by Lucien Young
12th May
Upsetting scenes in the office today. We’ve been getting hammered over the manifesto leak, of course – the Tories called it ‘Jeremy Corbyn’s plan to unleash chaos’ and the Mail claims I want to ‘Take Britain back to the 1970s’. Surely that’s better than what they want to do, which is take Britain back to the 1870s … In any case, tensions were exceedingly high when Sally called an emergency meeting this afternoon.
She looked terribly frazzled as we filed into the meeting room, and took alternating sips from a cup of coffee and a glass of Berocca. Opening her laptop and switching on the digital projector, she said: ‘As you know, this manifesto leak has hugely hindered our ability to control the news cycle. However, I stayed up all last night and have come up with a media strategy to contain some of the damage. If everyone could pay attention to this PowerPoint, I will take you through—’
At this point, something very unfortunate happened. While reaching for a digestive biscuit, I accidentally knocked over my ‘#1 LABOUR LEADER’ mug, spilling a tidal wave of ginseng tea onto Sally’s keyboard. Despite my efforts to sop up the liquid, her laptop screen turned black and refused to restart. I was about to apologise for spoiling the presentation when Sally emitted a bloodcurdling cry: ‘That’s it! That’s absolutely bloody it! I don’t know why “it” is now, rather than twenty-one months ago, but it bloody well is.’
I asked what the matter was and she replied: ‘You, Jeremy! You are the matter. Any time someone around here looks like they want to commit harakiri, chances are it’s because of you.’
I responded that I would replace the laptop and suggested that she was perhaps getting overly upset about this one mistake. She said: ‘It’s not one mistake, though, is it? It’s dozens of them, every single day. Mistake after mistake, until I can barely remember what a competent operation looks like. Because you don’t care about this job, not really. You don’t care about winning power or running the country. All you care about is being cheered at demos and reinforcing your own sense of moral bloody righteousness. You’re not a leader – you’re a student protester!’
I calmly replied that she had raised some interesting points, but this only seemed to make her angrier. She said: ‘I can’t go on with this charade any longer. I resign. And since I no longer work for the Leader of the Opposition, I might as well say that I’ve been telling the papers how dreadful you are this whole time. As has pretty much everyone in the office. They all want rid of you, Jeremy. And – thank God – they’ll get their wish come June the 8th.’
With that, she left, her laptop dripping herbal tea behind her.
I stayed in my office long after everyone else went home. Slumped in my chair, staring at my portrait of Karl Marx, it seemed inevitable that Labour would be annihilated come election day. I would then be deposed, another socialist consigned to the dustbin of history, and Britain would once again have no voice for the working class. These dark thoughts could have continued indefinitely, had I not heard a soft knock on the door. I opened it to find Julian, who I’d assumed had left hours ago.
He handed me a mug of lemongrass tea and asked if I would be needing anything else this evening. I said, ‘Thank you, no,’ then, as he made to leave, called out: ‘Julian?’
He turned back to face me. I said: ‘Look, I just wanted to thank you for your solidarity. Too often I’ve spoken to you in a way that doesn’t befit a comrade – a valued comrade. And I’m sorry you have to read about how rubbish we are every day. To be honest, I’m not sure why you put up with me.’
He paused, then said: ‘Well, I’m not going to pretend you’re the easiest person to work for. Or the least infuriating. But remember: before I was your assistant, I volunteered for your campaign. I did that because I believed in your message and I believed in you as a politician. You may not be the most competent, the most articulate, the most telegenic, the wittiest, the best dressed, the—’
I said: ‘I said I got the point.’
He continued: ‘But one thing I’ve never doubted is that you care about making the world a less awful place. That’s why I supported you then and that’s why I support you now.’
Feeling the prickle of tears in my eyes, I murmured, ‘Thanks,’ and feigned fascination with the copy of The Ethical Birdwatcher on my desk. A smile spread across Julian’s round, rosy-cheeked face and he headed off home.
