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Stuck up shit street

Submitted by on April 11, 2013 – 10:42 pmNo Comment


When I was growing up in the 1980s, I always thought when Thatcher died I would end up on a 12-day bender with my dad or my mates or both and we would be dancing and drinking like there really was no tomorrow, as the north partied like it was pre-1979.

Then it happened and I was laid in bed with a bad case of gastric flu and my only thought, as I got the first joyful text, was whether I could make the toilet in time.

Typical of the woman who had no compassion for anyone, she died on a Monday when everyone was knackered from the weekend and she died when I was walking that tight-rope between farting and shitting myself. Even her death fucked people over.

I couldn’t even toast her passing with a pint, such was my condition. I had plenty of time to think as my stomach griped and I lost 6lbs running from bedroom to toilet, while unable to eat anything, not, I must add, out of solidarity for the hunger strikers she let rot, and I came to the conclusion that she isn’t really dead.

Her body may now be embalmed or whatever they do with posh dead people, (I am quite sure it is not like when you have to go round to look at an old aunty’s strewn corpse as they arrange her hands so she is holding rosary beads and lying on a makeshift extended dinner table upstairs, before she goes to be prepared for the funeral), but I wouldn’t be surprised if SHE is still chatting away to her imaginary Dennis.

SHE lives on in everything her successors are doing in the same spirit she promoted so joyously, as they crush poor people and punish further those for whom life is already punishment enough. Her hatred and her vile nature lives on. The country is in a far greater mess than it has been for some time and as countless people have written this week, her legacy is the shit we are in right now, and that is not a metaphor for my recent illness.

I’d love to write more about it. I really would. I always thought I would recall really imaginatively how I had been in serious trouble at primary school for telling the class that my dad was disappointed she survived the Brighton bomb and how people often retorted to my criticism of her by saying ‘you weren’t even born’, when actually I was celebrating my first birthday when she won her first election. I thought I would write those things really cleverly instead of just, well, writing them.

But I am struggling to write anything. It is not as bad as an ‘anti-climax’ and joy may yet to be had in how people mark the occasion in the coming days, but it doesn’t feel how I imagined it would.

I have started eating properly again after my illness, but it has taken nearly five days. For some people the pains SHE inflicted will never cease and there is no going back to normal for them. Her death will not cure the ills she created and millions of us seem destined to be forever swimming against the tide. Until we find a way to counter that, we are stuck in that perpetual fart or shit moment. Maybe once her wrongs are righted, and only then, will the bender begin. Here’s hoping.

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