Why I’m betting on Corbyn being PM by next weekend
I’m not a betting man. In fact, until a few weeks ago, I’d never placed a bet in my life. But then I spotted an absolute nailed-on winner – and thought, what the hell. Be bold. First time for everything. So I went for it. I put £50 on Jeremy Corbyn to be prime minister.
Yes, I really did – and for a very good reason. This was during the closing stages of the election campaign, a time when seemingly everybody – including, I suspect, Mr Corbyn himself – still expected the Conservatives to saunter home with an effortless majority. I try to avoid making political predictions, mainly because mine are almost always wrong – I am, after all, a political commentator – but if I’d been forced to commit a prediction to print, I’m sure I’d have followed the herd.
Even so, I couldn’t help thinking: what if the supposedly impossible happens? What if Theresa May blows it? What if Mr Corbyn, against all the odds, pulls it out of the bag?
The answer, of course, was that every political commentator in Britain would get absolutely savaged for their cluelessness.
So I thought: I know. I’ll quietly stick a bet on Corbyn. Then, if he does win, I can whip out my betting slip, stick a photo of it on social media, and say, “Ha! Look! I was the only commentator in the country who foresaw our great leader’s surge to power! All other commentators are now obsolete! I am the undisputed champion of political insight!”
Sure, it seemed unlikely to happen. But it still felt worth the outlay, just in case. It was like paying a kind of insurance. Call it: credibility insurance.
And to think, my cunning plan so nearly came off. My moment of glory, however, was snatched cruelly from me by the electorate. Despite his supporters’ apparently sincere conviction that he “won”, Mr Corbyn fell short. Mrs May remained in Downing Street. Fifty whole quid down the drain.
But wait. All is not lost. My betting slip states that the bet is still live until the first of July. A week today. So if the Queen’s Speech gets voted down in the Commons next week, and Mrs May resigns… Well. Mr Corbyn keeps insisting that he could form a minority government. In which case, provided he gets his skates on, he might yet be PM by next Saturday. And I’ll be in the money.
The way I look at it is, if he’s going to put my taxes up, he can damn well help me pay them.
Should Mrs May manage to stay in power, though, it’ll probably be thanks to the DUP – the Northern Irish party that is said to be demanding billions in local spending in return for its support.
How might such a deal turn out? A colleague tells me the following story. She grew up in Western Australia – which, in 2008, held a state election that resulted in a hung parliament. After a period of haggling, the Liberal party was finally able to form a coalition government with a small party of rural conservatives called The Nationals WA. The leader of The Nationals WA, however, drove a hard bargain. He demanded that a whopping 25 per cent of Western Australia’s mining and petroleum royalties be spent on regional investment projects. The Liberals decided that they had no choice but to accept.
Soon, the people in charge of the “Royalties for Regions” fund were swimming in cash. So much cash, in fact, that they spent $17.75 million (£10.5 million) building 71 musical public lavatories that played hits including What the World Needs Now is Love by Bacharach & David.
Half my family is from Northern Ireland. Perhaps it’s time to move home. I sense it’s about to become a very special place.
Long-suffering readers will know that, every time my three-yearold son says something cute, I can’t resist sharing it in my column.
This week’s story, though, is a tiny bit different.
Recently, one of my son’s toddler friends was having a birthday picnic in the park. I was gently pushing my son on a swing when, without asking permission, another boy picked up my son’s scooter, and started riding it.
My son turned his head so he could speak to me – and said the following.
“If that boy doesn’t share with me,” he said casually, “I chop him up in a dungeon.”
Chop him up in a dungeon. He genuinely did say that. I promise I’m not making it up. Frankly, if I was going to make up a story, it wouldn’t be one that made it sound as if I’ve raised the world’s smallest sadist.
The question I keep asking myself is: where on earth did he get language like that from? The chopping up of bodies in dungeons is not, I’m reasonably sure, something that Mummy and I have ever discussed in front of him. (Or, to be clear, in his absence. We never talk about the chopping up of bodies in dungeons. Or the chopping up of bodies anywhere else. Just making sure we’ve got that straight.)
So where has he got it from? There’s definitely no chopping up of bodies in dungeons in the Mr Men, or Mog the Forgetful Cat, or any of his other favourite books. And there’s no chopping up of bodies in dungeons in Peppa Pig, or Teletubbies, or any of his other favourite TV shows.
Surely he can’t have got it from nursery. Are they teaching the children about the Spanish Inquisition? Or gathering them round at storytime for a chapter from The Silence of the Lambs? (I suppose I can see how that could happen. Innocent teacher, browsing in Waterstones: “Ooh, that looks like a nice story for the children. They love stories about lambs. I expect the lambs are silent because they’re all tucked up for beddy-byes, dreaming their happy little dreams.”)
Anyway: wherever my son’s got it from, it’s deeply worrying. I hope I never get in his bad books.