‘Go on Super-sheg!’ Mickey was shoutin’. ‘Tek us beck to the eighties! Away with the Waterfront! Put the Farnance Centre beck in its kit! Send all them ruddy ‘orrible developments beck to the quarries from where they came!’
Well thet was one way of fixin’ it, we’d desarded. Only yes, our Henry hed better quicken ‘is pace a little, ‘cos from where we were set there weren’t much bah the way of backwards motion. Worse, Guernsey hed just been voted Britain’s best arland bah the Telegraph, with Jersey gettin’ ‘nil points’ as they say on the Eurovision.
‘Well they will keep buggerin’ the place up,’ ah’d said, shakin’ mah head. ‘At least Guernsey retains some of its character, even if thet character is Guernsey.’
Which is true, eh? Sail into our sister arland and you farnd yerself admirin’ the view; sail into Jersey and you fahnd yerself starin’ at something aht of a better-lit version of Bladerunner. And it keeps gettin’ worse.
Ah mean, tek thet current row over on the Costa del Brelade. You got a surf shop and a lovely beach-tarp place what sells Fish ‘n’ Beads (watch yer teeth) bein’ kicked aht to mek way fer more luxury houses and some fancy restaurant (as if we need any more of them). It’s lark playin’ a game of Monopoly where some sod’s nicked all the big red hotels and keeps slammin’ ’em dahn on the board wherever they lark. Goodbah local charm, hello whoppin’ great expensive homes what none of us locals cen afford. It’s a ruddy carve-up is what it is. Run, Henry, run!
‘At least we won the Murrati, eh?’ says Mickey, who gets all ‘is news from Facebook and the local branch of Braht-bart news these days. ‘So thet’s somethin’.’
Well ah didn’t hev the heart to tell ‘im thet the Guerns hed spenked us there as well.
Instead ah just turned beck to the screen and watched Mr Cavill puffin’ and pantin’ in his shorts, with not a phone box in sart. Ruddy hell, eh?
