Calamity At Corbyn HQ

Up and down the country, Tories are rubbing their hands together with glee whilst Labour MPs (increasingly becoming an endangered species) are standing precariously on railway bridges, wondering where it all went wrong. Meanwhile, their brave and fearless leader, Jeremy Corbyn, sits at home cheerfully weaving a basket whilst mumbling incoherently at a papier mache bust of Ken Livingstone. His exasperated wife pops her head round the door.

“Jeremy!”

“Sshh, dear, I am conversing with Ken.” Jeremy looks up from his basket only briefly. “Please excuse Laura, Ken.”

“Jeremy, you’ve been weaving all morning,” says Laura. “Will you at least have a little something to eat?”

“Is there any of my homemade jam left?” inquires Jezza. “Perhaps some jam and scones.”

“That jam has gone off,” Laura replies. “It’ll give you the trots.”

“Oh, but we love the Trots!” Jezza turns to the bust on his desk. “Don’t we, Ken?”

“Look, dear, I really think you ought to put down that basket and get to work. There’s the general election to think about and the party is in disarray…”

“I’m not going anywhere!” Jezza retorts, defiantly. Laura sighs.

“Yes, I know, dear, we all know.”

“No, no – I mean I’m really not going anywhere. Lucy Brazier is due to make an announcement soon about the release of her new book, PorterGirl – The Vanishing Lord and I don’t want to miss it.”

“Lucy who?”

“She writes about a great British institution that is lead by out-of-touch old crusties who contumaciously adhere to obsolete and dated ideas and practices, regardless of what the rest of the world think and societal progress. Fancy that!”

Laura sighs again.

“Yes, Jeremy. Just fancy that.”

 

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