by Lucien Young
As we tucked into our meal, I tried to put Anunciata’s mind at ease by telling her that, despite my job, there would be no politics talk. I said: ‘You may see me as a wild-eyed revolutionary and I may wish to expropriate your parents’ unearned wealth, but there’s no reason we can’t break bread together.’
Strangely, this didn’t seem to make her any more comfortable, so I began to deploy some of my Tatler learning. I asked where her horses were stabled, what her dad’s favourite tax haven was and whether she went to exclusive nightclubs with her mates, who I presumed were called things like Binky and Chlamydia. I even attempted to mask my earthy Shropshire accent with something a bit more RP. The Boy said: ‘Dad, what’s happened to your voice? Are you having a stroke?’
Once Anunciata had left, I opined to Mrs Corbyn that the night had gone well, all things considered. The Boy rounded on me, as impassioned as I’ve ever seen him, and said: ‘Christ, Dad, why did you act so weird? How hard would it have been to treat her like a human being?’
I was rather stung by this, considering all my efforts to bridge the class divide. I said: ‘In life, as in politics, I treat everyone like a human being.’
He said: ‘Oh please! You spend all your time being holier-than-thou and banging on about “the people”, but when it comes to actual people, you haven’t got a clue!’
With that, he charged off to his room and refused to come out, even when I offered him a pack of yogurt-coated prunes from Planet Organic.
23rd December
Arrived at the office to find the atmosphere far cheerier than usual. I asked Julian why everyone seemed so chipper and he ventured that it was because ‘this godawful year is nearly over’. John McD concurred, saying: ‘The last twelve months have put the “anus” in annus horribilis,’ which I thought was good, if unnecessarily vulgar.
I’ll admit that 2016 has been a year of trials and tribulations. Aside from anything else, The Boy has been staying with Anunciata for the past week and refuses to speak to me (except to request money).
After lunch, Julian came into my office and, to my great surprise, presented me with a Christmas present! I unwrapped it, only to find a Birzman Velocity mini bike pump (with its own gauge!). He looked bashful and murmured: ‘No big deal, it’s just, you said the other day that yours keeps, like, sticking?’
Putting aside my anti-consumerist beliefs, I felt very touched by this gesture and regretted not having bought him anything. Just then, I remembered that I had a packet of pumpkin seeds stashed in my pocket. Producing them with a flourish, I explained that Julian would now be able to start an allotment of his own. More importantly, I said, these seeds were a symbol: ‘Because when you sow them and water them and carefully tend to them over weeks and months, what do you get?’
He said: ‘Pumpkins.’
I said: ‘Yes, pumpkins, but also something greater than that. A sense of how, like our operation here, magical things can grow from the most unexpected source.’
Julian pointed out that he would, in fact, expect pumpkins to grow from pumpkin seeds. Still, I think the lad was touched. Well done, Jeremy, on the quick thinking!
25th December, Christmas Day
Bit of a sombre Christmas this year. The Boy remains uncommunicative. Mrs Corbyn is cross because I mangled the tree while cycling home with it. Plus, I’ve had a tremendous dearth of cards – clearly I’m not on many MPs’ lists this year. I suppose I can comfort myself with the thought that I’m doing my bit for conservation.
Still, it’s important to remember that Christmas isn’t just about jollity and larks. It’s also a time for reflection. What have I learned from this tumultuous twelvemonth? Firstly, that 99.9 per cent of people paid to write about politics have no clue what they’re talking about. Secondly, that anyone attempting to bring real socialist change to this country will be subject to constant abuse, not just from the forces of the status quo, but also those ostensibly on their side. At times, I’ve felt like a piñata at a birthday party where all the kids are on steroids. And what do I have to show for it? They say that whatever doesn’t kill you just makes you stronger, but I find this unconvincing. Surely something that doesn’t kill you can just as easily cause life-changing injuries and vast emotional trauma. It’s also said that you should keep your friends close and your enemies closer. The thing is, though, I hate my enemies. Horrible bunch of people. They’re all exceptionally mean to me and I’d rather not have them around.
Still, what a year it’s been! The UK has thrown itself into a bottomless pit of xenophobia and political confusion. The US has cast off any pretence of being civilised by replacing erudite Obama with a perverted game-show host. The Middle East remains racked with violent instability and tensions on the Korean peninsula may well cause a world-ending nuclear conflict. On the other hand, my neglected allotment yielded a small but surprisingly delicious crop of beetroot, so it’s not all doom and gloom. Here’s to 2017. In the words of the band D:Ream, things can only get better …
2017
Chapter Fifteen
The Leader’s Office attempts a relaunch. I mount a charm offensive against the media, but am considered more offensive than charming. President Trump takes office.
1st January
I have decided that the new year will see a new Jeremy. My main resolution is to run a tighter ship. No more distractions or unforced errors. I will be polite and conciliatory to the Blairites (unless they mention the war in Iraq, academies or Tony Blair). I will be a model of discipline and only visit the allotment once a week (well, maybe twice every other week – no sense trying to go cold tofu). I will even do my best to accommodate journalists. They may be mendacious, venal and amoral creatures, but they’re just trying to do their jobs. Their vile, deceitful jobs.
