'Just When My Relations With Jews Were Going So Well.' Corbyn's Secret Diary Revealed

With the U.K. Labour Party leader under fire for his handling of an anti-Semitism scandal, Haaretz imagines what his recent journal entries might look like

Adrian Hennigan
Adrian Hennigan
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Corbyn illustration
Illustration: Bloomberg and Haaretz
Adrian Hennigan
Adrian Hennigan

The following is intended as satire

The secret diary of Jeremy Corbyn
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The week starts badly with a live interview at the shamelessly pro-Israel British Broadcasting Corporation. I mean, it’s right there in the bloody name – the “Bibi” C. Ostensibly I am there to discuss my views on Brexit, but since I don’t have any, the “journalist” tries to grill me on my links to Hamas and Hezbollah.

I assure him I am not on the Christmas card list of either organization and, furthermore, that photo of me dressed as Sheikh Hassan Nasrallah at our recent office party was obviously just a bad Photoshop job. “What photo?” the reporter responds, so I quickly move on to how I favour a softy Brexit. Good work, Jezza, got away with it again.

The secret diary of Jeremy Corbyn
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After a mere 253 days, I have decided to tackle this so-called anti-Semitism “crisis” head-on by attending a meeting with some of those pesky British Zionists. Pleasantly surprised to hear people doing that chant about me as I enter the building, but am later informed they were singing “Boo! Jeremy Corbyn.”

I reassure the miserable kvetchers that I cannot possibly be anti-Semitic, because I have seen every single episode of “Curb Your Enthusiasm,” grow Jerusalem artichokes on my allotment and frequently use words like “kvetch.” They then proceed to lecture me on what anti-Semitism means, as if they would know better than yours truly. The chutzpah! (I rest my case.) After grinding my teeth for the duration of the meeting, I now need to see my – Jewish! – dentist again.

The secret diary of Jeremy Corbyn
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It’s visiting day, so I take a few hours out of my busy schedule to catch up with Kenny L. – or “the mayor who’s a ’mare,” as we now call him. I’ve been warned that he’s been feeling blue since I kicked him out of the party and had him committed, so I try to cheer him up by telling him a joke I heard about us now rating our anti-Semites on a scale of 0 to Ken. He doesn’t laugh. Instead, he starts ranting about how Hitler was a card-carrying Zionist and that there’s no such thing as Holocaust denial. I don’t have the heart to call him a Holocaust denier denier, so bid him a swift farewell, impressed by his continued ability to talk despite that Hannibal Lecter mask over his face.

The secret diary of Jeremy Corbyn
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Pop into my local Whole Foods Market and am appalled to see a 2-for-1.75 offer on some Israeli hummus – a product no doubt made in some god-awful settlement, where the chickpeas were crushed by the feet of some poor impoverished Palestinians. I demand to see the manager, but apparently he’s on a course teaching workers to keep a straight face while quoting prices. Instead, I tell anyone who will listen – two pensioners; well, one by the end – about culinary appropriation and then try to hide as many tubs of hummus as possible behind the artisanal Cheddar (red, of course).

The secret diary of Jeremy Corbyn
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My favourite moment of the week: meeting beloved constituents at my local surgery in Islington (and, sure, the odd craft beer also helps pass the time). A party member takes the opportunity to complain that she's being investigated for alleged anti-Semitism – after tweeting that matzot contain secret messages in braille about Jewish plans for world domination, and that the Jews are putting something in Jaffa oranges to control Gentile minds. I tell her this is all arrant nonsense, but concede she might be onto something with her bagel theory.

The secret diary of Jeremy Corbyn
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Wake up to find what I assume is a Mossad agent or Daily Mail reporter going through my bins, but scare them off by inviting them in for a chat about renationalisation. In the new spirit of entente cordiale, I then visit what I am told is my local synagogue. I reach out and ask the congregation if there’s anything I can help them with. A sweet old lady stands up and says she’s concerned about the overfishing of gefilte fish in the wild. I promise to look into it, which seems to go down well with the assembled crowd. With such small steps are mighty obstacles overcome.

The secret diary of Jeremy Corbyn
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Kenny calls from the institution and tells me he feels like a new person, which is why he’s decided to adopt a new identity – from now on he’d like to be known as Andy C. Mite. Shit, and just when my relations with British Jews were going so well.

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