About the Author
Lucien Young is the author of Alice in Brexitland and Trump’s Christmas Carol, both published by Ebury Press, and has written for TV programmes such as BBC Three’s Siblings and Murder in Successville. He was born in Newcastle in 1988 and read English at the University of Cambridge, where he was a member of Footlights.
Also by Lucien Young
Alice in Brexitland
Trump’s Christmas Carol
Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.
Matthew 5:5
If you grow plants and look after your garden, it gives you time to think, it gives you a connection with the natural world and makes you stronger in everything else you do.
Jeremy Corbyn, Channel 4 News, 12 May 2017
Ohhhhh, Je-rem-eeeee Corrr-byn!
Ohhhhh, Je-rem-eeeee Corrr-byn!
Anonymous
A NOTE FROM MR CORBYN
Those who know me are aware that I’ve never been one to seek out the spotlight. I would much rather be tending my allotment. Alas, becoming Leader of Her Majesty’s Opposition is the sort of misfortune that could befall anyone, and now I can’t go anywhere without journalists demanding to know what I think about Brexit, which policies I’d pursue if I were prime minister, and all sorts of other things that are none of their business.
As such, I was, at first, far from inclined to let these private diaries be published. However, two factors persuaded me to go against my instinct. Firstly, Ebury Press agreed that all proceeds would be donated to my favourite Colombian donkey sanctuary.fn1 Secondly, I realised that it was an excellent chance to promote some of the passions of my sixty-nine years: cycling, jam-making, vegetable-based cookery, and – last but not least – radical left-wing politics. If the following chapters inspire just one young person to smash the capitalist regime and bring about a socialist utopia, then this will all have been worthwhile.
The Rt Hon. Jeremy Bernard Corbyn, MP
Guevara Lodge, Islington
2018
2015
THE ALLOTMENT
Chapter One
An unexpected promotion, with unexpected consequences. I meet Julian, my new assistant. Some issues settling into the Leader’s Office. Mishaps involving jam and the national anthem. I am inspired to take up the poet’s quill.
12th September
What a day! At breakfast, Mrs Corbyn and I finally sampled the gooseberry jam I made back in June, which was excellent. Then I cycled along to the garden centre in Harringay, where I treated myself to a top-of-the-range bird feeder designed by Bill Oddie. After lunch, I sat at the kitchen table, sipping a mug of fair trade tea and thrilling at the prospect of all the chaffinches, goldcrests and dunnocks the new feeder will bring to our back garden.
Popped to the corner shop to buy a can of Whiskas for El Gato. Tomorrow I shall visit the allotment and begin to lay down turnips and brassicas.
THE PRESS
In other news, was elected leader of the Labour Party by a landslide. All very gratifying, but I hope these additional duties won’t interfere with the planting schedule.
13th September
It seems that the hopes expressed above were misplaced. In fact, as I write this, I can barely keep my eyes open. The nightmare began this morning. I was wearing my red dressing gown, about to take out the biodegradable food waste. No sooner had I stepped outside my front door than I was confronted by a horde of rabid journalists. Half blinded by camera flashes and deafened by cries of ‘JEREMY! JEREMY!’ I leaped back inside, slamming the door behind me. Such harassment! And on a Sunday, too! I made my horror known to Mrs Corbyn, who said I should be thankful my dressing gown was closed for once.
After some discussion, we decided that the wisest policy was to ignore the crowd outside and carry on with our day as normal. However, just as I’d managed to settle down and get stuck into a sudoku, the doorbell rang. I walked over and put an eye to the peephole: it was a round-faced young man, wearing a lanyard and a bashful expression. I opened the door a crack.
He said: ‘Hi? My name’s Julian? The party sent me?’
I ushered him inside before any of the tabloid mob could get their feet in the door.
Soon we were all in the sitting room, calming our frazzled nerves with mugs of herbal tea. The young man explained that his name was Julian Forbes, a recent politics graduate, who had volunteered to work as my aide because, he said: ‘I, like, totally believe in your message of change and equality and that.’
I asked how he had come by his socialist convictions.
He said: ‘I saw a lot of stuff growing up on an estate – my parents’ country estate. Then I went to St Paul’s, which is where I was, like, exposed to radical theory for the first time? Plus, I really hated my mum and dad, so I thought reading a bunch of Gramsci would annoy them.’
julian
JULIAN
I said: ‘I understand completely – I became a militant Marxist on the mean streets of Shropshire. As I see it, it’s easy for a genuinely poor person to call for state-led redistribution of wealth. It takes a certain character to want that when you’re upper-middle class. Welcome to the team, Julius!’
