The Secret Diary of Jeremy Corbyn

by Lucien Young

  ‘Sod politics,’ he responded with a shake of his blond head, ‘I wouldn’t let my stableboy be seen in that outfit!’

  ‘Vestis virum reddit,’ said Rees-Mogg, snickering.

  Well, I wasn’t going to be mocked in Latin by a man who dresses like a Victorian undertaker. I drew myself to my full height and declared: ‘You may think your tailored suits and Savile Row waistcoats make you better than others. But all across Britain, ordinary people are wearing very different kinds of clothes. The scuffed boots of hard work. The torn T-shirts of class struggle. And the yellowed underwear of quiet resolve. I’d rather stand with them than be garbed in all your finery.’ With that, I turned smartly on my heel and departed.

  I must admit I was quite pleased with this performance. Only once I was back in my office did I realise that I had been wearing my beige jacket inside out and my fountain pen had leaked in the pocket of my shirt. Of course I was mortified, but I maintain that the moral victory was mine.

  1st March

  Dreamt last night that I was speaking in the Commons chamber, about to make an excellent point about unilateral nuclear disarmament, when I looked down and realised I was wearing nothing but my socks. Everyone started laughing, then Sally approached and commented that at least this was an improvement on my usual outfits. Must admit I was a bit peevish with Sally today, even though it was only her dream self that insulted me.

  12th March

  Tensions between the Corbyns and the Bateys have spilled over into open warfare! Was at the kitchen table painting a garden gnome in the colours of the Venezuelan flag when I heard an almighty crash from outside. Stepping into the garden, I saw that my fence lay smashed and splintered on the grass, while Mr Batey stood surveying the wreck, near quivering with anger. He said: ‘This is your fault, Corbyn! I told you that you were putting too many hanging baskets on the thing!’ I responded that my lobelias had been spaced out at careful intervals, and maybe he should have done more to reinforce the fence on his side. At this point, he began waving an aggressive finger in my face. El Gato, no doubt fearing that some violence was about to befall his master and friend, took this opportunity to leap up on my shoulder and scratch Batey’s cheek. With a threat to call the authorities and ‘have that creature put down’, the man stamped on a piece of fence and went back inside. Despite my staunch commitment to non-violence, I must admit I was rather pleased by this turn of events and so gave El Gato twice his usual helping of Whiskas.

  13th March

  This morning, at Mrs Corbyn’s urging, we went next door and invited Mr Batey to dinner. She believes that the neighbourly bond is a vital one and doesn’t want her acquaintance with Mrs Batey ruined by their, I quote, ‘idiot husbands’.

  ‘Besides,’ she said, ‘you have so very few friends as it is …’

  Batey was hesitant to accept, until Mrs Corbyn said: ‘The thing is, you two just got off on the wrong foot. Jeremy would be the first to acknowledge that he lives in his own little world.’

  I’m not sure I have ever acknowledged this, but it seemed to do the trick. The rest of the day was spent in frantic preparation. In terms of food, Mrs Corbyn pleaded with me to pick something up from Waitrose, but I insisted on cooking myself. Surely, I argued, Mr Batey would appreciate the gesture all the more if I had gone to some personal effort. Accordingly, I made a large batch of my couscous and cannellini bean burgers, a treat we only give ourselves once in a blue moon.

  Batey arrived around seven and the dinner seemed to be going splendidly at first. Organic wine was flowing – tap water for me – as we let bygones be bygones and set the world to rights. Mr Batey and I soon agreed that our previous quarrels had been silly and that we could each afford to be more receptive to the other’s needs. However, I could not help but notice that our guest had barely touched his plate. When he saw me looking at the neglected burger, he said he wasn’t feeling too well and proceeded to pick at it in a laborious manner. Once he was done, I naturally offered him another.

  He said: ‘Listen, Jeremy, in the spirit of neighbourliness, I’ve got to be honest with you – your food is a little bland for my taste.’