13th May
My sense of gloom was only intensified by reports that Trump has dropped a so-called MOAB (‘mother of all bombs’) in Syria. As ever, the mainstream media and foreign policy establishment are falling over themselves to proclaim the act ‘serious-minded’ and ‘presidential’. Their motto is forever ‘Do something’, so they applaud any use of military force, even if it’s just blowing up a random hill and its neighbouring villagers. I imagine the President will soon be tweeting: ‘Tremendous reviews for my very excellent bombing of Syria. Everyone was very happy with it, including all those people I just vaporised.’
Incidentally, it’s disgusting how gleeful the American news anchors look while repeating the phrase ‘mother of all bombs’. Only in the US would they give a pet name to an instrument of mass death. What’s next? My Little Warhead? Bomby McBombface? But maybe that’s just what people want these days – a spray-tanned TV presenter doling out death as his addled brain sees fit. Maybe I’m nothing but an anachronism, a leftist fuddy-duddy harking back to some time nobody cares about.
P.S. El Gato just did a wonderfully amusing sneeze, which cheered me up no end.
Chapter Nineteen
We officially launch our manifesto. The Tories launch theirs and immediately wish they hadn’t. Signs of hope as I acquire a theme song.
16th May
Today the Labour manifesto was released again – intentionally this time. As unnerving as the leak may have been, I’ve come to think it was really a godsend. The British media has been awash with our pledges: scrapping tuition fees, increasing taxes on the rich, renationalising the railways and providing universal free childcare. So what if most of the coverage has been negative? While Murdoch’s monocle may pop out at the thought of such policies, I’d say the British public rather like them.
17th May
A weird (and rather wonderful) dream last night. As before, I was lying in bed when I became conscious of another presence in the room. I called out to the spectre: ‘Clarkson! Is that you again?’
He turned to me and, in a deep, treacle-rich voice, replied: ‘Far from it, dear boy!’
Instantly recognising his snow-white hair and mischievous smirk, as well as the black pipe he held in his hand, I cried out: ‘Tony Benn!’
Yes, it was the left-wing firebrand, my former mentor, just as I remembered him! I asked why he was visiting me. He said: ‘I wanted to tell you to keep up the good work. I wish I’d lived to see a proper socialist back in charge of the party.’
I said: ‘That’s very kind of you, but I’m not sure my work’s been all that good. We’re way behind in the polls and everyone seems to think I’m an idiot.’
He said: ‘Listen, you may have the political talents of a decomposing baboon, but that’s hardly the point. I was never PM, nor even Labour leader. Still, I like to think I made some small difference by putting across my beliefs as strongly as I could. You have the opportunity to make a far greater difference – just go out there, be brave of heart, and remember the convictions that brought you to this point.’
I said: ‘Thanks, Tony!’
He said: ‘That’s quite all right. Also, sorry that son of mine has been such a dick to you.’
I said: ‘Not to worry. I know how difficult sons can be. Mine’s trying to build this app and I’ve got no idea—’
Here he cut me off, saying, ‘Well, I really should be going,’ and with a puff of his pipe, he disappeared into thin air.
I woke with a smile on my lips and a renewed sense of determination.
18th May
The Tories have put out their own manifesto,
which is less a document than a nuclear missile fired at their own foot. We sat around the office, hooting with derision as we read one dreary, misbegotten policy after another. The most eye-catching is a plan to make the elderly pay for care with the value of their homes, which the press are already calling the ‘Dementia Tax’.
John said: ‘This is brilliant! The only thing they could have done to alienate pensioners more is put a tax on Werther’s Originals, or ban the use of racial slurs at Christmas dinner!’
And that’s not all: they’re also pledging to cut free school meals. Diane said: ‘Margaret Thatcher was a milk snatcher – now Theresa’s coming back for the rest of it!’
On top of everything else, their manifesto promises a vote to reverse the ban on fox hunting. ‘Fox hunting!’ John said. ‘Who do they think that’s going to win over? The kind of deranged toffs who base their personality on tearing apart small mammals were always going to vote Tory.’
