Tag Archives: current affairs

Margaret Thatcher and Death Parties.

Originally published on The Daily Touch

On the 8th April the Twitter hash tag #nowthatcherisdead started trending, sending a jolt of panic through Cher fans worldwide. Thankfully those who did not suffer heart attacks were on hand to inform everyone that it was in fact Margaret Thatcher who had died.

The whole thing initially resembled the death of Michael Jackson. From the moment news broke the Twitter-sphere predictably exploded in a torrent of jokes, vitriolic remarks, and hash tags. Everyone spewing out their own addition to the list of puns so they could say “I thought of this first”, “Thatcher? More like Twatcher #awesome #impopularonline”.

Even in death Margaret Thatcher has managed to dramatically split opinion. Her life and political career has been both commended and criticised. Many of those on the critical side have however taken things to rather questionable levels.

Over the last few days many cities across the country have experienced people taking to the streets to celebrate the demise of the Iron Lady in so-called “death parties”. Participants chant along to the 1939 Judy Garland classic “Ding-dong the Witch is Dead” (causing utter confusion for those off to the cinema to catch Oz: The Great and Powerful) swigging from bottles of Prosecco or Adsa’s own Cava, depending on how they fared in the BBC’s Class Indication Quiz.a-reveller-holds-a-sign-to-celebrate-the-death-of-britains-former-prime-minister-margaret-thatcher-at-a-party-in-brixton-south-london-april-8-2013

If your local high street is not hosting a fun-filled Thatcher funeral extravaganza, fear not. Odes to Thatcher’s demise are everywhere. Yesterday as I walked past the local suspicious hippy shop I discovered that their window display, usually containing a shrine to the Russian feminist band “Pussy Riot”, had finally been replaced. The new exhibit included a poster exclaiming “Thatcher is Finally Dead!” adorned by a few empty bottles of champagne. I couldn’t help but wonder if they were against the death penalty. Surely if they were, celebrating someone’s death as if it symbolised their “just deserts” is somewhat contradictory.

Many people hold legitimate grievances with Thatcher’s policies. I’ve seen Billy Elliot and things didn’t seem great back then. Yet glorifying her death seems a rather childish form of criticism. While Thatcher’s death has brought her policies back into question in a big way simply coming to the conclusion that she was a “bitch” and a “whore” does not provide the nation with much to build on.

Maybe she was a bit of a bitch. She has been called it by countless people. Those in her own party, those in opposition, and citizens all across the country. These insults provide nothing new to the opinion there is of Margaret Thatcher. They do however provide something new to the opinion of those criticising her. Anyone who reacts to someone’s death by organising a street party so they can bellow slurs about the deceased to the Wizard of Oz soundtrack is not someone I want to know.

Assuming that everything is going to be a-okay now she is dead is short-sighted. Her policies and their effects will not be wiped away just because she is gone. People’s legacies can last longer than their lifespan. So it is probably best to re-cork that wine, pack up the party-poppers, and approach politics from a different angle.

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¡Viva la Revolución!

Originally posted on The Daily Touch

As my third year of Politics at university began I started to feel as if I had not been as involved with the student political scene as I should have. As a 50 year old man who looks back on his life thinking “What do I have to show for my time on this earth?” decides to visit his nearest Porsche dealership, I decided to join a student protest.

The particular one I joined was around late November last year, rallying against further cuts across the country. It had been semi-hijacked by people calling for a stop to violence in the Gaza Strip, but telling them to go find their own angry mob seemed rude.

What first struck me about protesting was the intense anger generated by some. The Socialist Party in particular seemed to have drawn up an intriguing list of demands. Topping which appeared to be a call to “cut off the fucking Tories’ heads”. Whilst I have studied politics I am in no way an expert on the construction of political manifestos, but to me this seems unrealistic, problematic and messy.

Those calling for the removal of body parts were in a minority however. The majority had come to show their objection to increased tuition fees and further austerity cuts.

I was not disappointed once the rally started. Being part of a protest is a fantastic thing. You are one amongst a sea of thousands, with no-one particularly knowing where anyone is heading. It is the best way to understand the term “people power”. You are a people, and you feel powerful. Roads must be shut down to allow you to walk along them; you didn’t even need wheels, let alone a tax disc or number-plate. It took all I had to prevent myself from yelling “Fuck the police, no justice no peace!”

That said, the whole thing must have had the strength of papier-mâché, as once it began to rain people fell apart from the procession in damp clumps. We had already passed the Houses of Parliament and drifted into more suburban areas. Our performance had become something of a more private exhibition as there did not seem to be more than a few passers-by to demonstrate for. Those committed to the cause stayed with the parade through the oncoming storm, and those of a more fickle nature began to desert as we passed the odd café or pub.