  I blinked, uncomprehending. Mrs Corbyn placed a restraining hand on my shoulder, but it was too late: the dragon within me had been awakened. I said: ‘Well, if we’re going to be airing that sort of thing, I should say that your front door is a horribly tacky shade of green. It’s an affront to the whole neighbourhood.’

  This tit-for-tat quickly escalated, with Batey declaring: ‘You’re the worst leader Labour’s ever had. In terms of coolness, you make Ed Miliband look like Shaft. I genuinely half suspect you might be a double agent for the Tories.’

  Now, as these pages attest, I’m a pretty thick-skinned guy. However, there is one insult, one vile and poisonous calumny, that, once spoken, can never be withdrawn. Call me a boneheaded blunderer and I shall turn the other cheek. Call me a fatuous fantasist and I shall laugh and shake your hand. But call me a Tory, or suggest that I would have anything to do with that toxic brood, and watch as I transform into a socialist version of the Hulk. I leapt to my feet and cried: ‘Get out of my house! We may live next to each other, but I no longer consider you a neighbour!’

  Surprised by my vigour, Batey spluttered, then bolted for the door.

  It is a confounding fact of my existence that, while I abhor conflicts of any kind, I constantly seem to be getting embroiled in them. I expected Mrs Corbyn to be furious that I had torpedoed her peacemaking efforts, but she was very comforting, telling me that I’d comported myself with bravery and machismo.

  She said: ‘No one has the right to call you a bad Labour leader except me.’

  After a pause, I asked if this meant that she thought I was a bad leader.

  ‘Of course not, darling,’ she murmured, then swiftly went to do the dishes.

  18th March

  Iain Duncan Smith has resigned as Work and Pensions Secretary. He says the latest cuts to disability benefits are too cruel. What’s next, Dracula complaining about excessive neck-biting?

  21st March

  I know this diary has been somewhat whingey of late, but I really must object to all these comments that I’m offering lukewarm support to the Remain campaign, or even sabotaging it. Today I made a full ten-minute speech in praise of the EU, using the strongest language I could muster. I said the organisation ‘doesn’t do much harm’ and has ‘some aspects that are more or less not un-decent’.

  I stepped off stage to a smattering of applause and was soon collared by Alan Johnson, the head of Labour In for Britain.

  He cried: ‘What the hell was that?’

  I replied that it had been a full-throated endorsement of his campaign.

  He said: ‘Jeremy, this country’s driving towards the edge of a cliff like a lemming in a petrol tanker. Whether I like it or not, you are leader of the Labour Party. I need you to act like you’re more excited about staying in the EU than you are about pulling the lint out your navel.’

  With that, he unhanded me and strode off. Since everyone’s getting on my case about it, I might as well set down here what I think about the European Union. Do I think it’s devoid of flaws? No. Do I think it’s advantageous to British companies to be part of the customs union? I do. Do I think that phrasing my opinions as a series of vague questions will get me out of this? Maybe. The point is, the leader of a pro-Remain party has to be pro-Remain, and if he thought a certain supranational organisation had imposed merciless austerity on our Greek comrades, and has a neoliberal economic stance which makes socialist change impossible for its member states, that would be entirely his business, wouldn’t it?

  4th April

  Beyond horrified to discover that Batey next door has gone and sold his story to the papers! While scanning the tabloids in my local newsagent, my eye was caught by the headline INDE-FENCEABLE. Next to it was a picture of Mr Batey with his arms folded, standing beside the ruins of our partition. The caption read: ‘Jeremy Corbyn may be a terri
ble neighbour, but I’d hate to see him move to Downing Street.’ Worse still, when I opened the rag, it was only to find the words HEAP OF NONSENSE, and an illicitly taken photo of my compost. I immediately called Ofcom to register disgust at this violation of my garden’s privacy.

  Chapter Seven

  The Boy reveals himself to be dating an unsuitable woman. Less than ideal results in the local elections. A series of visits from Stormzy. An unpleasant interaction with a certain leader of UKIP. I am told to focus on the referendum.

  23rd April

  I notice my diary entries have become sparser of late. It’s hard to find the time, what with my duties to constituents and all of this EU nonsense. Nonetheless, I shall attempt to do better.