With regard to Mrs Corbyn, I am conscious that it is not always easy being married to me. I don’t go to restaurants, I barely drink and I don’t dance (rhythm being a bourgeois affectation). For a socialist, I must admit I can be rather unsociable! My point is, old Jez could be a lot more fun to be around. Mrs Corbyn is an excellent comrade and an even better wife and I’m lucky to have her.
Then there’s The Boy. I know that it’s perfectly natural for a child to grow apart from you (especially when they’re in their thirties), but it does alarm me how little we have in common these days. It would seem that the charming wee mite who used to gurgle in his crib as I read him The Condition of the Working Class in England has been replaced with a stranger. Last Tuesday, I thought I saw him browsing the FT on his iPad! Still, I am first and foremost a husband and a father, so I must strive to understand my son as he is, rather than as I would like him to be. Whatever path The Boy chooses, I will always love and be proud of him. If only there were some way I could get that across. I suppose I could tell him about my feelings, but what am I, an American?
9th January
Back to the Leader’s Office, full of vim and vigour. However, the first thing I spotted gave me pause. On Julian’s desk there stood a plastic doll with an enormous head, a white beard and a beige suit covering its spindly limbs. Julian followed my gaze and, in a bright tone, said: ‘Pretty cool, right? It’s a Corbyn figurine. My mum got me one for Christmas.’ With this, he picked up the thing and shook it, causing its bespectacled cranium to oscillate in an ungodly manner. Noticing my expression, Julian looked perturbed. He said: ‘Don’t you like it?’
No, Diary, I did not – not because it was an unflattering caricature of me, but because I don’t agree with the use of plastics in the manufacturing of toys. After some discussion, we agreed that, as a compromise, Julian would keep the thing in his desk drawer.
At 3 p.m. I attended – with no great enthusiasm – a meeting to discuss my ‘relaunch’. In an attempt to put everyone at ease with a bit of small talk, I asked Sally about her Christmas break. She said: ‘I mainly spent it reading polling data and taking anti-anxiety meds.’
After a short pause, we moved on to business. Sally said: ‘As ever
yone here knows, last year was a conveyor belt of disasters. It was essentially the Hindenburg crashing into the Titanic. However, that ends now. This is Corbyn 2.0. All of the inexplicable appeal to young people, none of the constant screw-ups.’
I said: ‘Now, Sally, all I can be is myself.’
She said: ‘Oh, believe me, I know. That’s why we need to change the narrative. We tried selling you as competent. You know how that turned out. So now the idea is to position you as a Trump-style anti-establishment warrior.’
I asked, rather ironically, if she would also like me to get a spray tan and a wig. She said: ‘To be honest, Jeremy, I’d like you to do anything that gets your approval rating out of minus figures.’
Pretty uncalled for.
10th January
Went on Good Morning Britain to tout our latest policy, a maximum wage cap. The major drawback was having to interact with Piers Morgan. Now there’s someone who could do with a wage cap! His career trajectory never ceases to amaze me – literally no one likes him, yet he’s always becoming richer and more famous. It’s as though the bubonic plague somehow won the Nobel Peace Prize. The man acts like he was created in a lab by Osama bin Laden and Skeletor to make themselves look less hateful.
Today’s other major development is the so-called Steele dossier, which claims that the Russian FSB has kompromat on Donald Trump. I said to my colleagues: ‘Considering the things we already know about him, what on earth could be used as blackmail?’
John McD explained that the most salacious detail in the report was that Trump had participated in something called a ‘golden shower’. Being un-familiar with the term, I had to have it explained to me. I said: ‘Gosh, that sounds terribly unhygienic. All I need to enjoy a shower is a tube of Radox and perhaps a loofah. Why on earth would Trump want such a thing?’
Julian said: ‘It’s mainly about the transgressive thrill that comes from being degraded.’ Then, after a beat, he continued: ‘At least, according to some … articles I read …’
To fill the ensuing silence, I said: ‘I simply don’t understand how people derive sexual pleasure from humiliation. That’s just not my bag.’
Sally said: ‘If it was, that would explain most of your time as leader.’
Now, why should that get a laugh when none of my excellent puns do?
20th January
Donald Trump was inaugurated today. Very macabre. The rain fell in agreement with every sane person watching. As he groped the Bible with a tiny hand, his wife Melania stood next to him, looking frozen as a hostage. It would hardly have been a surprise if she’d started blinking in Morse code.
Then came the inaugural address. Trump spoke of ‘America first’, of ‘crime and drugs and gangs’ and border walls that need to be built. He kept mentioning ‘American Carnage’, which sounds, more than anything, like a wrestling event. I half expected someone to sneak up and hit him with a metal folding chair. During all of this, the Clintons looked as though they’d swapped places with their figures from Madame Tussauds, while Obama seemed to have aged by approximately fifty years. Apparently, once Trump had concluded, George W. Bush was heard to remark: ‘That was some weird shit.’ I would hesitate to say that it was weirder shit than, say, setting most of the Middle East on fire, but that’s a matter of opinion. Still, while Trump has yet to do anything a thousandth as bad as Bush Jr., I have no doubt that he has it in him.