We were among the first to go AWOL, diverging from the protest route after maybe the third drop of rain. Our shame must have inclined us to find a place far away from everyone, as by the time we finally entered a café we were sodden. Thankfully we were not the only cowards; within a few minutes around ten other students from the protest joined to share our guilt.

We crowded around one small table over mugs of coffee discussing how everything had been ruined by the weather, it all felt incredibly British. No one had much hope of change being brought about on account of our actions. It was more a rite of passage. To go through student life without complaining about the state of our own country and being a public nuisance while you do it was unacceptable.

I do not foresee ever joining a protest again, simply because I do not yet have a cause to rally under, but I would recommend every student tries it. Standing up against the government somewhere other than the seat at your computer or the family dinner table is an excellent feeling, weather permitting of course.

How Exactly Does One Pope?

Everyone knows what a Pope looks like: that killer smile, those beautiful Daz-white robes and that strange little hat. However, not everyone understands what exactly the point of him is. As the burning bush enlightened Moses, let me try and enlighten you as to what a Pope does.

He re-hydrates baby’s foreheads.

Just in time, this one was drying up.

Everyone knows that babies have notoriously dry foreheads. Their incessant crying results in the need for regular moisturising. Without this each successive tantrum will cause them to increasingly resemble a raisin. Unfortunately parents’ hectic schedules often just do not give them enough time in the day. Thankfully a combination of devout piety and copious amounts of holy-water means the pope is essentially a walking tub of Nivea cream.

He dresses to kill.

As the Pope is the figurehead of religious community numbering approximately 1.2 billion members he must be dressed appropriately. His dress sense typically resembles an advertisement for Persil washing-powder, not a single grass stain is to be seen on that beautiful robe and even his hair is as pure as the driven snow. This is all offset magnificently by an abundance of gold. Catholics do love their gold. In fact word has it both the Pope and Kanye West shop at the same jewellers.

He works crowds.

Pope Francis I held his first gig at St Peter’s square to a crowd of approximately 200,000 people. This guy has so much stage presence he can hold his gigs in Latin. Who the hell speaks Latin these days? People don’t care about understanding what it is he says, all they want is to catch a glimpse of his holiness. Move over Justin Bieber.

The new Papal range by D&G (Davidé and Goliáth).

He is pretty fly.

Not only has he got one sweet ride which allows him to gaze out upon his adoring fans, but he also has a personal workforce to cater to his every need. These include a team of nuns who cook and clean, a valet, two secretaries and a team of speechwriters. That is one lavish lifestyle.

He washes feet.

While he may have a small army to cook and clean for him, the Pope is not one to shy away from humility. Word came to Pope Francis I that some prisoners were suffering from dirty feet. With the speed of a biblical flood Pope Francis I snatched up his holy water and swept to their rescue. And before you all cry in disbelief: “surely tradition dictates that only lay-people may have their feet washed by the Pope, and even this may only take place within specific Basilicas inside Rome?!” Yes it does, but tradition is no excuse for below standard podiatry hygiene with this Pope. Good on him I say.

What is wrong with horse meat?

People have been in uproar about their delicious microwave lasagne meals ever since it was discovered they had been tainted with this evil. It was as if Lindus had promised them a feast of caviar, quail eggs, and honey, only for the poor individual to peel back the thin protective film and reveal a great big steaming turd. Is it really that bad? I mean, it even has its own Wikipedia page (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Horse_meat for all those interested). Plenty of countries across the world consume horse. It doesn’t even look all that different and, judging from the shock reactions of the public, it doesn’t taste that different either.

Should we even really be surprised there is horsemeat in food? When you have paid 12p for a burger you can hardly expected the cow to have been lovingly guided through a luxury spa, fed Greek yoghurt and massaged by a harem of young beautiful men until it dies from having enjoying life too much. When I pay such prices for food, I am simply glad it contains meat. I eat the food shouting loudly at myself in order to distract from thoughts of pink playdough shooting along conveyor-belts in a drab grey factory, manhandled by workers wearing plastic rain-macs bashing the substance until it takes the shape of a hockey puck.

The problem is not that we have sat down to Sunday dinner and eaten a nice plate of Sea Biscuit’s thigh with a side of chips. It is that we have been told that Sea Biscuit was in fact Daisy the Cow or Dolly the Sheep. Granted the blame for this could be traced back and back until the baton is being passed around in a circle like some kind of primary school playground game. The problem is that the supermarkets have advertised food as one thing, yet have delivered another. It raises questions about whether you can really trust the packaging. Who knows, maybe those crisps you ate were made from the back end of a dog. Thinking about it, Nesquik balls did look suspiciously like rabbit droppings, and that bunny did seem smug.

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Don’t they look fabulous, and tasty?