The Leader’s office had called a crisis meeting to discuss the Momentum split. I would say the meeting was an “unholy alliance of senior trots” but there’s nothing unholy about Trotsky.
It was an inconvenient turn of events to say the least — especially considering most of us are SPADs and so usually get Fridays off, while our respective Members head off to Mordor or wherever their seats may be for the weekend.
I’m sure Tory SPADs never have to put up with this shit.
The Glorious Leader couldn’t be with us today. Something about a Cuba Solidarity Meeting in Hampstead. So we began by going over the latest from the commentariat. Masonic Paul started us off;
“These sectarians must be stopped. They are throttling the enthusiasm and excitement of the young people who have been inspired in the last 18 months.”
“Which c*** said that?” Sean Milner our Director of Communications and PR (Proletariat Relations) barked. “Aaronovitch?”
“Um…” Masonic Paul was suddenly in a vigorous coughing episode, then transfixed by a large drop of water cascading down the window.
“It was Owen Jones actually.” Maccy D responded, as the edge of his mouth twisted upwards in an odd motion I hadn’t seen him do before.
“This is a fun game!” Tilly Hollyhoop Ryder-Jones, our new office apprentice chirped. I think it’s wonderful we have an apprentice scheme — we found Tilly at the local Further Education (FE) College. She had enrolled in a Greek evening course so she could qualify to run to be the FE Officer in the National Union of Students. Some say it’s unethical as she already has an MA Cantab; I say to them that you’d probably rather a graduate of Classics do the job than a 16 year-old aspiring hairdresser.
“Ok shall we continue then?” Masonic Paul took the next paper-cutting from his rather large bag. He can be such a Meshochnik.
“Who said this then? The revolutionary far-left believes as a condition of its existence that it must build the revolutionary vanguard party. This is exhausting and lonely work and if you have to do it from first principles — creating a party called something like The Revolutionary Socialist Party — obviously futile.”
“He’s taken that straight out of the Book of John!” I cried “Surely that’s someone from the inside?”
“Jill Mountford? While we’re on that note, can someone ask her to revoke her fanatical support for the EU please? It puts me off my luncheon.”
“So it was Jill?”
“Wrong again. That was Aaronovitch.”
“So he’s being sarcastic?” No-one seemed to be answering my questions but perhaps they couldn’t hear me — it was a rather large coffee table we were sat at.
“Labour is just a carcass for Trots to feast on, was the name of the article I believe.”
“What was his point?” Sean barked.
After an awkward silence we moved swiftly to the next item on the agenda. The national polls looking good, there was a more important election to discuss than some silly by-election.
“We need all hands on deck comrades. A historic third term. This is going to be tight.”
“Well no, not really.”
“Well he’s got the union vote for once!”
I laughed uproariously.
“Isn’t he a bit old?”
“Hey don’t be ageist!”
“But he was too old to get a mortgage!”
“Look. If he doesn’t get re-elected, we’re f***ed. Where is there another building big enough to host phone banks for next year’s leadership election?”
It was going to be another long day.
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