Cries of Banzai! rang around Westminster last night and sales of ‘rising sun’ headbands reached record levels in the gift shops of Whitehall as Labour MPs prepare for an honourable, if futile, death by kamikaze on June 8.
‘Well, we’ve given up any hope of getting rid of Jeremy,’ said one back bencher as he enjoyed his ceremonial final cup of sake, ‘so I’m going to watch Tora! Tora! Tora! a couple of times, strap on the sacred senninbari belt of a thousand stitches given to me by my mother and crash my metaphorical Zero fighter onto any Tory aircraft carrier that happens to hove into view.
‘Won’t make a jot of difference to the election result of course but, heigh ho, such is life under the rule of His Serene Highness the Cherry Blossom Emperor. Or ‘Jeremy’, as we call him. To his face, at least.’
Members of the more radically feminist branches of the parliamentary Labour party are planning to eschew such laddish forms of self-immolation, preferring to pointlessly drown themselves like Virginia Woolf or, possibly, put their heads in a gas oven as an hommage to Sylvia Plath.
We pointed out to some MPs that they might have avoided sacrificing themselves in vain had they not proposed Mr Corbyn as a candidate for the leadership in the first place, but that just made matters worse. One of them committed seppuku right there in the tea room. With a butter knife. It took ages.