Corbyn has survived his first week in opposition despite being attacked by the print media with such ferocity that I can only assume he’s been caught hacking a murdered girl’s phone. Oh, my mistake. He had his top button undone. Does he look scruffy, really? Corbyn looking like a hipster’s ghost may actually be preferable to Cameron looking like the demon that hell has appointed as its liaison officer with HSBC.

The abuse Corbyn received for not singing the national anthem says much more about his detractors than it does about him. It shows them as their 10-year-old public-school selves, where not singing the national anthem genuinely was the most shocking thing a boy could do. The Queen is the longest-serving monarch in our country’s history. Do you think she ever wants to hear that song again? My bet is she hates it so much that, as it’s being sung, she’s trying to block it out in her head by mentally singing IRA rebel songs.

Surely if the Battle of Britain was fought for anything, it was so that we wouldn’t be forced to sing songs about a German? As the Queen grows older, asking God to save her sounds increasingly desperate and macabre. Indeed, even “happy and glorious” sounds like a bit of a stretch for someone who hasn’t cracked a smile since Diana died. Now that she is 89, the song isn’t sung sarcastically exactly, but contains the same acknowledged irony as singing that Aston Villa FC are by far the greatest team the world has ever seen.

I’m sure a lot of people at that function would have rather not sung God Save the Queen, as a high proportion of them are satanists. Personally, I’d much rather see the Bare Necessities as our national anthem. It would be a churlish political leader who refused to sing that. The prime minister getting stuck on “Don’t pick the prickly pear by the paw”, and the leader of the opposition joining in to help him out – what a great country we would be then. Or maybe we should commission a new song that is just the word “sorry” in every language of the world.

It’s wonderful to see Corbyn calmly tripping everyone up. The rightwing press laughing at him for presenting the views of the public in parliament merely shows their true contempt for the opinions of their readers. Corbyn sits so still and quietly, while people in shiny suits scream at him, that you almost expect his next words to be: “And do you think you’re really angry at your father?” The sway of the press in this country is a bit like the nation being influenced by a cabal of powerful telepaths. Horned-up, racist telepaths. They are outraged that anyone seeking power would fail to conform, and the reaction to Corbyn failing to sing the anthem was like a collective shriek of: “Kneel before Zod!”

It’s odd to think that Jeremy Corbyn, of all people, is considered non-conformist. OK, his face looks like it was made in an occupational-therapy class, but he’s called Jeremy and dresses like a geography teacher – he couldn’t be more British if he bled tea. Corbyn believes in talking to military enemies. Considering the next war we wage is going to be against Mother Nature, we had probably better get used to compromise, as it’s notoriously tricky to bomb a tsunami.

The media have tried to portray Corbyn as boring, but surely a vote for him in a general election would be a vote for a bloody military coup. Hardly boring. Is it too much to ask that, amid all the hysteria, we have some analysis of what he’s actually doing? Presumably he is reading out the concerns of voters directly in PMQs to emphasise his mandate, and thus insulate himself from his most immediate threat, the parliamentary Labour party. In any case, we should probably stop portraying a career politician as some kind of ingenue unable to understand the procedures of a building he’s worked in for 32 years.

Labour MPs who sit on the benches behind Corbyn: it’s like they’re Arsenal fans who have bought scalped tickets and are sitting in the Millwall end. Of course, Corbyn does have a lot of support from MPs, it’s just that they’re all in the SNP.

I actually intend to get incredibly worked up about his not singing, as I need to distract myself from what’s really happening. Any time I see someone not singing the right song or wearing the right flower in their lapel, I will scream “Traitor!”, as otherwise I will be forced to dwell on the projections that mean our climate is warming rapidly. I will sing my national song as my habitat burns and whole species become extinct; I will sing it as gargantuan boiling waves flecked with rubble and major public buildings pursue me through the streets. I will sing it as I light a pyre of garbage to warn my fellow survivors that our enemies the Crabmen have begun their final sideways march out of the sea. I will sing my national song in a rich baritone in one of humankind’s final mountaintop redoubts. Even when there is none left to hear but the carrion birds that circle me daily, I will sing.