We are living in difficult times, dear public. Mount Effueudhfgdsughski has erupted and invisible swaths of Icelandic dust is filling our skies, shutting down British air travel and giving asthmatics time off work. And, to add to eternal misery that is living in Britain, there’s an election around the corner… Hmm.
This is tricky, as I have just turned 18. Which of course means I’ve been sent my slip and can’t leave my front door without having a man in suit, complete with condescending voice, waving leaflets in my face, telling me why I should let a there toupee toting lord take all my money.
All of this leaves me with a bit of a conundrum, who do I vote? I can’t find any that appeal to me, there’s a Scottish one, a posh one, a someone and the bloke who thinks Hitler was slightly misunderstood, tough choice (excluding the last prat).
There’s no question about it, I have to vote. Because, despite me moaning that Britain is a pool of gloom, it’s actually not that bad. Yes, of course the government takes my money to close roads for decades at a time, and yes, they do like to treat the odd duck with a proportion of my wage (but the moat was a genuine necessity…), and let’s not forget the millions spent on trying to make me eat broccoli, which everyone knows is the worst vegetable on the planet. But, and it’s a big BUT, at least I do have a right to decide which dipstick does all these stupid nonsensical things, it’s a right which our predecessors fought for, and not something we should take lightly.
Suddenly I feel as if I carry a heavy sack of responsibility, up a steep incline, now that I’m all adult and that, bled-tings… There’s the constant niggle that I (although unlikely) may tip the balance of favour, and put someone else in power… T’is certainly deep stuff.