Corbyn Jeremy - The secret diary of Jeremy Corbyn: a parody

In the grand tradition of The Diary of a Nobody comes the secret diary of the twenty-first centurys most unlikely hero: Jeremy Corbyn.

Jeremy Corbyn is a committed allotment holder, expert jam maker, dedicated manhole cover inspector oh, and occasional Leader of Her Majestys Opposition. When not cycling around his beloved Islington or tending to his courgettes, he spends his time frantically dodging MPs, spin doctors and vicious journalists craving his opinion on Brexit. In these tumultuous times, everyone wants a piece of the beardy firebrand. So who is the man behind the corduroy?

The Secret Diary of Jeremy Corbyn plunges readers into a world of dizzying highs, crushing lows, fervent loyalty and bitter treachery and thats just the section about the Highbury Pottery Club. Readers will be moved, amused and astonished by the wit and insight of politics greatest outsider: the man, the legend, Jeremy Corbyn.

Lucien Young is the author of Alice in Brexitland and Trumps Christmas Carol, both published by Ebury Press, and has written for TV programmes such as BBC Threes Siblings and Murder in Successville. He was born in Newcastle in 1988 and read English at the University of Cambridge, where he was a member of Footlights.

Also by Lucien Young

Alice in Brexitland

Trumps Christmas Carol

Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.

Matthew 5:5

If you grow plants and look after your garden, it gives you time to think, it gives you a connection with the natural world and makes you stronger in everything else you do.

Jeremy Corbyn, Channel 4 News, 12 May 2017

Ohhhhh, Je-rem-eeeee Corrr-byn!

Ohhhhh, Je-rem-eeeee Corrr-byn!

Anonymous

An unexpected promotion, with unexpected consequences. I meet Julian, my new assistant. Some issues settling into the Leaders Office. Mishaps involving jam and the national anthem. I am inspired to take up the poets quill.

What a day! At breakfast, Mrs Corbyn and I finally sampled the gooseberry jam I made back in June, which was excellent. Then I cycled along to the garden centre in Harringay, where I treated myself to a top-of-the-range bird feeder designed by Bill Oddie. After lunch, I sat at the kitchen table, sipping a mug of fair trade tea and thrilling at the prospect of all the chaffinches, goldcrests and dunnocks the new feeder will bring to our back garden.

Popped to the corner shop to buy a can of Whiskas for El Gato. Tomorrow I shall visit the allotment and begin to lay down turnips and brassicas.

In other news, was elected leader of the Labour Party by a landslide. All very gratifying, but I hope these additional duties wont interfere with the planting schedule.

It seems that the hopes expressed above were misplaced. In fact, as I write this, I can barely keep my eyes open. The nightmare began this morning. I was wearing my red dressing gown, about to take out the biodegradable food waste. No sooner had I stepped outside my front door than I was confronted by a horde of rabid journalists. Half blinded by camera flashes and deafened by cries of JEREMY! JEREMY! I leaped back inside, slamming the door behind me. Such harassment! And on a Sunday, too! I made my horror known to Mrs Corbyn, who said I should be thankful my dressing gown was closed for once.

After some discussion, we decided that the wisest policy was to ignore the crowd outside and carry on with our day as normal. However, just as Id managed to settle down and get stuck into a sudoku, the doorbell rang. I walked over and put an eye to the peephole: it was a round-faced young man, wearing a lanyard and a bashful expression. I opened the door a crack.

He said: Hi? My names Julian? The party sent me?

I ushered him inside before any of the tabloid mob could get their feet in the door.

Soon we were all in the sitting room, calming our frazzled nerves with mugs of herbal tea. The young man explained that his name was Julian Forbes, a recent politics graduate, who had volunteered to work as my aide because, he said: I, like, totally believe in your message of change and equality and that.

I asked how he had come by his socialist convictions.

He said: I saw a lot of stuff growing up on an estate my parents country estate. Then I went to St Pauls, which is where I was, like, exposed to radical theory for the first time? Plus, I really hated my mum and dad, so I thought reading a bunch of Gramsci would annoy them.

julian

I said: I understand completely I became a militant Marxist on the mean streets of Shropshire. As I see it, its easy for a genuinely poor person to call for state-led redistribution of wealth. It takes a certain character to want that when youre upper-middle class. Welcome to the team, Julius!

He smiled and shook my hand, then reminded me that his name was Julian. I apologised for the mistake, attributing it to all the commotion outside my door. Why, I demanded to know, were these people so obsessed with me? Julian observed that it might be to do with me being the leader of the UKs largest political party. Im not sure I want that sort of backchat from an assistant, but well chalk it up to inexperience.

Some time later, I became aware of an increase in the noise outside. Peeping out from behind the curtain, I saw a familiar figure ploughing through the crowd of journos, slapping away any camera lens that came near him. It was my dear friend and colleague John McDonnell! I could tell he meant business from his scowling face and rushed to answer the door. Once inside, he rounded on me, shouting: For heavens sake, Jeremy, why are you hanging around the house in a bloody kimono? The left has just taken back the Labour Party after twenty years of Blairite bullshit and youre acting like youre Hugh bloody Hefner!

I asked whether he would care for a biscuit.

He ignored this, saying: We need to devise a strategy to win power and transform Britain into a modern socialist state. Youre sitting down with me and Im not leaving until youve chosen your Shadow Cabinet.

Twelve punishing hours later, we had our team. We would have been a lot quicker, but for the fact that most senior Labour MPs refuse to serve under me. Well, never mind. John shall be my Shadow Chancellor, largely because he is a loyal comrade with impeccable socialist credentials, but also because hed shout at me if I said no. Andy Burnham will be made Shadow Home Secretary to keep the Blairites happy. Our Shadow Foreign Secretary will be Hilary Benn alas, Hilary isnt anywhere near as left wing as his heroic dad, and we disagree on most key policy areas, but hopefully that wont become an issue.