by Lucien Young
It emerges that husband and wife are part of the ‘swinger’ community and had, up to this point, laboured under the misapprehension that some wife-swapping was on the table. Now, I may be an open-minded individual – some of my best friends are pescatarian – but neither I nor my wife have ever taken any interest in that sort of thing. When I explained this, the convivial mood soured instantly. With a hurt look, Glenn said: ‘I thought we were all on the same page. I mean, what about last night? You kept banging on about “sharing love” and “coming together” … Plus, you’re a politician – all you guys are into kinky shit!’
An appalled Mrs Corbyn stormed out. I made my apologies, said that I hoped this wouldn’t affect their voting intentions, then followed. Once back in our own villa, my wife and I vowed never to speak of the matter again.
29th May
I had thought I’d feel sad to be going home. However, after last night’s hijinks, I was more than happy to vamoose. Without wishing to be ungrateful (travel is, after all, a bourgeois luxury), I feel less relaxed at the end of this holiday than I did before it …
After an uneventful flight, we found ourselves back in Gatwick, where a squall of British rain greeted us. While queuing for customs, it struck me how much faster the EU line is than the non-EU line. For the first time, I wondered if I should perhaps be doing more to avert Brexit …
Upon returning home, it became immediately apparent that The Boy’s efforts to clean up after El Gato had been only partially successful. Worse, I switched on my mobile to find that I’d received over 3,000 texts and 200 missed calls. I couldn’t bring myself to listen to many of the voicemails, but one expletive-laden tirade from Tom Watson made it clear that my colleagues did not appreciate me going on an impromptu trip. Between this and the aforementioned queue speed disparity, I’ve decided I need to get my arse in gear …
Chapter Nine
The British public exercises its democratic right in the most baffling way possible. Lots of unnecessary rudeness. Basically everyone resigns except for me. A vote of no confidence serves to dent my confidence.
23rd June
Dear Diary, I’m sorry I haven’t been more talkative over the past few weeks. I have been making Herculean efforts to get the Remain campaign back on track, while talking about Brexit nigh on every day. I’m absolutely shattered and my allotment is but a distant memory. Yet still I’m dogged by accusations that I don’t care about the EU! Admittedly, I didn’t help my case by going on The Last Leg and saying I was only seven, or seven and a half, out of ten in favour of remaining. But, I ask you, what politician could withstand the laser-like interview technique of comedian Adam Hills?
In truth, the last few weeks have been a terribly grim time in our nation’s politics. The highlights (if that’s quite the word) are as follows:
Gove and Johnson unveiled a deceitful bus, adorned with claims that we send the EU £350 million a week, which we could be spending on the National Health Service. Naturally, I was horrified to see public transport misused like this. While I’m all for additional NHS funding, I don’t believe for a second that Boris will be the one to provide it. If he had an extra £350 million, he’d use it for some vanity project, like a flying bridge or a skyscraper in the shape of his face.
I refused to campaign alongside David Cameron, partly because I disagree with his vision of a globalised, free-market Europe and partly because he’s a smarmy, gammon-hued tosspot.
The Leave campaign dialled up its already considerable xenophobia. The dogwhistles were so loud that each canine in a twelve-mile radius suffered hearing loss. Perhaps the darkest point was when Nigel Farage was photographed in front of a poster depicting a column of brown-skinned refugees and claiming that Europe is at ‘breaking point’. No, Nigel, the only thing that’s at breaking point is your liver!
And so here it is: Referendum Day. It’s been raining cats and dogs, which the folks in my office are worried will diminish turnout. It’s certainly been diminishing my will to live!
I’m writing this in my office, around midnight, as we wait for the votes to come in. Everyone’s terribly nervous, but I’m keeping a level head. The polling, punditry and expert advice all gives me confidence that Remain will prevail. More importantly than that, I understand the people of this country. The British are many things: stubborn; parochial; borderline alcoholic. But, more than anything, we are pragmatic. Tempers may flare and emotions run high, but in the end the British public will always take the most sensible path.
