Right, volunteers and activists, gents, ladies and genderfluids, settle down and listen up!
Man that door, Keir, what’s said in this room stays in this room—you hearing me? What’s leaked from what I am about to say will be leaked by Rebecca LB, me or no-one.
Now. The new Commons Speaker has asked for a regime of good-mannered debate and polite discourse, and so be it, but that albino bastard Johnson has given us precious little time to get the leaflets down to Prontaprint so by nature this briefing will be, er . . . brief.
Numero uno. Canvass safely, there’s a lot of tattooed weirdos and UKIP thugs out there. Go in twos whenever possible and keep your mobiles on alert. Each of you will receive a backpack containing Labour Party literature, a vegan wrap, a small torch, a can of Red Bull, a mace spray, Das Kapital, a satsuma and a packet of Len Murray mints.
Two. At the doorway, get Brexit out the way first. Reassure the doubters that Jeremy is a safe pair of hands, a deep thinker, a true intellectual who grows a mean runner bean. Tell them that in two shakes of a beard spray he will negotiate a deal with Europe which ensures a United Ireland, border control, membership of the customs union, special rates for Scotland—shut up the little Cranky—and free Beaujolais for every man, woman and non-binary in Britain. It will be an historic deal and furthermore, in less than a fortnight he will put it to the people to vote against—I mean for—vote FOR.
Three. Hit ’em with the handouts! I mean the NHS, social services, roads, schools, hospitals, public services, police, mental health, pensioners, allotments, farmers, high streets, free broadband—you name it, we’re going to big it up—with billions! Side of a red bus bloody billions!
Good question, Brenda.
It is coming from the beasts, Brenda. We are going to tax Amazon, Google, Facebook, Uber and Instagram until they bleeding well bleed all over their Jersey strongholds. Then we’ll slap 95 per cent on the Fat Cats and Captains of Industry and wave ’em off at Calais. The rest we shall get on the never-ever, just how my old Mam got her Teasmade. Then spend, spend, spend. That should send that leg-over merchant in Number 10 back to his broom cupboard at the Spectator.
Four. Nationalisation: don’t get dragged into the nitty gritty. Gas, coal, water, rail . . . just don’t mention the cost, Comrade. Just stress the trains running on time. No, Derek, not the reference to the Third Reich. That wouldn’t be too clever, would it?
Which brings me to the . . . the, er . . . alien in the woodpile.
If you see a doorpost with a funny little decorative tube on it with weird writing, leg it to next door and sharpish. Do not get involved with our friends from the Levant because you will get an earful of whining to the effect that our leader is an anti-Semite.
Now. Anyone who knows Jezza knows he has not got a racist bone in his body. He has a close relationship with Diane Abbott, a Guatemalan third wife and an intimate friendship with Hamas, Hezbollah, the IRA, Bolivia, Chile, Venezuela, several loquacious imams and our comrades in the former Soviet Union. Catholic taste indeed, though himself an atheist. And a true Internationalist.
Oh, and if secular householders bring up the Party’s alleged hatred of the occupier Israel, just run for it before you get sucked into their traditional “Whataboutism”. The one where they compare Jezza’s appropriate indignation on behalf of the Palestinians to his discreet silence on the Uyghurs, Rohingya, Copts, Yazidis, Falun Gongs and the Novichok victims in Salisbury. Between you and me and David Icke, a lot of Mossad agents visit that cathedral with the very tall spire. You with me? Say no more . . . Just leave a flyer on the mat, smile and move on. Between these four walls we need the Jewish vote like a sloth needs a duvet. Come on! They’re less than one per cent of the population . . . no, you are right, Comrade Denzil, it doesn’t feel that way.
Right, moving swiftly along. Greggs need us out by 10. Thank you Comrade Anita for bringing up the topic of former Comrades Tom Watson and Ian Austin. Well, look, these things happen and, to be frank, Tom has become a bit of a pouter pigeon, hasn’t he? He should have left when he was fat and happy. And as for Ian—well, he’ll be happier working in Tel Aviv won’t he? It’s a win-win, to be honest . . . and whatever you do don’t call it deselection or any kind of cleansing.
The main thing, my friends, is to bang home the point that Jeremy is a statesman with true gravitas and boundless charisma. Yes, Margaret, you did hear right. And if you’d been standing alongside him last week at SOAS and again at Bristol University, Tuesday, as I was, you would have been as proud as I was of the crouching ovation and show of jazz hands that he received from hundreds of students when he vowed to pay them to study, instead of them paying tuition fees. It was a momentum—er, momentous moment.
So, comrades. Get out there and work your butts off as he has done for us. Divvy up support for him, praise and revere him. Go the full Glastonbury, comrades, for tomorrow truly belongs to us.
I ask you to raise your Red Bull and join me in singing “The Red Flag” as we watch the red white and blue one go down the can.
(Fades out on strangled sound of “The Working Class Can . . . ” )