Living room debating with a young Corbynista
As families prepare to go to the polls, the homes of Britain are filled with lively yet respectful debate between the generations. Well, that’s the ideal. Just imagine what would happen, to take a random example, if you had a household where a Daily Telegraph columnist was living with a militant, impassioned young Corbynista. And both
were watching the Question Time Leaders’ Debate.
Mother: I refuse to believe that someone who came out of my own womb could possibly think that Jeremy Corbyn could be prime minister.
Son: When you were my age, you’d have voted for Corbyn. Mother: I would NOT!
Son: Yes, you would. You were far-left then, and now you’re far-right.
Mother: Excuse me, young man, I am not far-right. I am in the centre. I voted for Tony Blair. It’s Corbyn who’s extreme.
Son: We need change. Corbyn promises change. Young people can see that. The system’s broken, obviously.
Mother: CHANGE? He’s unpatriotic, he takes the side of terrorist groups against the British state. He’s an International Socialist, he’d bankrupt our country, he’d have been perfectly happy living in East Germany during the Cold War. The man’s a bloody menace.
Son: And you prefer Theresa May? Really? She’s useless. “Strong and stable, strong and stable.” She can’t say a single original thing.
Mother: That’s not fair. Son: No, it’s not fair. We’re the fifth richest country in the world and people are going to food banks. FOOD BANKS, for God’s sake! There’s homelessness everywhere you look. We shouldn’t have homeless people in a civilised country. Mother: It’s us who won’t have a home if Jeremy Corbyn’s in Number 10. Do you know how much he’d despise a privileged, middle-class kid like you? Son: Don’t care. What people of your generation are terrified of is that things can’t stay as they are.
[Enter Daddy, stage left, bearing the peace and reconciliation tray of tea and biccies] Daddy: Now, now, no fighting, you two.
Son: Mum’s like such a hypocrite.
Daddy: Your mother’s not a hypocrite, she’s just… [There now follows a pause of unwise duration]. Mother: She’s just a what? Go on, what am I? Say it. Daddy: You’re lovely, darling. You’re just, you know, a woman of powerful opinions strongly held.
Son: And unable to see any point of view except your own. Mother (getting up): Right, that’s it. I’m not staying to be abused. Son: Mum? Mother: What now, Karl Marx? Son: What’s for dinner?
No family members were harmed in the making of this column item.