Time is running out, comrades, and when I say ‘comrades’, I mean the few who have not turned on me or are queuing up for my position as supreme leader of the Labour Party. The People’s Republic of Soviet Britain is currently under attack from within, and I have maybe even lost most of the apparatchiks and commissars to the rebellion from Commissar Streeting and that disgraced ginger-haired monster Commissar Rayner. What can I say, comrades? My lies have finally caught up with me, and the Dark Lord Mandelson has shat in my cabbage soup.
I do not have much time left to reverse Brexit as my EU masters have told me to do.
I am running out of time to implement full communism from socialism; however, I believe the Labour radical Marxist who takes over from me will finish the job in earnest, so at least that will be something achieved by the corrupt, sleaze-ridden, incompetent Labour Party.
Once again, here I am in my bunker. I have provisions and plenty of Gorky, Sholokhov, Mayakovsky and Ostrovsky to get through these seconds, these minutes, these hours.
Last night I had a terrible nightmare. I dreamt of this awful brute bearing down on me; he had a grey suit with a red tie on and a duck hairstyle. His orange skin seemed to creep around and sweat bullets. He kept pointing at me with his big fat finger and kept repeating the word “coward” to me. Ooh, it was awful. Yes, I wet my bunk bed.
If you don’t hear from me soon, the Labour Bolsheviks have got to me.
Byeeeee!
