First things first: there is no force in Heaven or on Earth that could induce me to vote for Jeremy Corbyn and his sad brand of sixth-former state socialism. In fact, as someone who believes in freedom and growth, the idea of ever giving my beloved ballot to the illiberal, eco-miserabilist Labour Party, regardless of who’s leading it, fills me with horror. Or is it mirth? It’s one or the other.
And yet, despite my Corbynphobia, and my humane desire to see dying Labourism put out of its misery, I increasingly find myself shaking my head in something like fury at Corbyn’s Labour critics. They accuse him of destroying their party. Which is both chronologically and factually wrong.
Labour has been destroying itself for years, long before Corbyn became leader, back when he was just every North London media muppet’s favourite teetotal, cigarette-banning secular vicar masquerading as a Marxist. And today, if anyone’s putting the final nail into Labour’s coffin, it’s not Corbyn — it’s his Labour haters, the schemers and Chukas and commentators desperately trying to depose a leader that their party democratically elected barely three months ago.
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