Those who do not suffer political bullshit lightly had best unplug the radio and television for the next few weeks, for the news and current affairs programmes will most likely be unbearable.
Any self-respecting obituary writer looks at the dark as well as light in their subjects, yet with individuals such as the newly-late Margaret Thatcher, aka the Wicked Witch of Grantham, there is a rush to beatify before the blood has chilled, with critics cast as traitors. How dare one speak ill of the woman who won the Cold War, defeated the IRA and gave the Argies a jolly good thrashing.
Frankie Boyle’s overthetopness notwithstanding, criticism of Thatcher is about what this arch-managerialist and state über-centraliser did as a politician. The social carnage inflicted by Thatcher and her band of year zero ideologues during the 1980s was incalculable, with the lives of millions of Britons blighted. If there were an equivalent of war crimes for political and economic malfeasance, Margaret Thatcher would surely have ended her days in a Hague prison cell for creating the kleptocracy that is the United Kingdom today.
Such malcontentery is not about the person of Margaret Hilda Thatcher, née Roberts, daughter of well-to-do Lincolnshire grocer Alfred and his demure Methodist wife Beatrice. I never knew that Thatcher, and am entirely indifferent to her passing.
As for Thatcher’s funeral arrangements, they should be put out to competitive tender.