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.
“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?”
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