He smiled and shook my hand, then reminded me that his name was Julian. I apologised for the mistake, attributing it to all the commotion outside my door. Why, I demanded to know, were these people so obsessed with me? Julian observed that it might be to do with me being the leader of the UK’s largest political party. I’m not sure I want that sort of backchat from an assistant, but we’ll chalk it up to inexperience.
Some time later, I became aware of an increase in the noise outside. Peeping out from behind the curtain, I saw a familiar figure ploughing through the crowd of journos, slapping away any camera lens that came near him. It was my dear friend and colleague John McDonnell! I could tell he meant business from his scowling face and rushed to answer
the door. Once inside, he rounded on me, shouting: ‘For heaven’s sake, Jeremy, why are you hanging around the house in a bloody kimono? The left has just taken back the Labour Party after twenty years of Blairite bullshit and you’re acting like you’re Hugh bloody Hefner!’
I asked whether he would care for a biscuit.
He ignored this, saying: ‘We need to devise a strategy to win power and transform Britain into a modern socialist state. You’re sitting down with me and I’m not leaving until you’ve chosen your Shadow Cabinet.’
Twelve punishing hours later, we had our team. We would have been a lot quicker, but for the fact that most senior Labour MPs refuse to serve under me. Well, never mind. John shall be my Shadow Chancellor, largely because he is a loyal comrade with impeccable socialist credentials, but also because he’d shout at me if I said no. Andy Burnham will be made Shadow Home Secretary to keep the Blairites happy. Our Shadow Foreign Secretary will be Hilary Benn – alas, Hilary isn’t anywhere near as left wing as his heroic dad, and we disagree on most key policy areas, but hopefully that won’t become an issue.
After a while, John said: ‘Of course, we’ll need to find something for Diane.’
Ah, Diane Abbott … The very mention of her name set me off on a reverie. How fondly I remember our motorcycle holiday around East Germany back in’ 79! We would munch sauerkraut all day, then lie together under the stars, discussing agricultural policy until the break of dawn. Mrs Corbyn isn’t so keen on her, but that’s only to be expected. Ultimately, we decided that Diane shall be Shadow Secretary of State for International Development. I called to give her the good news myself, making sure to mention that I wouldn’t let certain things interfere with our professional relationship.
She said: ‘What certain things?’
I said: ‘You know, our past association.’
After a pause, she said, in a rather bemused voice: ‘That was forty years ago, Jeremy …’
I said: ‘Yes, it’s unbelievable how these things transcend time and space.’
The relevant appointments having been made, John and Julian finally departed, leaving me to lie on the couch, shattered. I knew that leadership would come with some inconvenience, but I never could have anticipated such wholesale destruction of my weekend! And my trials were not yet over: while I was bringing El Gato in for the night, he rewarded me with a vicious scratch on the back of my hand. I suspect our feline comrade has been unsettled by all the journalists outside!
14th September
My first day in the Leader’s Office. I wore my favourite crimson tie, my roomiest chinos and a jacket in guinea-pig beige. I cycled to the Houses of Parliament, where I was met by Julian, who had been kind enough to buy me a coffee. Unfortunately, the beans were sourced from one of the twenty-five countries whose produce I’m currently boycotting, so I sent him back for another.
I’d say I’m a pretty humble guy, but, as Labour leader, I did expect a more enthusiastic welcome at the office. Not whoops, cheers and people jumping up on chairs necessarily – still, something bigger than the forced grins and limp handshakes I received. I can understand the muted response of my new staff, though: they’ve been exposed to a tsunami of lies told about me by the right, centrists and the moderate left. It will be my task to win them over and I have full confidence that I’ll do so in record time.
To that end, I instructed everyone to gather round so that I could make a speech. It went something like this: ‘Friends, I know that you’ve all heard a lot of things about me. If you listen to the press, they’ll tell you I’m some kind of radical communist. Well, I say that’s counter-revolutionary propaganda from a bourgeois establishment trying to save itself from a glorious new dawn! I think you’ll find I’m really not that different from Ed Miliband – though hopefully I’m a bit more electable, ha ha! That said, there will be a few changes. For instance, I don’t believe in traditional work hierarchies or a top-down approach to government. I’m not your boss – in fact, I’m here to serve you. So, if anyone’s on the lookout for birdwatching tips or a tasty vegan recipe, my door is always open. Cheers!’
Clearly my words were, if anything, too inspiring, as the audience could only respond with stunned silence. I was then approached by our press officer, who suggested I might be wanting to conduct the new leader’s customary interview with Andrew Marr. I told him that I wouldn’t, as I feared that doing so would mar my day. I looked around, expecting a hearty bout of laughter from the rest of the office, but none came. Clearly, I need to raise these comrades’ morale.
