by Lucien Young
Chapter Thirteen
My second party conference as leader. The Boy has some capitalist notions. All eyes on America. Once more, the unthinkable happens. The most unpleasant phone call of my life.
26th September
Conference time again, which means I have the great pleasure of spending a few days in Liverpool with hundreds of people who hate me. Nothing too interesting to report, except for a worrying phone conversation with The Boy. I asked whether he was having any luck on the job front yet. He said: ‘Not exactly, but there’s been one exciting development …’
Apparently he’s keen to get into the tech industry, having had an idea for a ‘really cool app’. He said: ‘I just need to find someone who can code and some people to market it, then boom – I’m sorted for life.’
The ‘City lads’ have all promised to invest, as have Anunciata’s parents. I asked what exactly this app would do, to which he replied: ‘Never mind – it would just go over your head!’
It’s true that I’ve always been something of a technophobe – I only consented to getting a MySpace account last year – but still, I don’t want my son associating with those dreadful Silicon Valley types. To help steer him in the right direction, I thought I’d make a list of jobs I consider to be morally acceptable:
Miner, factory guy, etc.
Proprietor of a boutique knitwear store
Working at the RSPB
Vegan butcher, AKA gardener
Unsuccessful musician
Journalist for the Morning Star
Street performer, esp. living statue
Labour MP (as a last resort)
Texted this to The Boy. No reply so far – strange, given he’s always on his phone.
27th September
Yesterday was the first presidential debate between Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump, which I didn’t watch. Can’t say I’m particularly happy about either candidate – one of them is a right-wing, authoritarian, warmongering shill for big business, and the other is Donald Trump. I do wish Bernie Sanders had got the Democratic nomination. There’s something I like about that white-haired socialist who’s spent his whole career in the political wilderness, but I can’t put my finger on it.
2nd October
Today Theresa May gave her speech to the Tory conference in Birmingham. It was the usual nonsense: platitudes about ‘fairness’ and ‘opportunity’ mixed with deranged right-wing policies. Her big treat for the grassroots is a pledge to make British soldiers exempt from human rights legislation during combat. When else would those laws be necessary – while they’re in the shower? I mean really … She might as well make it legal to hunt foxes with air-to-surface missiles.
As ever, the Tory delegates were the only thing of interest (by which I mean, scientific interest). Their average age is ‘dead for a decade’ and anyone under thirty looks like they’re impersonating Billy Bunter. I can just about understand people who vote Conservative – they’re just greedy and heartless. However, my mind reels at the psychosexual pathology that would compel one to attend a talk by Liam Fox …
7th October
This morning the office was flooded with giggles and gasps of disbelief. Julian ran up to me and, proffering his smartphone, exclaimed: ‘Trump’s messed up this time, even by his standards!’
It seems the orange fiend has been caught on tape bragging to the host of Access Hollywood about his history of sexual assault. The presenter in question is Billy Bush, whose family are responsible for CIA atrocities and the near total disintegration of the Middle East. It’s quite a feat to look worse than a member of that detestable brood, but Donald has certainly managed.
Julian said: ‘I mean, that’s it, right? There’s no way he can come back from this. Who in their right mind would vote for him?’
I said that it was never wise to bet against the American public doing the most abhorrent thing possible. Still, I granted, a Trump victory seems unlikely. Julian said: ‘Yeah, even before this tape, his approval ratings were in the gutter. Polls don’t lie.’
After a beat, he looked alarmed and said: ‘Except the ones about you!’
I must admit the Trump footage disturbed me. While I find it hard to be shocked by a country whose politics produced Ronald Reagan and George W. Bush, the man is remarkably unpleasant. I would never so much as wink at a female comrade, let alone ‘grab them by the pussy’! Speaking of which, I better fetch El Gato in from the garden.
4th November
Yesterday, the High Court ruled that only Parliament, not the government, has the power to ‘trigger Article 50’ (I’ve no idea what Article 50 is, but it seems to involve Europe). The response from certain elements of the press has been predictably demented – today the Daily Mail ran mugshots of the offending judges, under the headline ENEMIES OF THE PEOPLE. That’s pretty rich – if anyone’s an enemy of the people, it’s the Mail’s editor, Paul Dacre.
I was appalled by this cynical attack and felt compelled to write the following:
An Ode to Paul Dacre
By Jeremy Corbyn
Mister Paul Dacre,
The awful muckraker,
The foul money-maker
And total piss-taker.
When I see Paul Dacre
I run for an acre,
If my wife read the Mail
I’d have to forsake her.
We all know Paul Dacre’s
A rake and a faker,
A front-page half-baker
And truth’s undertaker.
In fact, he’s a villain,
A bigger lawbreaker
Than Drax, the main bad guy
In Bond film Moonraker.
Looking back through these pages, I see my poems are starting to pile up! Soon I’ll have enough for a collection – a chapbook at the very least. Must tell Julian to get in touch with Faber & Faber.
