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The Day I Met Jeremy Corbyn (Before He Ruined Everything)

All this talk of elections brings back a memory of when I met/saw/was near Jeremy Corbyn - the leader of the free world, if that world was about 50 years ago where people still traded wooden stools for medical advice. 

We were walking up the City Rd from Angel Station. By we, I mean me and my erstwhile partner, Daniela. It was early, about 9.30AM on a Saturday, which meant the roads were pretty much empty. Not much stirred along the side walk either. We had gone only to collect the keys for our latest, ridiculous Guardian Property Venture (Which I talk about here in THIS edition of From Our Home Correspondent on BBC Radio 4) 

It was cold, as is expected for early January. So cold, in-fact, that it began to lightly snow as we wandered back up to the tube,  having once again surrendered to the trough of administrative paperwork that comes with each property move.  Politics couldn't have been further from my mind - I was busy surrendering all of my Tennant rights in order to avoid paying excessive amounts of money to live in a moulded double bedroom, in a moulded city, beholden to a private landlord, who probably wears a moulded Barbour jacket whilst wanking in the empty bathtubs of his property portfolio.

Instead of giving ourselves to that system, we choose to live in a moulded studio sized room, beholden to a set of cowboy property managers, who also seem to wank a-lot (Nothing else can awnser their lack of phonecall response).

You have to pick your fights, or so I was thinking as we walked toward a small, zebra crossing that bridged a small island between two main roads, an island watched over by a large war memorial that has lost the definition of its inscriptions, rendering it defunct. Turning it into mediocre modern art.

He was looking down, to the ground, and wearing a kind of brownish suit that strangely matched the tone of his bicycle helmet. Another man lingered behind him, who looked professionally ready, if you catch my drift. 

By the time I had realised that this seemingly dishevelled man was Corbyn - by which I mean the time it took me to scan his disconcertingly impermeable face - I had to make a decision to say something. 

Daniela looks to him first, and Corbyn smiles and nods back. If he had a cap, he would have dipped it to her. Pervert, I thought, before I remember that this protocol is in-fact the move of a gentleman - its just, I am so used to seeing sexist pigs that kindness, and chivalry now present themselves as acts of suspicion, and deviance.

Following the nod, he turns his head to the traffic lights, and back again, as though we are all on a picnic together, beside a road, near a war memorial.

I am a product of the post truth, mother of all bombs world, and standing here, on the curb, before one of politics' great hero's (This is not up for discussion), I find myself starkly reminded of my socio-political ignorance. 

The lights are about to turn green, meaning he and his aide will soon be cycling to wherever it is they go at 9.30 on a sturdy Saturday morning - perhaps to a local food bank, pulling ring pulls till lunchtime; maybe to a nearby orphanage, to practice his vocal range ready for a media planned kids reading booked in for six months time. Or maybe he just cycles the streets, looking up at the glass tomes that pierce the smog, wondering what happened to his world, to his dreams, to his career, to all our humanity. More likely, Corbyn cycles about his constituency. A political ice cream man, with pure love as his Greensleeves, sleeves ready to be rolled to the elbow knuckle upon the holla of a local in distress.

The lights turn green, and my mouth stops working. All I can cobble (A trade I am sure the great man will be interested in bringing back once he hits number 10) is the man's good name...'CORBYN" I say, as his humble feet mount the racing peddles of his push bike.

He braces one foot against the floor. It looks at home, like it's tread this tarmac many times before. That bear factory beard tilts up at me, and those soft, Demerara eyes stare back at me, and then through me, and eventually....in me. They seem to take me as I am, as I stand - the kind of hipster fuck he has spent the best part of 50 years trying to energise into humanitarian motion. 

No more words come, for there is too much to ask, too much to say, and, in truth, too many tears for a stranger to mule. Especially on a weekend. 

In the end I just shout "THE GREAT MAN" as loud as I can in the direction of his vanishing back. His aide/son looks at me hard, sussing out my intentions, which are...nothing. 

Just as I think this meeting of minds has drawn to a close. As I watch him pedal toward the horizon - I see that his head has turned. The crunching morning light catches agains the nape of his neck, and then against the minnow beard. Leaving the handlebar, Jeremy Corbyn Raises a fist to the air, and it is all for us, that fist. Two lost, whining millennial upstarts - drifting down a road we don't know, in a world we barely recognise or understand. With nothing left, I raise my own fist back, as though I am in a Young Adult Post Apocalyptic Literary series that will soon be bastardised and made into 17 motion pictures of varying quality.

My only regret of that fleeting moment, is that, of course, in truth, Corbyn never did see my fist with his own two eyes. He never knew that I would be there, through thick and through thin. But then again, he is Jeremy Corbyn. And Jeremy Corbyn witnesses’s all of his children's virgin steps.

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