4 a.m: Oh dear …
24th June
Today was something of a rollercoaster. Not an enjoyable one – more the kind that goes haywire and decapitates half the people riding it. Cameron has resigned! At least he’ll now be able to spend more time playing Fruit Ninja on his iPad …
Everyone on the radio sounds as though they’re in shock. You half expect one of them to start sobbing and shout: ‘I can’t do this anymore! There’s just too much news!’
Arrived at the Leader’s Office to scenes of absolute chaos. Julian was rocking back and forth in his chair. I told him everything would be all right, to which he responded: ‘But what if the economy crashes? I can’t go back to living on my parents’ estate!’
As I walked away, I heard someone mutter: ‘Great job, Mr Seven Out Of Ten!’
I entered my office to find John McD waiting there. He said: ‘Well, isn’t this a delightful mess? The British public have put the “dumb” in “referendum”.’
I said that we had to respect the democratic process and that there was a clear mandate for change. He said: ‘52 to 48? That’s not a clear mandate for anything. The people have spoken, and they didn’t make any sense!’
Gove and Johnson gave a press conference around 11 p.m. They may have won a historic victory, but you wouldn’t know that to look at them. No, they had the demeanour of two teenage boys who’d just been caught molesting the family pet. It’s almost as though they’re a pair of posh chancers who wanted to boost their standing with weird Tory Europhobes, but never thought they’d have to deal with the reality of Brexit … Then again, who am I to question the integrity of notorious truth-teller Boris Johnson?
Had an emergency meeting with the Shadow Cabinet, at which a number of unkind things were said. As torrential rain drummed against the window, each of my colleagues took it in turns to lay into me. Now, I don’t approve of swearing, so I will replace the saltier choices of vocabulary with ‘thing’:
‘For thing’s sake, Jeremy! You defended the EU with all the enthusiasm of a tortoise on Quaaludes.’
‘I can’t decide what’s thinging worse – your sixth-form political beliefs or your pre-school managerial skills.’
‘You’ve done more damage to the Labour Party than if someone put Margaret Thatcher’s brain into an 80-foot killer robot with cannons for arms.’
‘I thinging hate you, you thinging piece of thing.’
I responded to all this abuse by smiling politely and saying: ‘That’s an interesting point.’ However, this only seemed to make things worse. Hilary Benn said: ‘Look, Jeremy, you can’t just sit there nodding. The country’s thinged and it’s your fault.’
I said: ‘Now, that’s hardly fair – I’m not the one who called a referendum.’
He said: ‘Leave won by a stupidly small margin. Call me a romantic, but don’t you think the result might have been different if the Leader of the Opposition hadn’t campaigned with the air of someone about to have major dental surgery?’
There followed yet more sweeping criticism of my leadership style, ability to communicate and, in a couple of instances, appearance.
Owen Smith said: ‘I suppose this is what you get when your leader cares more about growing marrows than securing votes …’
I said: ‘That’s an interesting point.’
For some reason, this caused Hilary to leap across the table at me. Fortunately, he was restrained by Jon Trickett and Rachel Reeves. The meeting broke up soon afterwards.
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25th June
According to today’s papers, Hilary Benn is preparing a coup against me. I had no idea that Hilary would do such a thing – I mean, sure, he’s always calling me unfit, useless and a liability to the Labour Party, but that’s true of most of my colleagues. John McD reckons I have to fire him. He said: ‘That way, anything he says sounds like sour grapes, rather than a principled stand.’
I replied that I’d rather not, given how I hate confrontation.
He said: ‘Look, this is like a gangster movie. Anyone goes against the boss, they get whacked. Capiche?’
I said: ‘Bless you.’