8th November
Today is the US presidential election, so the news is all America, all the time. I can’t say I understand this whole ‘Special Relationship’ thing. I suspect it has more to do with us being too lazy to learn other languages than anything else. What do we really have in common with a place where they give you a free assault rifle with every McRib and socialism is considered a faux pas on the level of pet necrophilia? A country that has – uniquely in human history – dropped nuclear bombs on another nation, and yet still views itself as the world’s moral leader? A place where Henry Kissinger is a respected elder statesman, rather than someone kept in stocks and taken from town to town so that the locals can hurl decomposing produce at him? On the other hand, I once enjoyed a nice trip to Florida, so swings and roundabouts.
Decided to have an early night, as Hillary Clinton seems to have this one in the bag. After all, this Trump is a moral abomination and a blatant buffoon. No country would elect him, not even America!
9th November
Arrived at the office to find everyone white-faced, teary-eyed and shaking their heads in disbelief. I often see my staff like that, but not so early in the day. I asked what the matter was and Julian switched on the TV, which showed the Donald grinning orangely at his victory party. After a long pause, I tried to cheer everyone up by suggesting they look on the bright side – such an appalling failure of the neoliberal status quo might well hasten its demise. That is, unless Trump starts a nuclear war and annihilates us all. I’m not sure to what extent my contribution helped.
Later: Good God, though!
THE US ELECTION RESULT
11th November
Julian tells me that President-elect Trump would like to have an official phone call with me, as Leader of Her Majesty’s Opposition. Naturally I told him I would on no account speak to the man. He’s a racist, an Islamophobe, an alleged sex criminal and, worst of all, a businessman. John said: ‘For God’s sake, Jeremy, it’s basic diplomacy! What if you end up becoming PM?’
Sally said: ‘After the other night, the idea doesn’t seem quite so ludicrous.’
I choose to take this as encouragement, rather than a slight. In any case, I held firm.
Later: Mrs Corbyn being out with friends, I had free rein in matters culinary this evening. As such, I decided to treat myself with one my favourite recipes: baked beans with the sauce rinsed off. I was just about to tuck in when the phone started ringing. I was surprised, having made it perfectly clear to my comrades in the office that I would prefer not to be bothered with work stuff after six.
I answered to hear a familiar growl: ‘Jared, how many more of these calls do I have to make? I’m sick of talking to dumbass foreigners. Most of them aren’t even rich …’
I said: ‘Hello, this is Jeremy.’
The voice said: ‘Yes, very good, this is Presidentelect Donald J. Trump. It’s a yuge honour for you to be speaking to me. We’re supposed to talk in case you get made King of England or whatever.’
I said: ‘With all due respect, sir, I’d like to know how you got my home phone number.’
He said: ‘Oh, it was easy. Now that I won the election, the CIA gets me any number I want. It’s unbelievable – I told them to bug Kate Upton’s apartment and they did it the next day.’
I said: ‘I see. Well, perhaps we could talk about our respective policy positions?’
He replied: ‘Positions? I’ve done all the positions. You know, back in the Eighties, I could have had any model I wanted. Cheryl Tiegs, Cindy Crawford … If you talk to Elle Macpherson, don’t listen to a word she says – I turned her down, okay?’
I said: ‘Forgive me, Mr Trump, but I don’t see how that’s relevant to relations between the US and the UK.’
He said: ‘Yes, very special relations. I love Britain. So loyal. You guys do whatever we tell you. It’s like we’re Batman and you’re our gay butler. I mean, Eye-rack? Unbelievable.’
I said: ‘Actually, I’m proud to say I was a vehement opponent of the invasion of Iraq.’
He said: ‘To be honest, I forget whether I was for it or against it, but still, you’ve got to admit, that war did kill a lot of terrorists. Or, at least, terrorist-looking people. And these guys, they’re coming over. They’re bringing drugs, they’re bringing crime – not good. Trump’s gonna secure our borders, believe me. Keep the Mexicans out.’
I said: ‘I’ll have you know that my wife is Mexican.’
He said: ‘Hey, I’m fine with immigrants when they have sex with you, okay? My wife, Melania – beautiful woman – she’s from Slovakia or Hungaria or some other loser country. But most of these guys? Horrible. I mean, you live in London, right? That place is a war zone nowadays. You can’t go out on your penny-farthing without getting shot or 9/11-ed – I saw it on Fox.’
I said: ‘Firstly, you don’t know a single thing about London. Secondly, I find your comments extremely racist.’
THE PHONECALL
He replied: ‘FAKE NOOS! How can I be a racist? I let my daughter marry a Jew, and they’re the sneakiest people around … You know Ivanka? Gorgeous girl. Amazing figure, easily a ten. Makes Melania look like crap, if I’m honest. God, if I wasn’t her father …’
Now, I like to think I’m a pragmatic guy, but even I have my limits. After this barrage of gro-tesquerie, I needed to speak my mind. With a tone of righteous indignation, I said: ‘Right, I can’t keep this to myself any longer. You, sir, are the greatest charlatan I’ve ever encountered!’
He replied, without so much as a pause: ‘Thanks, I appreciate that very much, I am the greatest. A tremendous charlatan, the world’s leading charlatan. Many people are saying, Trump, he’s the best who ever charlataned.’ Seconds passed, then he said: ‘Okay, Gerald, this has been great, but I like to watch five or six hours of TV a day, so I’d better go. Good luck with all the things you’re doing, like playing soccer and toasting crumpets and whatnot. Say hi to Princess Diana from me.’
