No, no, no, that wasn’t quite good, or a refreshing change, or a worthy start, or not-as-bad-as-it-might-have-been. That was the finishing whimper of a once-powerful party. That was worse than Ed Miliband’s first PMQs. It was as bad as late-Miliband’s “I met Nigel, a nurse from Nottingham.”
Dressed in the 1970s, looking old, wading to the despatch box through a vision of immiserated Britain – mental health cuts, in-work benefit cuts, rent cuts, job losses – Corbyn gave us a comprehensive tour of his constituency. Life at the rougher end of Holloway, as Damian McBride so valiantly pointed out, but on a national scale.
You will have heard by now that Corbyn’s innovation was to read out half a dozen questions emailed in from supporters. He wanted to be our “voice” in Parliament. Some people say they liked it. But there was wincing in the PLP every time he deployed a Christian name.
He sounded like an intermediary, not a leader. Like a quiz master. A host.
And surely he won’t be able to do it again, and again?
Go on, I dare you.