God, I hate the shouting, the intrigue, the Godfather references! I didn’t get into politics to fire people. I’ve sacrificed so much for this job and all I get in return is relentless criticism. Still, I’m not going anywhere. Firstly, because I have a duty to represent the will of the membership. Secondly, because I want to spite these Blairite tossers …
26th June
Was having a lovely dream about tractors when I was suddenly woken by the sound of my ‘Solidarity Forever’ ringtone. Glancing at the alarm clock, I saw that it was 1 a.m. My late-night caller turned out to be Hilary Benn, who said: ‘I’m sorry, Jeremy, but I’ve lost confidence in your ability to lead the party.’
Well, it’s news to me that he ever had confidence! I’d been dreading firing the guy, but after he wrenched me away from my dream, it was nothing less than a pleasure.
By the time I got to the Leader’s Office, it became clear that Benn had orchestrated a string of resignations in the Shadow Cabinet. They were falling like a bunch of centrist dominos: first Heidi Alexander, then Gloria De Piero, then Ian Murray … It soon became quicker to list the ministers who hadn’t resigned. I told Julian that I urgently needed to speak to my deputy. He said: ‘No can do – Tom’s at Glastonbury. Apparently someone just photographed him dancing at a silent disco.’
Spent the rest of the day frantically appointing new ministers to fill all the vacancies. The mood in the office is glummer than ever. John said: ‘We’re promoting people I’ve never heard of! If we keep going at this rate, the Shadow Cabinet’s going to consist of Ken Livingstone, the Cheeky Girls and a cardboard cut-out of Scrappy Doo.’
I tried to lighten spirits with a witticism: ‘Our cabinet has fallen apart so quickly, you’d think we bought it from IKEA!’ This, it emerged, was insufficient to cut through the gloom, so I tried another: ‘You could say that the Shadow Cabinet is a shadow of its former self!’
John said: ‘All right, Jez, enough of the stand-up routine. I’d tell you not to quit your day job, but soon that might not be a choice.’
I smiled sheepishly and offered to get everyone tea.
When I came home, I was determined to make something of a uniformly terrible day, so wrote the following:
WOBBLY CABINET
By Jeremy Corbyn
The Labour folks moderate and Blairite
Are thundering with all of their might.
They stomp and they mutter, they curse and they frown
Tell papers it’s worse than it was under Brown,
And what should the source of their terror be
But a bearded old fella called Jeremy?
They call me inept, does this silly band.
Well, how am I lamer than Ed Miliband?
It’s really about our political persuasions
Therefore I’m resigned to their resignations.
27th June
Commons back from recess. Ran into David Cameron in the Royal Gallery. I had expected him to be somewhat chastened by recent events, but he looked as smug and shiny as usual. I said: ‘David, I hope you’re keeping well, all things considered.’
He said: ‘Oh God, yes! Losing that referendum is the best thing that ever happened to me! Now I can chillax 24/7 and enjoy being a very rich man.’
I frowned, observing that, throughout the campaign, he had argued that Brexit would do huge damage to the country. Cameron said: ‘Probably, but who cares? Even if Britain turns into a Mad Max-style dystopia, I can always buy a fortress or something.’
Though I have never had what you would call a high opinion of the man, this shocked me nonetheless. It must have shown on my face, because he proceeded to say: ‘Come on, Jezza, it’s not like you can get on your high horse – you basically did sod-all. Anyway, I’d say au revoir, but one of the benefits of retirement is that I’ll never have to interact with oiks like you again.’
With that, he slapped me on the back and walked away, pausing only to apply some antibacterial gel to his hand.
28th June
A motion of no confidence in my leadership has been passed by 172 Labour MPs to 40. I must admit, this isn’t the sort of pick-me-up I need at the moment. I’ve withstood the pressure to resign thus far because the PLP didn’t elect me, the membership did. They could have chosen some slick New Labour droid who’d make the same brutal cuts as the Tories, but look a bit sad while doing it. Instead, they chose me, warts and all. But what if I am unfit? What if the media, political commentators, most of my colleagues and a majority of the country are right? I certainly never expected to be leader of the Labour Party, so it shouldn’t be a surprise that other people find it strange. Between you and me, dear Diary, I was feeling a bit shaky by the end of the day.
