“Afternoon, Trina!”

Trina jumped. Usually she caught the black flat cap shark-finning over the top of the allotment fence in time to prepare herself. But today he’d caught her off guard. She sighed.

“Afternoon, Jeremy.”

The Labour leader’s nose now rested on the surface of the wood, his eyes darting between Trina and her parsnip patch. “My allotment’s bigger than yours.”

“What’s that?”

“My allotment. It’s bigger than yours now, Trina.”

Trina sighed again and returned to her raking.

“No, it isn’t, Jeremy. You just moved the fence into my space a bit when I wasn’t looking. Yes, my allotment is now slightly smaller than it used to be, but it is still objectively larger than yours is, Jeremy. Jeremy?” Trina looked up. The cap and eyes were gone.

Shedding a proud tear, he moved to the second shelf: Chess Club – Attendance; Rugby – Most Sick Notes; Choir – Loudest

Back at home, he perused his life’s collection of trophies: third place at an egg-and-spoon race, a drooping self-made clay vase from a visit to Stoke-on-Trent, and various ribbon-adorned cups: Year 8 Maths – Most Improved; Clarinet Grade 2 – Pass; Competitive Salsa – Participation.

Shedding a proud tear, he moved on to the second shelf: Chess Club – Attendance; Rugby – Most Sick Notes Given; Choir – Loudest.

He closed the small glass door on his prizes, it finally reflecting a translucent face – a white-haired watermark against a backdrop of bronze and silver. “A life of triumphs,” he whispered through a smile. “This cabinet believes in me.”

Beep beep! His Casio watch. Young Tommy’s Sunday league game! Jeremy had promised his 23-year-old he’d be there to support, and he’d completely forgotten! Quickly (for him), he ran out the door, unlocked his bike, and flew down the road to his car (that tree smacking him in the face along the way). He locked up the cycle and jumped into his motor.

London’s Lenin sped his banger down to the local grounds, singing along to his burned CD of Seven Nation Army all the way, screaming “OH, JEREMY CORBYN” at the wrong bit. Arriving well into the second half, he parked up and walked straight past the stands on to the side of the pitch, barging into Tommy’s coach.

“Jeremy, we’ve been through this. You’re not supposed to be here. Your place is up there at the back.”

“Not any more, it isn’t!”

Just then, young Tommy Corbyn sped down the left wing (a position his father insisted on despite the boy’s heavy favouring of his right foot), and nipped past two defenders, before scoring a nifty lob over the keeper. But too late – the final whistle goes. Despite Tommy’s efforts, his side lost three goals to two.

Jeremy was elated. “Well done on winning the match, son!”

“Not this again, Dad.”

“Ah,” smiled the Labour leader proudly, wrapping an arm around his muddy kid, “another glorious victory for the Corbyns.”.

• Phil Wang’s show Kinabalu is on tour nationwide until 11 March 2018; philwang.co.uk

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