One thing I kept thinking was this: if something so implausibly bad as Trump’s election can happen, does that mean something implausibly good could happen too? With the world in such a state of flux, is real socialist change achievable? Or maybe we’re all just going to die! That’s a joke. I think …
27th January
Today the Prime Minister travelled to the White House to meet with this awful Trump character. Theresa may be a cold-hearted, austerity-mad Tory, but I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. Julian showed me a photo where the guy was clutching her hand, having been spooked by a ramp. I’m not sure I’d be willing to hold Trump’s hand, not least because I don’t want fake tan all over me.
Chapter Sixteen
Our relaunch comes crashing to earth. The Boy and I are both glum, but for separate reasons. The PM triggers the mysterious Article 50.
30th January
Had a truly appalling encounter with the mainstream media today. Sally was keen to roll out the new, improved Corbyn 2.0 so had booked me to appear on Radio 4. As ever, I was to be interviewed by some featureless BBC news droid. Any hope I might have had of receiving fair treatment disappeared as soon as he asked his first question: ‘Mr Corbyn, how can you hope to lead your party to victory when it spent much of last year trying to oust you?’
I said: ‘Look, the Labour Party is like a family. Families often have disagreements, but that doesn’t mean they love each other any less. Sometimes a family will try and put grandpa in a nursing home, because they think he’s lost his marbles. But then they realise that, actually, he knows exactly what he’s doing and they say: “Sorry, Grandpa, we now see that you should be prime minister.”’ At this point, I became aware of frantic movement inside the engineer’s booth. Glancing up, I saw a white-faced Sally repeatedly drawing a finger across her neck.
The interviewer continued: ‘Labour is currently divided between those who fervently oppose Brexit and those who feel your party should embrace it, for fear of ceding working class votes to UKIP. What do you say to Labour supporters who wish to stay in the EU?’
I said: ‘You’re asking what people think about Brexit, and I’d say the key word there is “people”. We have to listen to what people are saying. After all, one can’t spell EU without U. As in you, the people.’ Just then, I heard a series of dull thuds and looked up to see Sally banging her head against the glass partition.
The interviewer looked bemused and continued: ‘Moving on, the Prime Minister has said that Brexit means Brexit, but many are unclear what Brexit means to you. If Brexit is the will of the people, do you think it should be hard or soft? Or would you favour one of the Norwegian, Swiss or Canadian models?’
I said: ‘What people really care about isn’t Norwegian models, it’s whether this is a Brexit that will preserve the rights of British workers. I will not support any Brexit that makes working people in this country worse off.’
He said: ‘What kind of Brexit would make things better for them?’
I paused, then said: ‘I’d love to answer that, but I’m afraid we’ve run out of time, haven’t we?’
He said: ‘We’re scheduled for five more minutes.’
Glancing at Sally, I saw that she was standing stock still, with her jaw hanging open.
I thought I was in for a telling-off on the drive back to Westminster, but Sally just sat there in silence. I said: ‘Well, that was fairly rough, but what do you expect from the Biased Broadcasting Corporation?’
She let out a low moan and said: ‘I’ll never work in British politics again.’
31st January
Yet more drama, this time on the domestic front. I came downstairs this morning to find The Boy looking pallid and dishevelled. The lad clearly hadn’t slept, so naturally I enquired what was wrong. He replied, with a forced careless air, that he and Anunciata had broken up. I said I was awfully sorry to hear that and asked what had caused it. With a roll of his eyes and a theatrical sigh, he said: ‘Political differences.’
Putting a consoling hand on his shoulder, I said: ‘I always suspected this would happen, but I take no pleasure in being right. The fact is that the two of you are from different worlds: you’re upper-middle class and she’s middle-upper class. It was never going to work.’
He didn’t respond and instead regarded his muesli with a listless gaze. Seeking another tack, I said: ‘At least now you’ll have more time to work on your app.’
He said: ‘What’s the point? Without Nun’s parents bankrolling it, I’m screwed. And all the City lads stopped talking to me after you announced that wage cap!�
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Of course, it pains me to see my son go through heartbreak. I wish there was some way I could lighten his load. But perhaps this is a necessary hardship on the way to him meeting someone more appropriate, like a trade union rep or a beautiful South American freedom fighter.
1st February
Former ExxonMobil CEO Rex Tillerson has been confirmed as US Secretary of State. Nice of Trump to abandon even the pretence that multinational corporations aren’t in charge. Of course, whenever I’ve said that the world is controlled by oil companies rather than democratic governments, it was dismissed as leftie nonsense …
Trump’s cabinet now contains multiple billionaires. I hope they don’t bully those poor cabinet members who are merely millionaires! If it was up to me, there wouldn’t be any millionaires or billionaires. To be honest, I’m not even sure how I feel about thousandaires.
2nd February
While flicking through these pages, I chanced upon the limerick I wrote back in June. Thinking it was rather good (apart from the last line, which went somewhat off-kilter), I decided to have another go:
LIMERICK #2
By Jeremy Corbyn
One of the left’s brightest sparks
Was this German fellow, Karl Marx.
He gave it his best go