Dear Mr Corbyn,
I would like to begin this missive with clarity and honesty, I don't support you, never have done. However yesterday I thought to myself "David, he's doing the media rounds, try and keep an open mind, watch and listen, maybe just maybe you'll find something that you can identify with".
So, I sat down with my morning cup of black coffee and began a day devoted to you. First up 'Good Morning Britain'; I can't stand Piers Morgan, he is for want of a better word a prat, this was your chance to have me rooting for you. Half way through your appearance I glanced accusingly at my cup, had someone slipped acid into my coffee? should I rush to A&E for a blood test? would I soon be reaching for my iTunes to click play on Hendrix's, Axis: Bold as Love?
And then, with a sudden sharp intake of breath, I realised that what I was watching was occurring without any mind-altering substances ingested into my oh so sensitive system.
Next up, Radio 4's 'Today'. I lay back on my nice and comfy IKEA sofa, lit a cigarette, with the honest belief that you just had a shaky start to the day. A couple of minutes in I stubbed out my cigarette; this time I was right, someone was playing a dastardly trick on me, one of my friends had laced my Golden Virginia with whacky backy, that in fact I was listening to a Pete and Dud sketch and by the time I turned on Sky News my head would clear.
Sky News, "Picture yourself in a boat on a river with tangerine trees and marmalade skies, somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly, a girl with kaleidoscope eyes..."
Auntie Beebs one o'clock news would surely bring me back down to earth, clarity in your sea of political policy confusion via a one-man media meltdown. The interview finished, I stood up, walked around as best I could, can it be I asked myself, was I now taking pity on you?
Did you realise in that moment the utter debacle you had created? Was there at least one person in your entourage willing to take you to one side and tell you the truth, or where you surrounded by Momentum supporting 'yes Sirs'? If I'd had your number I would have kindly told you to go home and press another kind of reset button; your wife could have made you a nice hot cup of tea and envelope you into her sympathetic supportive warm embrace.
And so, to the final stage of the day. Peterborough, a friendly audience and a quickly rehashed speech that had been leaked to the media in a vain attempt to at least try and clarify things. I listened carefully to all you had to say but by the end I was googling the number for the Priory clinic. I reckoned with some support from a crowdfunding campaign we could raise enough for your four week stay, I was sure they could come up with a twelve step programme for a politician. Step One: "I am powerless over what I say and my attempt at making political policies has become utterly unmanageable".
I write this twenty-four hours after your advisors finally got their way and convinced you it was a good idea for you to let "Corbyn be Corbyn". Commentators and media outlets on all sides of the political spectrum are shaking their heads in disbelief, your press office crisis management team are unable to keep up and the majority of Labour MP's are calling their travel agents to see if they can get a good deal on a last-minute winter break to the North Pole.
I'm not one to exaggerate, I take no real pleasure in relaying to you my experiences during Tuesday 10th January 2017, but as cock ups go, you set a whole new level when it comes to a politician's failed attempt to reinvent themselves and offer up clarity of policies to the public at large.
Lots of Love