Margaret Thatcher was many things; a trailblazer, a politician, an especially committed wearer of cobalt blue, a dedicated user of litres of super strength hairspray and a woman. At risk of adding to the millions of missives that have circulated during the past two weeks, missives that have swung from the pedantic adoration of Daily Mail to the spewed vitriol of the Socialist Worker, here is mine. I get it, I understand, she was a divisive as Vegemite, you either loved her or you hated her, but she was ousted from power over 20 years ago so is it not time to just get over it?
In the years since Margaret Thatcher last Ruled Britannia, our world has changed.
We have Internet, mobile phones, Simon Cowell and a Russian space station. Since Maggie ruled the roost, the UK became part of the EU and adopted Poland as its poor relation, much to the chagrin of her forgotten adopted son in the sun Australia. Twenty years ago we had to rely on the keen eyesight of the referee to decide if John McEnroe was indeed out or in at Wimbledon while in today’s modern society we have Hawkeye to tell us that Federer just missed the chalky white line. In fact, that one Black Woman, let alone two, let alone sisters, let alone black sisters wearing neon yellow spandex micro skirts, are permitted to hit the green ball across our the hallowed grass court, rather than scoop it up from the sidelines, is proof positive that our world is not the same one that Maggie bequeathed in 1990.
So why the hatred? Why the burning effigies? Why bother?
I am convinced it was because she was a woman.
Last week, in a watershed moment for the BBC, Britain’s national broadcaster refused to play the number two song on the weekly top 100. They refused because that song, a tune of barely 60 seconds that was written in 1939, was Ding Dong the Witch is Dead. The polite, god fearing, Queen loving and pedestrian-crossing-obeying people of Britain got themselves organised enough to purchase enough copies of the song to depose the latest of Simon Cowell’s protégés from the silver medal position. Ironically, it was only possible today because we can download music quickly and easily rather than go to a shop and purchase the record, just as you would have when the witch reigned supreme.
I was in London last week and stayed in a hotel that looks onto the Strand (that is a red one on Monopoly for those of you that, like me, measure out your London existence on a game board). The police, as in the blokes from Scotland Yard, and not the tantric tuned Sting, were positioned along the streets, every 10 metres, placed strategically to prevent anyone from getting up to too much mischief. I approached one; I noticed that he, like all of his colleagues, was wearing his Bobby hat rather than the comfortable cotton hat they usually wear. I asked him if he was wearing his fancy hat because he was going to be on telly, his answer “Love, I just do what I am told”.
That is what was so strange about the POMs reaction to Maggie’s death; they weren’t doing what they were told. They were out in the streets, shouting and burning and screaming and throwing. They were disobeying. The only western nation that creates actual rules with the actual intention of following them, ran out into the streets and shouted in dissident accord at the demise of the dentally distended grocer’s daughter from Grantham who once waved a manicured hand and ended their way of life.
I was alive and remember her as the Prime minister of England who rocked up to Diana’s wedding wearing a slightly less frightful hat than Princess Anne. I don’t remember the strikes; I don’t remember the hatred, my father, who arrived in Australia only ten years before she claimed power, appeared ambivalent. He had adopted the land of the poor cousin to the south and never looked back.
Like him, I prefer to look forward.
If I stopped for longer than ten minutes to reflect on the way that our world is descending into chaos and individualistic obsession, I’d lose the will to live.
In one week we watched in horror, as Boston became a real life C-rated Tom Cruise movie complete with tweets from the police chief. We’ve watch in stifled amusement as Texas was blown up by actual bullshit, not just the abstract kind that Bush used to blow up the rest of the world. We watched in disbelief as the United States Senate refused a bill to restrict gun ownership. I thought that the demise of Charlton Heston might have warranted a mite more nastiness than that of Maggie, but then, she never parted the Red Sea, she just prevented the Reds from owning the North Sea. One is a biblical myth, one is real; spot the difference.
And then there was no more news. The Boston Bombers were shot half to death, the Texan bullshit factory stopped burning and the Iron Lady was laid to rest. And that is when the real news broke…
The Wobble Board Waving Wattyl paintbrush Wielding Wandering Walkabout-er Rolf Harris was accused. The second most powerful man on earth, Rupert Murdoch*, accused him via one of his journalistic cowpats, but Rolf has been accused all the same.
Like all of us, I’m not sure what it means, if it is true, if it is not; but we all know that when your full name is used in the same sentence as ‘child sex-offender’ it does not end with a Knighthood.
Maggie may not have been your cup of tea, but she ruled at a time when politicians had to stand up and speak. They had to argue and convince. They didn’t hide behind social media gossip, lobbying gun associations and phone-hacked journalism.
She did something. She did something while wearing her skirt instead of lifting it.
*Cowell is obviously numero uno
That was beautifully written. Articulate, entertaining and insightful. A lovely diversion over my morning coffee. Thank you!
Posted by: Carolyn | 04/23/2013 at 09:28 PM