Jeremy Corbyn: My part in his glorious socialist triumph

The anti-austerity rebel with Juche dripping from his beard

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Our glorious leader, imbibed with Juche consciousness

¡Bong! June 2015: The door to the modest Islington terraced house creaked open. From behind a black burqa, a pair of eyes gleamed with contempt. My Arabic was rusty but there was no mistaking the sentiment – I could discern the words “neoliberal” and possibly “analogue”, hissed at me in what sounded like a rasping West Country accent.

The lady in the burqa ushered me in and pushed me down a long and dimly lit passage. When my step faltered, she would prod me in the back with what felt like the muzzle of an AK-47 rifle – although it could have been a pair of Spear & Jackson Geared Softgrip Hedge Shears. After some minutes of walking, I noticed the air gradually begin to chill, and the air pressure change. Who knew Islington terraces had such long vestibules? This must be the wine cellar. Islington was famous for its wine cellars: the “catacombs of N1”, as they were once known.

At last a fortified door stood before us and at burqa lady’s command, it opened. In front of me was the election command room – already busy with activity and anticipation. Trying to fix a paper jam with the photocopier was Charlotte Church. Sharing a Ginsters cheese and onion pasty from the microwave were Billy Bragg and Brian Eno. In the corner, revolutionary film maker Ken Loach was petting his whippet as an admiring Jeremy Hardy chuckled. Tucking into an enormous cake, decorated with Post It™ notes, was the head of the Government Digital Service, Mike Bracken MBE.

The candidate himself, the 200-to-1 outsider, projected an aura of calm from the centre of the room. He had only scrambled onto the ballot paper a few hours before. Now I knew how had he managed this: by assembling a constellation of proven vote-winning talent. But what did he want with me? In a moment, I would find out.

After a few minutes the Supreme Leader must have noticed my sapphire-display prototype iPhone 7, and he beckoned me and burqa lady to join in him the stationery cupboard – the nerve centre of his operation. He nodded to burqa lady, who dropped her niqab. I gasped. It was none other than 1970s TV variety star, and former Poet Laureate, Pam Ayres.

“The whys come later, Bong,” Corbyn bristled.

My assistant มาลัย (which means "Garland of Flowers" in Thai) had dispatched me to this Operations Bunker telling me only that somebody called Jeremy Corbyn wanted to see me. Every wise investor needs to protect their investments and hedge against risk. The Conservatives had thrown taxpayers' cash at me and many of my friends, with £17.5m going to Passion Capital, who produce nothing but an infographic to explain where it goes. I needed to know that Labour wouldn’t wreck it for all of us entrepreneurs.

But the only thing I knew about Corbyn was that Britain’s socialist party had decided to crowdsource its leadership campaign – and when you throw things open up to the Wisdom of the Crowds, only marvellous things happen.

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