However, as unfortunate as I may be in terms of colleagues, I am profoundly fortunate in the family with which I’ve been blessed. As soon as I came in the front door, they could tell that my travails were weighing heavily upon me. Mrs Corbyn gave me a hug and said: ‘I don’t care what those pendejos say – you’re a kind and decent man and Labour’s lucky to have you.’
The Boy said: ‘I mean, yes, you’re a bit of a disaster, but look at the alternatives. A bunch of empty suits who think the way to beat the Tories is to act like a Margaret Thatcher cover band!’ They then showed incredible kindness by baking me a rhubarb crumble and letting me talk about the Viet Cong’s use of bicycles for a whole hour.
As much as I appreciated their support, I still felt pretty blue while donning my pyjamas. I thought I’d try and cheer myself up by attempting a limerick:
LIMERICK #1
By Jeremy Corbyn
The whole Shadow Cabinet’s resigned
Because I’m too leftward inclined.
They call me unfit
(Or else ‘f–ing shit’),
But personally I don’t believe that kind of name-calling has any place in our politics.
Hmm, I may need more practice …
Chapter Ten
The Tories have a vigorous backstabbing contest. Angela Eagle launches a leadership challenge, then Owen Smith wades in. Theresa May becomes prime minister, largely due to the efforts of her opponents.
29th June
One Stephen Crabb has launched his campaign for the Tory leadership. Who the hell’s this Crabb guy? I’ve been in Parliament for thirty-three years and I’ve never heard of him. Did a bit of research and wasn’t at all impressed. He’s horrifically right wing and a Christian fundamentalist, but what I can’t forgive is his beard, which is a disgrace to all facial hair. It looks like a child drew it on with a stencil!
30th June
Johnson is out of the Tory leadership campaign! In a shocking act of blue-on-blue violence, Michael Gove announced this morning that Boris isn’t up to the job and that he will be running himself. As fate would have it, I bumped into the former Mayor of London while I was walking round Westminster. He looked notably green around the gills, so I asked if he was feeling all right. He said: ‘What do you think? Gove stitched me up like a kipper that just had open heart surgery. I was so depressed this morning I barely had the energy to mess up my hair.’
I was surprised to find that I felt sorry for Boris, in a fleeting sort of way. Since he was a toddler, all he’s wanted was to prance around being prime minister. Now, having driven the country off a cliff, he’s not only fallen at the first hurdle but somehow manag
ed to impale himself on it. Still, I can’t say I’m doing much better – the papers are full of Labour MPs briefing against me and talking about a leadership challenge. I’m finding leadership a challenge as it is!
2nd July
A strange, but rather exciting, dream: it was a sort of Hollywood action film with me as the protagonist. Wearing a dirty vest like Bruce Willis in Die Hard, I strode into the Commons, which was filled with villainous Blairites and Tories. They all jeered and, as I reached the despatch box, one of them stood up and said: ‘Jeremy Corbyn! You’ve got some nerve coming in here, you old Trot. What do you want?’
I raised an eyebrow and, as cool as you like, replied: ‘I came to kick ass and nationalise utilities. And I’ve nationalised all the utilities …’
The MP laughed and said: ‘What? But you’re a puny peacenik! We moneyed elites won’t go down without a fight.’
I said: ‘Then it’s time to put the “fist” in “pacifist”,’ and knocked him out with one punch. There was a posh screech and suddenly I saw Boris Johnson and Jacob Rees-Mogg coming at me, dressed as seventeenth-century royalists and wielding rapiers. I pulled out my trusty hammer and sickle and made short work of them. Then, using vegan karate, I dispatched the rest of the neoliberal horde. The last to fall was David Cameron, who begged for his life. He said: ‘Please, Jeremy, have mercy! I promise I’ll change my ways! I’ll read the Communist Manifesto! Look, I’m sorry for making fun of you. I was jealous of your nice suits and cool beard!’
I just growled, ‘This is for the workers,’ and threw him out of a window and into the Thames.