Julian said: ‘People are going mad about it online – the memes are brutal!’
I said that I still wasn’t entirely sure what a meme was, but would take all the support I could get. Diane then read out something she’d spotted on Twitter: ‘If you were a Conservative who secretly wanted Jeremy Corbyn to be prime minister, this is exactly the manifesto you’d write!’
20th May
Bit of a departure for me today! I made a surprise appearance at Prenton Park, home of Tranmere Rovers football team, opening for a band called the Libertines. Initially I read their name as ‘the Librarians’ and was somewhat disappointed when I realised my mistake. Still, very decent of them to let me borrow the spotlight. As we were driven over, Julian expressed his concern that the crowd, being ‘hyped up’ to see a rock-and-roll band, might be displeased when a middle-aged politician came out on stage. He said: ‘Those audiences can be super rowdy – I once got knocked out at a Belle and Sebastian gig. Aren’t you worried about getting bottled?’
I said: ‘I wasn’t until you said that …’
It turned out these concerns were entirely unnecessary. The assembled young people greeted me with a colossal roar and continued to cheer as I spoke to them about equality, justice and decency. After a while, I became aware of a peculiar sound: soft at first, then impossible to ignore. ‘Ohhhhh, Je-rem-eeeee Corrr-byn! Ohhhhh, Je-rem-eeeee Corrr-byn!’ It’s a remarkable feeling to hear thousands of people singing your name, and – I must confess – not an unpleasant one. I don’t think I’ve felt such a surge of adrenaline since I won ‘Largest Marrow’ at the Tufnell Park fete.
After the gig had finished, I was introduced to Pete Doherty in the green room. Very nice young man, though he seemed exhausted – all fidgety, with great big bags under his eyes. I imagine touring in a band must be almost as tiring as an election campaign! After a while, he popped to the bathroom and emerged looking a lot more energised.
21st May
Apparently this Corbyn chant is spreading like wildfire! In the office, I expressed amazement that such a catchy tune had sprung up organically. Julian said: ‘Well, the tune’s not original – it’s “Seven Nation Army”.’
I said: ‘Is that some kind of NATO thing? Because I don’t want people associating me with militarism.’ He explained that it was a song by the American band the White Stripes and played me some of their album Elephant (a bit too hectic for my liking).
Tom Watson popped round in the afternoon and seemed even more off with me than usual. I asked if anything was the matter, to which he replied: ‘No offence, Jeremy, but I can’t believe you’re getting songs dedicated to you. Why not me? I’ve been a fan of the Stripes since they released De Stijl, plus I’ve listened to all Jack White’s solo stuff!’
22nd May
Theresa’s having a tough time – the outcry at the Dementia Tax has forced her to make a U-turn, while doing her best to pretend she’s going straight. I felt a twinge of sympathy as I watched coverage of the press laying into her.
‘Nothing has changed!’ she cried repeatedly, while karate-chopping the air for emphasis. The upshot is that the PM, having run on a platform of being strong and stable, now looks about as robust as a building whose foundations are made of wet cake.
Fun rally today. Afterwards, while I was shaking hands, a young woman lifted the sleeve of her T-shirt and showed me a tattoo of the initials J.C. I said I was very grateful she had gone to the effort. She said: ‘Well, actually, I got it back in the Nineties, when I was massive Pulp fan – Jarvis Cocker, you see? But nowadays I tell everyone it stands for you.’
Back in the car, Julian and I tried to think of other famous people with my initials. I came up with Jesus Christ and Johnny Cash (neither of whom I mind being compared to), while Julian came up with Jimmy Carr and James Corden (both of whom I very much do).
