It wasn’t quite the reaction I expected to my comment; So, Thatcher’s deid at last. The polite response that evening of 8th April 2013 could be summed up by a gently dismissive nod and patronising grimace. It told me what I already knew, that the death of this elderly person in the advanced stages of dementia, 23 years after her undignified retreat from power had lost its edge.
It can’t be over-emphasised how much we’d longed for the end of her reign of relentless terror, entire communities trashed by demolition of industries and infrastructure. The substantial opposition to her run-through of the society, that she refused to believe in, rallied together in a saturation of marches, instant walk-outs, devastating strikes, meetings, riots, graffiti, art, comedy and song, all thrumming to the same beat What Do We Want, Thatcher Out. When do we want it? NOW!!
The music scene, across genres was permeated by anti-Thatcher songs by The Beat, Billy Bragg and others. A skiffle band, local to South Yorkshire, Don Valley and the Rotherhides became hot property at gigs and parties for their song Thatcher’s Dead. When its pace was revved up to a frenzy towards the end, the dancers went wild, but the longing contained in the simple refrain I’m dreaming of the day that Margaret Thatcher’s dead was substantial and painful. Elvis Costello’s contemplative ballad Tramp the Dirt Down bristles with anger and grief, and the same longing for relief.
We laughed at the Spitting Image representation of Margaret and her cabinet of vegetables, and at Harry Enfield’s Loadsamoney spivs and yuppies. The unwelcome tenor to these comedies was their ability to give the Thatcherites a stamp of identity, the stigma of absolute greed and slavish worship of a ruthless leader all but extinguished. In this way, without the help of social media, the UK electorate was polarised by culture as well as economy. Money good, poverty shameful.
There was one common enemy, and we addressed the issue in unison from our different platforms, until the last chapter, (but only the beginning of the next book), the poll tax riot in March 1990. If my account is shot through with a disturbing hint of nostalgia, it could be attributed to this sense of togetherness, devoid of the billionaire-sponsored eroding factor of culture wars and online bots. As Thatcher ground us down, another seam of optimism thrived, with the pushback of racism and bigotry towards LGBTQ+ communities. Woman who did not see Thatcher as in any their role-model pushed away at the glass ceiling. Everything looked possible, in spite of the rot, until the gradual erosion of Trade Union powers.
From the perspective of a strong advocate of Scottish independence, this parallel struggle had been largely ignored by me, a resident in Sheffield, Socialist Republic of South Yorkshire, throughout the later years of Thatcher’s reign. When the independence campaign began in earnest, ordinary people in Scotland found a voice. Those voices in turn were to deviate along different channels, but for most of us, it was still part of a war of attrition against Westminster, a powerful centre, that operated against the needs of the people, albeit a people owning the identity of a nation, without the heavy yolk of nationalism.
Neoliberalism thrived beyond Thatcherism and consolidated itself into the downward spiral of inequality that persists today, heavily punctuated by the 2008 crash. However, it is not uncommon for some on the political left to comment on the benign face of old Toryism represented by Thatcher ‘vegetables’ such as Ken Clarke and Michael Portillo with his trains. To my mind, there is a short-sightedness there, given that these are not reformed characters, but rather fellow architects of the pattern of profitable privatisation that continues to pay dividends in spades. The millionaires become billionaires as the profiteers shape-shift through Blair to Starmer’s Labour and the vile Farage’s Reform UK, via the populism driven by Johnson, who made working class Toryism respectable.
With the world stage currently dominated by creatures of unspeakable evil, following on from decades of eroding rights, it is tempting to speculate on the place that Thatcher would occupy, were she a contemporary member of this club of world leaders. Would her free trade beliefs clash with Trump’s protectionism to the detriment of the Special Relationship? Would she be a Trump whisperer, perhaps, like our mainstream media commentators today, appalled by the vulgarity of his language, but not necessarily his actions?
Is the essence of Thatcher channelled through any of today’s leaders? Some would like to think so, but only the ghost of her vowels, not her power and influence come through. None of these questions can be answered, thankfully. It’s the stuff of nightmares to imagine a world where Thatcher rules alongside Trump, Netanyahu, Putin and others. These are bizarre and ugly characters who have somehow evaded the collective power of 8 billion humans to become rulers. In truth we have never really known peace, apart from a short respite of hostilities during the pandemic. In the end, profiteers still won the day.
At the time of writing, the world and its inhabitants weep for peace and healing. The silent majority, that is. Our hearts are breaking for it, but we seem unable to resist the influence of the most destructive players. There is no option open to us other than optimism and fightback in every and any way that we can. Answers on a postcard please.
