Apparently, the Labour party leadership contest frontrunner, Jeremy Corbyn, wants to dredge the decomposing corpse of Osama bin Laden from the seabed and then marry it.

And he wants to live with the dead body of Bin Laden in Islington, as if it were his gay-zombie husband, in a sick leftwing pantomime of the heterosexual Christian wedding ceremony. And this arrangement is also a perversion of Islam, which is of course a peaceful religion.

It was Monday morning. I logged off from the Daily Mail website. I only went on the damn thing to check whether migrants were currently a swarm of vermin, or decent loving parents like you or I, or if leggy Israeli model Bar Refaeli would take the plunge in a tiny wraparound oriental miniskirt, and then I got bogged down in all this Corbyn necrophilia stuff. It’s all so confusing.

Later, after I’d dropped the kids at school, I saw the cover of the Daily Express in a newsagent and read that Corbyn had also said it was a tragedy that he and Bin Laden had not met during the latter’s unfairly curtailed life, as Corbyn was sure that after they had become lovers, they would have sponsored a sloth at London zoo.

I raised my eyebrow at the newsagent, a bearded Islamic man in long flowing robes with an inscrutable expression of fundamentalist certainty. But he said that whatever people did behind closed doors was up to them, as long as the sloth had given its consent and was not harmed.

Later, I attended a local radical artists’ and writers’ meeting in the last squatted tower block in Tower Hamlets. We were trying to decide how best to respond creatively to the political implications of austerity, and whether there was a place in our empty gesture for puppetry and dance.

Turning to sip my tea, I looked out of the window to see Tim Farron of the Liberal Democrats fly by in a hang glider, with a picture of Jeremy Corbyn kissing Bin Laden printed on its outstretched wings.

Farron’s pained democratic face suggested either constipation, sexualised religious ecstasy, the vain hope that someone would remember that he existed, or some fair and just proportional representation of all three positions.

But a cat by the Museum of Childhood merely looked briefly up from burying its excrement on the lawn, as the desperate Cumbrian wafted himself westward toward Wapping.

The artists and I screwed up our agenda and discussed what we had seen. Of course, these days, rather than being reliant on squinting at the speeding news through the shit-smeared windscreen of newspapers, as it flashes by in full Doppler effect, we all agreed that we can use newfangled internet technology to seek out and then freeze-frame the source of the supposed story.

“Had Corbyn really said the death of Bin Laden was a ‘tragedy?’” asked a painter. “Not really,” offered a young woman tapping at an iPhone. It appeared the veteran leftwinger had used those words, but as part of a forward moving collection of sentences, which contextualised them in the way that sentences in a supporting argument do, in order to lament the lack of due process in Bin Laden’s killing, which Corbyn believed, rightly or wrongly, had ongoing global implications.

Anyone familiar with human language, such as a baby, a dolphin, or a cleverer than average dog, would have experienced such a syntactical procedure before, perhaps involving nouns and verbs and various qualifying phrases.

Only by decontextualising these words entirely were the Mail, the Express, the Telegraph and the actual genuine leader of the Liberal Democrats, Tim Farron, able to misrepresent Corbyn so absurdly.

The digitally enhanced, bionic GM news flies past us with such high velocity that within 24 hours the surface of the Corbyn teacup was again millpond still. Only occasionally did the becalmed Fairtrade brew in the chipped Corbyn mug begin to ripple once more, as Tony Blair’s impotent ape footsteps pounded counter-productively on the tea tray around it.

Incoherently outraged, and yet in possession of a megaphone, the wounded and once powerful monkey god lashed out this way and that in a doomed quest for meaning. Or bananas. It’s so difficult to tell since the creature no longer has Alastair Campbell to interpret for him. “We don’t do bananas.”

Like Jeremy Corbyn, I too have experienced the agony of decontextualisation. A DVD of a 2009 standup routine, in which I used depictions of violence against TV motoring journalists as a way of questioning their own right to operate outside accepted taste boundaries, ended with a direct, down the lens, plea to Mail journalists not to decontextualise the images within the 50-minute bit in order to misrepresent me.

But, brilliantly, this did not stop the Daily Mail’s Jan Moir doing exactly that. Moir’s article was swiftly withdrawn from the paper’s website presumably when it became clear that my patented Jan Moir trap, baited with the stinking cheese of assumed outrage, had worked like a dream.

But apart from me, and Jeremy Corbyn, there was another man, wasn’t there, long long ago, whose wise words were often shorn of context by stupid fools, and used against him. And perhaps that man had a beard, and maybe he wore sandals too. And perhaps he too came to lead his lost followers away from false idols towards the promised land.

And this lowly man, would he have gone among the people in fine Raja Daswani shirts like Tony Blair? No, he would have dressed like me, in an XXL T-shirt he got free from an indie band; or like Jeremy Corbyn, in a pair of itchy alpaca wool underpants knitted for him by his mother, as a gesture of solidarity with the Sandinistas. And with all the oppressed peoples of the Earth.

I’m not saying, by the way, that Corbyn and I are the new Christs. But I don’t have any say in what headlines the subeditors and page layout people choose to put on these pieces. I hope that “new Christs” bit isn’t the attention-grabbing phrase that the Observer elects to pull out of this column.

Nobody on Twitter or Comment Is Free reads to the end of the pieces they are complaining about. And a headline like “Jeremy Corbyn And I Are The New Christs” will only serve to convince the Conservative content-provider Tim Montgomerie that Guardian newspapers have finally lost the plot, and send Baron Daniel Finkelstein, OBE, into a tail-chasing tailspin of baronic confusion. What’s the point?

But in such moments of despair I think to myself, WWJCD? What would Jeremy Corbyn do? And the sadness just fades away.

Stewart Lee’s A Room with a Stew is at Leicester Square theatre, London WC2 from 21 Sept.