Imagine the shame of bein’ kicked aht of the gaff bah a group of furious eight-year-olds. Still, he weren’t the only one to feel the wrath of the young recently; old Terry May were another one left with Corbyn cake on ‘er face after a surge in the youth put an end to ‘er majority government.
‘See! They can mek a difference at the ballot box if they’re bothered,’ ah told a worried lookin’ Mickey as he consoled ‘imself with a parnt. ‘Neglect the young at yer peril.’
‘At least mah nose was red,’ he muttered glumly.
‘Yer nose is always red Mickey,’ ah told ‘im. ‘Unlike Piers over there.’
Poor old Piers. We’d hed a lock-in at the pub on Election Nart, with Piers paintin’ ‘is whole grid blue in support of ‘is beloved Conservatives. We’d heard ‘im sobbin’ in the toilets at a little after midnart, and he ain’t smarled since. Lark a few others he’s worried thet ‘Corbyn’s red rot’ mart spread to Jersey and start persuadin’ our own youngsters to get off their arse to vote Communist in our own elections next yer.
‘They’re too easily influenced bah thet Facetube,’ he wails nah. ‘They’ll ruin the place. Always bangin’ on abaht our inefficient government or not bein’ able to afford a house or go to university ‘n all thet. They don’t realarse thet the most important thing is a strong and stable Farn-nance industry…they’ll break us, Hedley. The young’ll come aht ‘n’ break us.’
Not thet ah reckon Piers hes got much to worry abaht, especially nah there’s talk of introducin’ early mornin’ voting only, forcin’ the electorate to hand in their smartphones at the door and mekkin’ all mention of Sam Mézec in schools a prosecutable offence.
‘Raise the votin’ age to fifty-farve!’ yells Piers, warpin what’s left of ‘is facepaint away with the beck of ‘is hend. ‘Force ’em to mark their crosses in fountain pen only! Sods.’
‘Fear the Walking Young,’ ah whispered to Mickey, at which he leaps off his stool, pegs it aht the door and sets off runnin’ across a field of spuds. Now THET’s naughty, eh?