  The allotment is faring well this year, especially given the impediments to my tending it. My rocket, asparagus and artichokes have all come up like a dream. In fact, I have recently begun to sow some more unusual vegetables, such as Hamburg parsley, salsify and scorzonera. In cycling news, I bought a dapper new red helmet. It is made of a polycarbonate blend and EPS foam, boasting 18 honeycomb vents and a detachable visor.

  Met Barack Obama today. Nice guy, very large ears.

  25th April

  The Boy was looking more pleased with himself than usual at breakfast this morning. I was glad to see that his mood had lifted and enquired as to the cause.

  He said: ‘Well, Dad, I’ve got some pretty big news. It’s regarding my love life …’

  It turns out that he has started seeing a young woman he was set up with by Tristram, one of the ‘City boys’. I asked her name and the reply was worse than I could possibly have imagined: Anunciata Basildon-Wyck. As Mrs Corbyn cooed and demanded to see photos, I couldn’t help but let my spoonful of bran flakes fall back to the bowl. I gently ventured that this girl sounded rather posh.

  The Boy said: ‘Oh God, yeah, her parents are totally loaded. I think they used to own, like, half of India. Maybe they still do.’

  Conscious of the blood pounding in my ears, I weakly murmured that he was a grown man and free to associate with whomever he pleased.

  At this, The Boy looked hurt, saying: ‘I thought you’d be happy for me.’

  I replied: ‘I am, of course. It’s just … I never saw you with a member of the upper class.’

  He said: ‘Hang on – aren’t you always saying that love should know no boundaries?’

  I said: ‘Absolutely. But, I mean … Don’t you think you might be happier with someone from a good, middle-class background? Or, even better, a member of the proletariat?’

  The Boy became incensed at this. He accused me of being callous and insensitive, then stormed out. Perhaps it isn’t politically correct to say so, but I’m not sure I approve of the upper and middle classes mixing. We should be able to enjoy our own pursuits, while they amuse themselves with sherry, voting Conservative and fox hunting. It’s a case of live and let live (unless you’re one of the foxes).

  After work, returned home to find The Boy’s room vacant. Mrs Corbyn explained that he is staying at ‘Anunciata’s place in Kensington’. I fear we are growing apart.

  26th April

  Honestly, if I never hear the word ‘Brexit’ again, it will be too soon. Sally and Tom Watson confronted me in my office: they feel that my interviews on the subject have tended to come across as evasive and shifty.

  Tom said: ‘You need to stop obfuscating and give some straight answers. Whatever you might think personally, you’re signed up to the Remain campaign, so you need to start acting like it.’

  Sally explained that, to this end, they wished to conduct a mock interview, in which I was to defend the EU as wholeheartedly as possible.

  She began: ‘In the event of a narrow victory for Leave, would you be in favour of a second referendum?’

  I said: ‘I think the important thing here is that the people’s voices are heard. Those voices have been heard and they will be heard. We in politics must be all ears and, if we are hearing impaired, a sign language version should be available. The people need to hear that we are hearing them and we need to be hearing that they hear that they’re being heard. And if they speak too quietly or have, say, a regional accent, we should be shouting “Pardon?!” I hope that answers your question.’

  Tom said: ‘Not at all, but let’s try another … Jeremy, you voted for Britain to leave the European Economic Community in the 1975 referendum. Why are you now campaigning for Remain?’

  I said: ‘Look, things were very different in the Seventies. Just look at trousers. Back then, many young males favoured a flared leg, wherein the trouser became wider from the knee downwards. This style was also referred to as the bell-bottom, and I myself was known to rock a pair from time to time. Would I do so now, in 2016? No, I don’t think I would. I favour a straight-legged corduroy these days. Next question.’

  Sally said: ‘Jeremy, stop. That was incredibly vague.’

  I said: ‘Apologies – trousers are a kind of fabric sheath, which cover one’s legs and undercarriage. I’ve worn them all my life.’

