Personally I am not going to celebrate the death of Margaret Thatcher. I see no reason to rejoice just because my political enemies are dead. But nor do I see why the fact of being dead should suddenly confer some kind of retrospective grandeur on a Tory politician who I once fled the country to get away from.
And when I hear the likes of Suralan Sugar, Geri Halliwell and Louise Mensch and a succession of other political gargoyles demanding that the nation genuflects before her memory, when I hear Nick Robinson whittering on about ‘belief’ being the word that best defines Thatcher, or Lord Snooty praising her ‘lion-hearted love for Britain’, I can’t help feeling that it’s Princess Diana-time all over again, and I’m tempted to get back on a plane and get the hell out of here – at least till it’s all over.
Call me a leftwing pygmy, but I didn’t feel a great deal of warmth towards Thatcher when she was alive. It’s true that she had the courage of her convictions, which is more than you can say about a lot politicians. But that doesn’t mean her convictions were admirable.
I remember her dictator friends, her support for apartheid, her close alliance with the death squad sponsoring Reagan administration, the privatisations and deregulation, mass unemployment, riots and burning neighbourhoods, the heartless devastation of working class communities across the country that accompanied de-industrialisation, the transformation of the police into a paramilitary strike-breaking force.
I remember taking a vanload of food and clothing to a Nottingham pit village during the miners strike, driving through backroads to avoid the cordons of police who had effectively occupied the coalfields. I remember the miners’ women telling us how the police had rampaged through the village not long before, breaking into people’s houses in search of flying pickets and randomly kicking peoples’ heads in.
I remember weekends at Fortress Wapping, and one night in particular when mounted police waded into a peaceful crowd in a field that was listening to Tony Benn outside the Wapping plant with no provocation whatsoever, followed by a full-on baton charge. And all this so that her pal Rupert Murdoch could keep the unions out of his newspapers.
This was how Britain was ‘saved’ and made ‘great’ again. Many of the tributes to Thatcher have focused on her courage in ‘standing up’ to the trade union ‘barons’ – as though she were out there in the streets bravely fending off the bullyboy miners and printers, when what she actually did was unleash the full might of the British state against them in order to pave the way for a new kind of society that we still living with.
It was a society that for me, was symbolised by the Sun‘s ‘Gotcha’ headline that greeted the sinking of the Belgrano; by members of the Young Conservatives who I watched on tele at a Christmas ball during the miners’ strike drunkenly singing a made-up carol about miners going hungry that winter and laughing about it; by the British football fans smashing up cities across Europe and waving Union Jacks while they did; a society riven by violence, racism, chauvinism, xenophobia and greed.
Thatcher was only one – admittedly powerful – individual in a social and political transformation whose consequences we are still living with. So one level the fact that she is dead is neither here nor there.
But that doesn’t mean that I have to come all over all gooey-eyed about her. During the filming of Bette Davis’ last film The Whales of August, the exasperated director Lindsay Anderson reportedly became so tired of his star’s bitter tirades against her late rival Joan Crawford that he asked her to stop and show some respect for because she was dead.
Davis would have none of it and memorably replied ‘Just because a person’s dead, doesn’t mean they’ve changed.’
My thoughts exactly.