My team will make the tough choices that Jeremy Corbyn can’t because he’s too busy having tea and chocolate digestives with Hamas or giving Gerry Adams a reach around.
Many of these tough choices have already been made. You need only look at the number of young people who can no longer afford a university education, a roof over their heads and in many cases, food. These people may be living with scurvy, but at least they’re living with scurvy within the country’s means. Job done.
Next, my team will make tough choices around state-pampered oldies. These coal-hoarding, NHS-draining coffin-dodgers could well afford a load of stuff we don’t currently means test. Oldies see their pension as payback for a lifetime of National Insurance contributions. Which just goes to show how demented some of these people are.
The fact is that the oldies have had it far too good for far too long. It’s high time they were chipping in a contribution to the banking industry’s recovery fund. I mean, is it fair on the youth of today to shoulder that burden alone?
How would you feel if you were a malnourished twenty something? Sleeping rough under a railway bridge with your rolled up Masters in Information Technology for a pillow, your ribcage clearly delineated through your Coldplay T-shirt. Would you like to open your eyes each morning to see yet more proof that oldies are squandering their ill-gotten gains (What you call a pension)? To watch Mods and Rockers type gangs on motorised zimmers with coo-horn handlebars and metallic finish mobility scooters with go-faster stripes whizz by on their way to book another Caribbean cruise? I don’t think so.
That’s why My Team promise to give the money saved by reducing the standard of living of these elderly wasters to the already-affluent — the just about managing to run a second home in the Cotswolds and a holiday gite in Normandy. That way we bring equality, with old and young alike equally impoverished.
Cynics ask in what way society improves having your grandparents and your grandchildren treated for scurvy. To these people I say, without a thriving, thrusting, throbbing and pulsating hard-on of an economy, treating the needy simply isn’t possible.
So, to take the brakes off the gloriously priapic economy of post-Brexit Britain, my team will pass a dementia law allowing faceless bureaucrats to snatch your home should you lose the plot.
At the point when your doctor calls to say you that you might want to make your way to your great aunt Maud’s bedside on something real fast — jet skis or a Kawasaki Ninja would do nicely — you’ll be required by law to wedge the back and front doors of her property wide to the wall. This will allow undertakers to schlep Maud’s carcass out one door while the bailiffs, accompanied by Cash In the Attic and Antiques Roadshow types to simultaneously stampede in the other.
Whether you are young or old, street savvy or not all there, my team’s strong and stable disregard for your democratic rights will never falter.