Had a meeting with my deputy, Tom Watson, an enthusiastic fan of indie music. He wore a Drenge T-shirt under his suit jacket and proudly showed me his multiple wristbands from Latitude and other music festivals. I confessed that the only albums in my possession are a compilation of world music, The Best of the Red Army Choir and Billy Bragg’s complete discography.
He said: ‘Okay, Jeremy, enough of the small talk. The fact of the matter is, you’re our leader, and, as I see it, that’s just something we have to live with. Unfortunately for you, most of the Parliamentary Labour Party doesn’t look at it that way. You’re about as popular with MPs as a used Elastoplast in the Commons swimming pool.’
I replied, with not a little dignity, that I was aware that I’d had my ups and downs with the Blairites, but was sure we could all work together.
Tom said: ‘You’d better win them over quick, or, by next year, you’ll be nothing more than a difficult question in Trivial Pursuit.’
There followed a long pause. Then he said: ‘By the way, have you ever heard Alice in Chains’ Jar of Flies EP? Massively underrated.’
Later, on my way through the lobby, I ran into Sadiq Khan, one of the thirty-five MPs who nominated me for the leadership (which was the minimum required to get on the ballot). Naturally, I thanked him for this vital support.
He replied, in a quiet voice: ‘All I wanted to do was widen the debate.’
Still, I said, without his gesture I wouldn’t be leader.
‘Don’t mention it,’ he said. ‘Seriously, please don’t.’
With that he dashed off, looking queasy. I imagine he must have had the notorious mackerel salad in the Commons canteen.
Returned home to find journalists still camped outside the front door. I’m sure all their flash photography is causing my roses to wilt.
Garden update: squirrels persist in looting the bird feeder, thus making a mockery of that device’s name. Though this is galling, I am forced to ask myself whether I have the right to pick favourites among the animal kingdom, and decide whether bird or squirrel shall be fed. I stayed up much of the night musing on this point, until Mrs Corbyn elbowed me in the ribs and told me to stop musing out loud.
15th September
Being Leader of the Opposition, I am expected to fulfil a range of ceremonial functions, and so today I attended a service at St Paul’s to mark the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Battle of Britain. Now, as a founding member of the Stop the War Coalition, I am, of course, opposed to any display of militarism. However, I’m happy to make an exception for the brave men and women who stood up to fascism in the Second World War. Unfortunately, the squirrel/bird-feeder issue was still very much on my mind and, during the ceremony, I couldn’t help drifting off into abstraction. Before I knew it, a band had struck up and everyone was singing ‘God Save the Queen’. So lost was I in my thoughts, that I couldn’t remember the words to the national anthem! Just plain forgot the lyrics! I had to stand there quietly, twiddling my thumbs. Fingers crossed nobody noticed …
Later: People did notice. Received an irate phone call from Tom Watson, who tells me Twitter is awash with angry voices calling me a republican dissident and queen-hating terrorist. I swore to him that my silence had been an accident, but Tom wasn’t having it.
He said: ‘Jeremy, if you don’t sort yourself out, Labour’s more screwed than the Clash after Joe Strummer sacked Mick Jones!’
It seems absolutely everyone
has it in for me …
16th September
Today was my first Prime Minister’s Questions as Labour leader. I have very little time for the gladiatorial showboating that usually characterises the event – all that hooting and hollering from pucefaced public schoolboys – so I’ve made the decision to only read out questions submitted by the public. According to Julian, our office has received tens of thousands of emails. When pressed, he admitted that many of these had been offensive statements about yours truly, but still, at least people are engaging.
The team were emphatic that I should put a lot of effort into my presentation. As such, I was poring over my briefing papers at breakfast when Mrs Corbyn happened to mention that Mr Batey, our next-door neighbour, had complained about our ‘overgrown’ rosebushes. This isn’t the first time he’s done so; I regard his demand that we prune our roses into oblivion as horticultural crypto-fascism. I became quite animated on this point and, in the process of gesticulating, upset a jar of gooseberry jam from the allotment, which went all over my notes. Naturally, I was aggrieved by this waste of good jam, and only became more so when I realised that it had stuck the pages together and consequently much of the document had been rendered illegible. In the absence of a printer or smartphone, I was forced to make the best of a bad situation. I cycled over to Parliament and proceeded to speak from jam-sodden notes, squinting to determine whether Jim from Ponteland was concerned about ‘taxes’ or ‘Texas’. I managed to get through the session reasonably well, despite a few inevitable stops and starts.
Apparently this view was not shared by the people in my office – when I returned from the chamber, they looked absolutely livid.