Why I’m Voting for Jeremy Corbyn
‘Muh— my lord!’ wailed Andy Burnham, prostrated before his true master. ‘I don’t understand— I did everything you asked, but, still—’
The leader of the Conservative party silenced the snivelling New Labour rat with a serpentine look containing all the cold contempt a member of the capitalist class holds in his heart for the common good of the human race.
‘You have failed me,’ said David Cameron, and before the pitiful traitor before him could open his mouth to offer an abstention on this judgement the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland dislocated his jaw – revealing four large fangs at the corners of his mouth – and swallowed the erstwhile contender for the leadership of the Labour party whole.
However, no sooner had Cameron pulled his human flesh-suit straight than there came a banging on the door of Number 10. Dave (as he insisted the interns call him) turned, spitting a necromantic curse as the door burst inwards with a blinding white light.
Cameron’s dark, satanic spell never made its target, however. To a chorus of proletarian angels singing the Internationale in every language of the world, backed by a halo of every colour (including the two shades of red that are only visible to true adherents of the immortal science of Marxism), Jeremy Corbyn stepped through the shattered portal to confront the evil one. The Tory spell fizzled pathetically against the glowing shield of dialectic materialism floating an inch away from the leader of the Labour party.
‘Fool!’ hissed the abominable millionaire. ’Don’t you realise that your radical rhetoric cannot ever win a general election.
Jeremy chuckled and waggled his finger.
‘Your fear-mongering holds no power over me. The Labour party—’
Jeremy was cut off by a punch filled with greed and indifference to human suffering – but Cameron hadn’t moved from his spot.
‘Marxist milksop,’ mocked the MP for Witney, letting out a low susuruss of hissing laughter. ‘Your outdated policies are no match for the Invisible Hand of the Free Market!! Ha-ha!’
The invisible fist hit Jeremy in the forehead, sending him flying through a wall. Cameron stood stock still and waited with reptilian patience for the dust to clear.
‘Better milksop than milk-snatcher,’ coughed Jeremy, stumbling our of the hole and leaning against what was left of the wall.
‘Thiss… this iss imposssible!’ shrieked the inhuman monster. ‘How are you sstill alive!?’
Jeremy Corbyn spat a gob of bloody phlegm and let out a chuckle.
‘You’ll never understand,’ he said, standing up straight. ‘You believe in nothing and live only for yourself.’
‘Pah! I’ll finish you myself,’ said Cameron, green spittle flying from his mouth and leaving marks where it melted holes in the floor. The venomous, hate-filled creature that could maintain an erection only by cutting funding to food banks and hospitals took a step forward and raised on clawed hand to deliver the killing blow—
—only to feel a tug on his arm. Furious, he turned to see the ghost of Bob Crow, former leader of the RMT, holding onto him. Jeremy nodded respectfully at the deceased union leader, then stepped towards the off-balance Prime Minister.
‘Choo choo, motherfucker,’ growled the leader of the Labour party, striking the horrific parody of a human being before him with an open-palm strike backed by all the force of a nationalised railway locomotive. His hand plunged into the chest of the marshal of the forces of evil in the United Kingdom and then formed a fist. Jeremy frowned.
‘Ssstupid human,’ hissed the wounded beast that gains both sustenance an pleasure from hunting down homeless people. ‘My heart is hidden—’
‘—under the Bank of England,’ finished the heroic saviour of the people. Cameron’s eyes widened, causing one of his contact lenses to drop out and reveal a reptilian slit. The ground shook. Jeremy smiled.
‘From the sound of it, my comrade Diane Abbott has just finished off your lackeys Boris Johnson and George Osborne.’ There was the sound of an explosion in the distance, and the ground shook again. His muscles rippling under torn and ragged clothes, Jeremy pulled the vile Tory a little closer. ‘You’re done. It’s over.’
‘Ssstupid ssssocialisst… it’ss only… just… beginning…’
The now-former Prime Minister slumped down as the Bank of England collapsed in on its own foundations, crushing his heart in its hiding-place inside an egg, inside a jam jar, inside a human skull. Jeremy let go of the body, frowning.
He limped out of the ruins of Number 10, wounds knitting themselves together with the medical capability of an NHS finally protected from ideologically-driven cuts and ‘efficiency savings’. He looked up at the sky with eyes like… fuck it I don’t know, the Met Office I guess… and saw a great big zepellin with gears attached to it, because steampunk is still cool right?? And standing on the bow of the airship was Angela Merkel, Tony Blair, Rupert Murdoch, and Barack Obama. They all had monocles and top hats, and they were raining down fire on the streets of London and laughing maniacally.
‘Right,’ said Jeremy, cracking his knuckles. ‘Time to take out the trash.’