Corbyn and Sultana Rejected: Chaos Erupts at New Leftist Party Launch

Paul Riverbank, 12/1/2025 Your Party launches with a 16-member committee and deep internal strife, promising democracy but delivering discord. Amid infighting and departures, the party’s collective leadership marks a dramatic break from Westminster norms—yet unity and clarity remain elusive in Britain’s evolving left.

Delegates looked hollow-eyed, some still stewing from the endless rounds of heated exchanges (or was it just too much bad coffee?). In the end, hours of back-and-forth led to a surprising twist. Corbyn, stalwart of the old guard, had lobbied for an old-school, top-down leader, in keeping with tradition. But the membership, for better or for chaos, turned their eyes to a “Central Executive Committee,” drawn not from MPs, but from regulars—the kind standing in the queasy light of post-conference travel, badge lanyards drooping.

That move, at least in theory, was a two-fingered salute to Westminster as usual. One party mouthpiece summed it up in plain language: “We’re actually doing politics the opposite way. Bottom to top, not top to bottom. Professional politicians aren’t the solution—they’re the problem. Community over corporation.” Fine words, but inside the venue, the mood was more brittle than jubilant.

Zarah Sultana took the stage—defiant, eyes bright, voice a bit raw. She made it clear: no patience for any Labour copycats, nor for leaders who forget who put them there. “This is real member democracy. It’s precisely what I wanted to see.” She got some claps but more stiff silence, trailing off a little at the end. The earlier Sultana-versus-Corbyn spat was still being chewed over in side corridors. She’d run her own sign-up page, sparking arguments over £800,000 in donations, and just when patched-up, some still whispered about missing money and unsettled debts. That’s politics, or perhaps just people.

Bitterness didn’t end there. There was the episode about who should get a seat at the conference. Membership purges? Blacklists? Sultana herself sat out day one, calling the organizers’ vetting “a witch hunt.” Some bristled, some shrugged—after all, Sultana’s line (“We're building a mass movement! Socialism, not silence!”) still rang in the press pen, her energy impossible to bottle up, regardless of the grumbling.

Underneath, something sharper kept catching people: the resignation of Adnan Hussain and Iqbal Mohamed, the only Muslim MPs in the mix. Both bailed before the conference got properly underway, decrying a “poisoned culture” that left them—especially Muslim men—feeling unwelcome. The accusation stuck in the air, raising eyebrows and hard questions that hovered over coffee breaks.

Outside, Liverpool’s drizzle did nothing to dampen the protests—mostly over Palestine, but also the usual scrum of left-liberals and leaflet throwers. One old-timer (hard cap, nicotine-stained fingers) was handing out pamphlets claiming the party lacked ideological bite, a call for “Leninist fire,” whatever that means now. Meanwhile, another young face—possibly sleepless—just wanted the debates to end and go home.

The cherry on this shambolic sundae? The party needed a name. “Your Party” edged out the rest, not because anyone loved it, but more because the others were even worse. Jokes at the conference bar suggested the real winner would have been, “What Party?”—not that the joke name made the shortlist, much to everyone’s disappointment.

So, after the dust and the drizzle, people spilled out of Liverpool with a strange mix of relief and resignation—no clear triumph, more a sense that getting it over with was, in itself, a minor victory. Will a committee of sixteen ordinary people, armed with good intentions and weary feet, manage to do politics differently? Or just differently disorganised? Too soon to say. On day one, nobody was on the same page—not even the table of contents had been agreed. The hard slog of forging a new left identity in Britain starts now, unity postponed, and the future—well, that’s anyone’s guess.

Nobody wore the crown, but somehow everyone reached for it. That’s about as clear as it gets with Your Party—the fresh-faced left-wing outfit conjured up by Jeremy Corbyn and Zarah Sultana. Instead of a leader, they left Liverpool with a 16-person committee in the driving seat, squeezing out both founders when crunch-time arrived. The vote? A hair's breadth: 51.6 percent. If you were expecting a rousing chorus after two days of squabbles and stomped-out tempers, you’d have heard a clap or two—polite, like applause in a library.Delegates looked hollow-eyed, some still stewing from the endless rounds of heated exchanges (or was it just too much bad coffee?). In the end, hours of back-and-forth led to a surprising twist. Corbyn, stalwart of the old guard, had lobbied for an old-school, top-down leader, in keeping with tradition. But the membership, for better or for chaos, turned their eyes to a “Central Executive Committee,” drawn not from MPs, but from regulars—the kind standing in the queasy light of post-conference travel, badge lanyards drooping.That move, at least in theory, was a two-fingered salute to Westminster as usual. One party mouthpiece summed it up in plain language: “We’re actually doing politics the opposite way. Bottom to top, not top to bottom. Professional politicians aren’t the solution—they’re the problem. Community over corporation.” Fine words, but inside the venue, the mood was more brittle than jubilant.Zarah Sultana took the stage—defiant, eyes bright, voice a bit raw. She made it clear: no patience for any Labour copycats, nor for leaders who forget who put them there. “This is real member democracy. It’s precisely what I wanted to see.” She got some claps but more stiff silence, trailing off a little at the end. The earlier Sultana-versus-Corbyn spat was still being chewed over in side corridors. She’d run her own sign-up page, sparking arguments over £800,000 in donations, and just when patched-up, some still whispered about missing money and unsettled debts. That’s politics, or perhaps just people.Bitterness didn’t end there. There was the episode about who should get a seat at the conference. Membership purges? Blacklists? Sultana herself sat out day one, calling the organizers’ vetting “a witch hunt.” Some bristled, some shrugged—after all, Sultana’s line (“We're building a mass movement! Socialism, not silence!”) still rang in the press pen, her energy impossible to bottle up, regardless of the grumbling.Underneath, something sharper kept catching people: the resignation of Adnan Hussain and Iqbal Mohamed, the only Muslim MPs in the mix. Both bailed before the conference got properly underway, decrying a “poisoned culture” that left them—especially Muslim men—feeling unwelcome. The accusation stuck in the air, raising eyebrows and hard questions that hovered over coffee breaks.Outside, Liverpool’s drizzle did nothing to dampen the protests—mostly over Palestine, but also the usual scrum of left-liberals and leaflet throwers. One old-timer (hard cap, nicotine-stained fingers) was handing out pamphlets claiming the party lacked ideological bite, a call for “Leninist fire,” whatever that means now. Meanwhile, another young face—possibly sleepless—just wanted the debates to end and go home.The cherry on this shambolic sundae? The party needed a name. “Your Party” edged out the rest, not because anyone loved it, but more because the others were even worse. Jokes at the conference bar suggested the real winner would have been, “What Party?”—not that the joke name made the shortlist, much to everyone’s disappointment.So, after the dust and the drizzle, people spilled out of Liverpool with a strange mix of relief and resignation—no clear triumph, more a sense that getting it over with was, in itself, a minor victory. Will a committee of sixteen ordinary people, armed with good intentions and weary feet, manage to do politics differently? Or just differently disorganised? Too soon to say. On day one, nobody was on the same page—not even the table of contents had been agreed. The hard slog of forging a new left identity in Britain starts now, unity postponed, and the future—well, that’s anyone’s guess.