Where there is discord, may we bring antagonism. Where there is error, may we bring lethal correction. Where there is doubt, may we reinforce it. And where there is despair, may we bring hopelessness. AhDinnaeKen indulges in some self centred and sorrowful navel gazing over the corrosive and dead iron lady’s legacy. May she Rust in Pieces
WHEN I first thought about writing a piece on the death of Lady Thatcher I changed my mind.
Like the majority of normal Scots, English, Welsh and Northern Irish, I hated her with a passion which extended way beyond the normal boundaries of reason. So I didn’t bother. Too much negative energy and too high a degree of revisionism required.
Surprisingly, the one overriding emotion I felt was the unrestrained and untrammeled emotion of sadness.
That’s right SADNESS!
I felt an honest and sincere sense of sadness – part of my identity politics in the 80’s were wrapped up in opposition to just about everything she stood for, both in terms of policy and in terms of presentation – so, in a way, a part of me has died with her passing.
So why the sadness? It’s a blessing to be relieved of such a burden of hatred – hatred being bad for the soul etc.
The answer’s simple really. It’s not so much to do with her political legacy, which is better covered elsewhere, it has more to do with her living legacy – her son, Sir Mark Thatcher.
From around 2005 I began to believe that the natural justice which Sir Mark Thatcher had managed to evade for so long – thanks mostly to his mummy – and truly deserved for the numerous highly questionable arms deals he is alleged to have conducted, had finally caught up with him.
Around that time I began to believe that, like his close friend Simon Mann, he was going to enjoy life from within the confines of an Equatorial Guinean prison cell.
When he fought his desperate case to avoid extradition from South Africa he plea bargained with the South African government and managed to buy himself out of jail.
Despite a second attempt by Equatorial Guinea to extradite him in 2008, to date, Sir Mark Thatcher is still free to enjoy the lifestyle and wealth the connections through his mummy bought him.
And that is the reason for my sincere sadness.
I wanted Baroness Thatcher to live long enough and remain lucid enough to have to visit her son’s rightful place in a prison cell in Equatorial Guinea. Moreover, I wanted Sir Mark to have a cell mate called Bubba who was on intimate unrequited terms with him.
I wanted the Baroness to live long enough and remain lucid long enough to reflect on the natural consequence of her shameful actions and the undeserved privilege she extended to her son.
Alas! It was not to be. Baroness Thatcher is dead and Sir Mark is still free.
The Baroness left this mortal coil far too early – there’s still time for Sir Mark to be sent where he truly belongs.
And that makes me truly sad. The Baroness did not live long enough to see it happen.