26th May
Happy birthday to me! I am now sixty-eight years young. So, what have I learned over the course of my nearly seven decades on this earth? Firstly, that, under the 1908 Small Holdings and Allotments Act, where there is demand, it is the duty of the local authority to provide residents, registered on the electoral roll, with allotment space. Also, the importance of crop rotation and keeping your soil pH at around 6.5. However, the truly essential knowledge I’ve gained is moral, rather than agricultural. When one has an opportunity to be kind, one should always take it. One must bear in mind that every living person is fighting their own inner battle. Most importantly of all, one must stand up for those in need, even when doing so isn’t convenient or politically smart. Especially then. I may not always live up to these principles, but they remain an inextricable part of me. Call me a bearded buffoon, a tedious Trot, whatever you like. In the end, you can’t deny that I care.
Sixty-eight years, though! In 1949, when I was born, Britain was being tortured on the rack of austerity, anti-Russian paranoia was on the rise and the American Empire wreaked havoc across the globe. Perhaps things haven’t changed all that much …
Chapter Twenty
The last days of campaigning. Thoughts on the eve of the election. A consequential dinner with Mrs Corbyn and The Boy. Life springs yet another surprise, in the form of an exit poll. I look towards the future and come to a decision.
5th June
Theresa continues to blink and grimace her way through a series of painful interviews. During a sit-down with Julie Etchingham of ITV’s Tonight programme, the PM was asked what the naughtiest thing she ever did as a child was. She replied that she and her friends used to run through fields of wheat. My colleagues all found this hilarious (Julian dashed off to generate some lacerating memes), but, on this occasion, I happen to agree with Mrs May. Think of the poor agricultural workers who had to deal with that mess!
John said: ‘So, Jeremy, what’s the naughtiest thing you ever did?’
I replied that I struggled to think of anything notable. He said: ‘Oh come on, surely there’s something. You lived in Jamaica in your early twenties – you must have smoked a bit of weed.’
As a matter of fact, I never touched the stuff. Not because I have any moral objection to the recreational use of drugs, but because I’d read that cannabis causes memory loss and, as a geography teacher, was concerned this might make me forget about sedimentary rock or oxbow lakes.
Spent much of the afternoon in my office, trying to think of my most sinful deed. Eventually, I concluded that it was August 1971, when I forgot to pay my dues to the National Union of Tailors and Garment Workers. Of course, I paid double the next month, but the sense of shame still lingers.
6th June
Recalling Julian’s kindness towards me during my darkest moment on the campaign (as well as his exemplary service more generally), I decided to give him a surprise. I went over to his desk and cleared my throat, sending him scrambling to minimise the window he’d been watching Netflix on. I told him that I knew I hadn’t always been easy to work for, and so wished to give him a token of my appreciation. I said: ‘You remember my acquaintance Stormzy? Well, I asked if h
e could do me a favour.’
With that I produced my present: a signed copy of Stormzy’s album Gang Signs & Prayer, dedicated ‘To Julian’. The lad responded with a display of emotion that made me profoundly uncomfortable. Still, I’m glad he liked it.
7th June
Election night eve. I must admit I’m rather nervous. This morning, I was so preoccupied I could barely enjoy my bowl of unsalted quinoa porridge. To ease my troubled mind, as well as make up for time lost on the campaign trail, I dined this evening with Mrs Corbyn and The Boy. The former supervised me in preparing a vegetarian curry and seemed genuinely chuffed with the results. The latter seemed brighter and more full of vim than he has in a long time. Apparently his app is now fully financed and ready to go on the market. But, he said: ‘That’s not the main reason I’m happy …’
With a sly grin, he revealed that he has got engaged to Anunciata Basildon-Wyck! Of course, I was flabbergasted. I said: ‘But you broke up!’
He replied: ‘Yep, and now we’re unbroken. For the rest of our lives, I should hope!’
Was I pleased? Of course I was. Still, I can’t deny that my joy was mixed with sadness. The Boy – my boy – was getting married and I would have to surrender him to a world of upper-class manners and reactionary beliefs. In a quiet voice, I said: ‘Forgive me, I’m very happy for you, but … I thought you two had political differences?’