  Tom said: ‘Okay, let’s try one last question while I still have the will to live. Do you believe that Brexit would be bad for UK businesses? And bear in mind, Jez, if you don’t give us a decipherable answer, I’ll stick your tie in a fax machine and hit “Send”.’

  I said: ‘Do I believe that Brexit would be bad for UK businesses? Well, that really does depend on what you mean by “bad”. And by “believe”, “Brexit”, “UK” and “businesses”.’

  At this point, Tom let out a rather uncomradely expletive, then he and Sally left abruptly.

  Returned home determined to make amends with The Boy. I found him sulking in his room and offered an apology. I said: ‘My behaviour yesterday was completely out of order. I trust you to make your own decisions and hope to meet this Anunciata in the near future.’

  He said: ‘So you won’t go calling her a parasite leeching off the blood of the workers?’

  I said: ‘Son, I’ll do everything I can to stop myself.’

  6th May

  While I firmly believe in the importance of positive thinking, the results of yesterday’s local elections leave a lot to be desired. Still, I’ve chosen to remain sanguine – after all, there’s more to politics than winning votes and exercising power! John and Diane, on the other hand, are livid. The pair of them marched into my office this morning and let me have it with both barrels.

  THE LOCAL ELECTION RESULTS

  Diane said: ‘We’re the ones who have to go on TV and defend you. Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep a straight face when Andrew Neil asks if you’re electable?’

  John said: ‘This is insane. We’re running against a cascade of twats who love nothing more than to jack up the price of baby food. They’ve been in power for six miserable years, their leader is a confirmed pig-defiler and we still can’t beat them!’

  I said: ‘Look, I’m happy to concede that these numbers are somewhat … less than ideal.’

  Diane said: ‘Less than ideal? Jeremy, it’s the worst result for an opposition party since 1982. You do know that we’re supposed to be picking councillors up, not losing them?’

  I said: ‘I think we should focus on the seats we won, rather than the ones we didn’t. It’s a case of whether the glass is half full or half empty.’

  John said: ‘No, Jeremy, it’s a case of the glass being full of piss and then someone smashing it in our face!’

  Ran into David Davis in the Central Lobby, which is never something you want to do. David is a ludicrously hardcore Eurosceptic. He was also in the territorial version of the SAS, so will start banging on about his military credentials at the drop of a hat (or, I suppose, a beret). Given all this, you can imagine why I was alarmed to see him marching towards me.

  He said: ‘Corbyn, what time do you have?’

  I checked my trusty Casio and replied: ‘Nearly two o’clock.’

  He frowned. ‘Oh, you mean fourteen hundred hours!’
He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper: ‘Look, Corbyn, are you sure you don’t want to join the Leave campaign? We could use a leftie like you as cannon fodder …’

  I said: ‘That’s very tempting, but no,’ and made my excuses to leave.

  He said: ‘Affirmative – I’m due at a rendezvous point anyway,’ then attempted to exit the room by doing a series of tactical rolls.

  14th May

  Received a surprise visitor today! Around 10:30, Mrs Corbyn and I were getting stuck into some quince jam on toast when the doorbell rang. I answered to find a tall young man wearing an Adidas tracksuit and an expression of great enthusiasm. He explained that his name was Stormzy and that he was keen to meet me, because I, Jeremy, was a badman and a don. Inferring that these things were positive, I said: ‘Well, I suppose you should come in.’

  Once furnished with toast and quince jam, Stormzy explained that he was a musician, specialising in a genre called ‘grime’. Apparently, he is not alone in considering me a badman – many artists in the grime community have ‘mad love for Young Jeremy’ and approve of my robust socialist program. This is certainly one in the eye for Sally et al, who insist that I’m not ‘cool’ enough! Stormzy and I proceeded to have a fascinating discussion on income disparity, affordable housing and how he might help with Labour’s outreach to the young, urban community. For my part, I suggested that he might release a single to educate the youth about collectivist agricultural policy.

  He said: ‘Yeah, yeah, maybe …’ and changed the subject rather abruptly. Still, it was a pleasure to discuss political matters with a member of the younger generation. I was rather disappointed when, around midday, he had to leave for lunch with someone called JME.