I’ve finally realised how to evict my pair of pampered (Corbyn voting) sons. Disable the wi-fi!

FOR many moons now, I’ve been wrestling with the problem of how to get rid of our grown-up sons, two of whom remain in the family nest with no convincing plans to take flight. This week, I struck on a brilliant solution, of which more in a moment.

I should say at once that I love them both dearly. It’s just that we tend to get on each other’s nerves — as perhaps other parents in our predicament will understand. I’m sorry to report that it’s all got worse since the election.

Now, I’ve long seen the wisdom of the old adage, attributed in various forms to just about every sage in history: ‘If you’re not Left-wing in your 20s, you haven’t a heart. If you’re Left-wing in your 40s, you haven’t a head.’ But I have to admit it slightly rankles that among our four sons, we appear to have bred at least two out-and- out Corbynistas — and possibly more.

Whinges

For one thing, I wonder what my late father would have made of the way his grandsons have turned out in their mid- 20s (stop me if I’ve told you this before, but on his death he was described by Margaret Thatcher as: ‘Quite simply, the most distinguished Tory thinker of our time’).

But that’s not my main concern. In fact, I have a sneaking feeling that the old man would have been quietly amused by their politics. He would have certainly understood them, having been something of a Lefty in his own youth — though he saw the Tory light long before he reached their age.

No, what irritates me is being lectured by my sons, night after night, on the evil of my free- market, capitalist views. Worse, they treat me to these sermons as they tuck into the food I’ve paid for by the sweat of my brow, before retiring to their bedrooms in the house I’ve provided for them, free of rent, council tax and utility bills.

Call me mean- spirited, but I take umbrage at the thought of my pampered progeny, breaking the lie-abed habit of their short lifetimes to trot off to the polling station last Thursday, full of Socialist zeal. There, they voted for a party that wants me — the dad who supplies their every need — to pay several thousand pounds a year more in tax (though, of course, Labour doesn’t ask a penny from them).

As for their whinges about tuition fees, I would feel more sympathy if it weren’t for the fact that I paid theirs out of my own income, after tax. My selfless aim was to spare them the burden of excessive student debt — though on that score, I have to admit my efforts appear to have been in vain.

Back in the Seventies, my fees were paid through the taxes of coal miners, nurses and bricklayers (to whom I owe my eternal gratitude) — people who derived far less advantage from my university education than I have enjoyed ever since.

I can’t for the life of me see why the Left should think this a more morally acceptable funding system than asking those who benefit to pay their own way — or parents to stump up for their young if, like me, they can afford it.

But enough of this bitterness. I fully accept that my boys, poor deluded brats that they are, genuinely think full-blooded socialism is the fairest and most effective way of helping the poor, maintaining firstclass public services and generally spreading prosperity to the masses, with free money all round.

Having lived through the Seventies in Britain, and knowing a little about the history of other countries where socialism has been tried, I happen to know that it’s no such thing. On the contrary, it is guaranteed to spread poverty and misery, with the poorest suffering most.

Ah, well, I suppose our boys and I will just have to disagree. But much as I love them, oh, how much fonder their absence would make my heart.

Destitute

Which brings me to my brainwave. The germ of it was planted this week, when I read that to the young of today, access to wi- fi is a more important factor in choosing a holiday than the price of the villa or hotel.

By remarkable coincidence, on the day this survey appeared, the builders carrying out Mrs U’s kitchen-expansion scheme inadvertently cut off the landline — and with it the wi-fi — while they were renewing ancient wiring. So for the best part of two days, we lost access to the internet.

To me, it was a blessed release to have the house free from the usual blizzard of emails from PR girls, supermarkets, garden furniture shops, political parties and fraudsters trying to con me out of my life savings.

Indeed, in my book, half the over-50s questioned in a separate survey this week had it plumb right when they said things were better in the old days, listing ‘life without being connected all the time’ among their top 20 reasons. But our sons took the loss of the internet very differently. Reader, they were destitute. It was as if they were marooned in a nuclear winter, cut off from life support and everything that mattered to them.

They had no music or amusing video clips to download. No social media to tell them what their virtual friends were up to. No access to loony- Left blogs, peddling fake news, confirming their prejudices and directing them to likeminded halfwits in the vast echo-chamber of the web.

The seeds of my brainwave, sown by that survey of the holiday requirements of the young, burst into glorious flower. I realised that our sons could no more survive without the internet than I could get by without my daily fix of innumerable Marlboro Reds.

Was this the solution to my problem? There was no point in charging them rent, since they were in no position to pay. And I hadn’t the heart to starve them. But why not cancel our subscription to our service provider and declare Utley Towers an internet-free zone?

Addiction

I could live without it. Indeed, I did so perfectly happily for the first four decades of my life, before Sir Tim Berners-Lee invented the worldwide web. But the boys definitely couldn’t.

You have only to look around you to understand the scale of the addiction, with everyone under 40 permanently hooked up to an electronic device.

Jeremy Corbyn understood it. Indeed, his blitzkrieg of tweets — infinitely more effective in communicating with the young than banging on doors — must surely account for his astonishing success in persuading 64 per cent of my sons’ agegroup to get out and vote, with 63 per cent of these voting Labour.

Wouldn’t denying our young wi-fi be just the spur they need to get them searching for regular work, no matter how menial, that might set them on the road to a home of their own?

Who knows, a taste of independence and real life might even make them see political sense. Eventually.

But if I were Theresa May, I wouldn’t bank on it. No, if she wants to turn today’s younger generation into Tories by the time they’re 40, she’ll have to get a move on in building homes they can afford.

Meanwhile, I strongly advise the Conservatives to take a leaf out of Labour’s book, stop fighting analogue campaigns in this digital age — and start talking to young voters through the internet, on which their entire lives depend.

Otherwise, I have a hideous fear that the future may belong to Mr Corbyn.