With that, he hung up. I returned to the table but was unable to finish my meal – the sauceless beans turned to ashes in my mouth.
13th November
In the sort of surreal happening that seems to occur every other day now, Nigel Farage has become the first British politician to meet with Trump, post-election. Julian showed me a picture of the pair grinning in front of a golden lift. It was quite possibly the most hideous photo I’ve seen in my entire life. How can so much vileness be contained in one tacky building? You would have thought they’d be afraid to stand next to each other, lest they collapse into a black hole of fascism.
Found myself fantasising about a revolution in America, with the new, leftist government seizing everything Trump owns. They would dismantle his tower brick by brick, then melt down all the gold to distribute among the working class. They could even burn that dreadful wig of his to keep a poor family warm! It pains me to speak ill of anyone, given that I am a humanist and believe that every individual should be treated with dignity and compassion. This being said, if I could flick a switch to send Trump and Farage plummeting nude down a mountain of nettles and syringes, I’d be hard-pressed to resist.
Chapter Fourteen
I favour The Boy with some romantic advice. The UK forgets its lines on the international stage. We have a disastrous dinner with Ms Anunciata Basildon-Wyck. A somewhat frosty Christmas.
3rd December
The Boy seemed unusually circumspect over breakfast, so I asked him what was up. He explained that funding has stalled for this much-heralded app of his. He said: ‘Investors are so jittery at the moment. You tell them that you don’t quite have a prototype or a business plan or a name for the thing and – whoosh – they head for the hills.’
I was about to launch into an anti-capitalist tirade when he cut me off, saying: ‘I just want to impress Nun, you know? Show that I can be dependable, provide for her.’
I said: ‘Take it from me, women aren’t impressed by money and success. They care about more important things, like a commitment to hobbies and how many demonstrations you go on.’
He said: ‘I’m not sure that’s true at all.’
I said: ‘Son, I’ve been married three times, so I think I know a thing or two about pleasing women. If you want to show this girl you’re serious, give her a cute pet name, like “comrade”. Or whisper sweet nothings about the renationalisation of water utilities.’
He told me my advice had been incredibly useful and that he would go and implement it right away. More top parenting from the Corbster!
8th December
It seems our illustrious Foreign Secretary has run into trouble again. Incidentally, it never stops being surreal that Boris Johnson, of all people, is responsible for our country’s diplomacy. This is a man who has compared the EU to Hitler, written an obscene limerick about the President of Turkey and referred to African members of the Commonwealth as ‘flag-waving piccaninnies’. As I see it, the PM might as well have gone the whole hog and given the job to Jim Davidson.
Anyway, Boris got slapped down by Downing Street for saying that Saudi Arabia is waging proxy wars in the Middle East. Rather ironic that the one time he tells the truth, he gets told off for it! We can’t go admitting our allies are bloodthirsty tyrants, after all – how would we keep selling them billions of pounds’ worth of weaponry?
15th December
A leaked memo by Sir Ivan Rogers, the UK’s Permanent Representative to the European Union, estimates that reaching a deal with that organisation, post-Brexit, might take ten years. Imagine that – no deal until 2026! I’ll be seventy-seven by then. I wonder if I’ll still be leader of the Labour party …
16th December
After a period of some eight months, The Boy finally consented to us meeting his girlfriend. Over breakfast, he blithely mentioned that Anunciata was free that evening, and could she possibly swing by? I asked him why exactly this has taken such a long time. He said: ‘Well, Dad, you don’t always make a great first impression. But things are serious enough now that I don’t think there’s much you could do to screw it up.’
I chose to ignore his customary
rudeness and set about preparing for dinner. Mrs Corbyn insisted upon doing the cooking, so my tofu á l’orange will have to debut another day. I must confess I felt quite nervous to meet Ms Basildon-Wyck. The Boy is exceptionally keen on her and I didn’t want to do or say anything that might cause him problems. After all, he sulked for days when I initially cautioned against an interclass coupling. I decided I should do some research, so went to my local newsagents and sheepishly bought a copy of Tatler, before concealing it within my usual Morning Star. As loath as I am to give money to the proprietors of that magazine, I needed some insight into the upper-class mind, and I wasn’t going to binge-watch Downton Abbey. I thought for a second that a comrade from our CLP had spotted me, but I was doubtless being paranoid.
Around 7:30 p.m. the doorbell sounded, nearly causing The Boy to jump out of his skin. He dashed from the living room and returned moments later with Anunciata, a large-toothed young woman with shiny blonde hair. She said: ‘Oh my God, it’s amazing to finally meet you!’ Or rather, it was: ‘Ooooooh my Goooooord, it’s aaaah-maaaaazing to finally meet yaaaaaaw!’ The woman’s accent is unbelievably posh – her vowel sounds are so long you could take a nap in the middle of them. However, I was determined to suppress my prejudices and make our guest feel at home (or, at least, one of her homes), so I bowed deeply and led her into the dining room.