April 10th, 2013

The Wing Commander – A Tribute To Mrs Thatcher


With the wireless airwaves and television sets alike dominated by donkey jacketed, arsonist socialist hooligans braying unspeakable slogans such as “We Hate Her For No Reason!” and “Death To Wonderful Old Women!”, it is time, I feel, for what has been all too lacking from the channels of the British Broadcasting Corporation or any of its commercial competitors – a hymn of praise to the greatest of political leaders, who saved Britain from being reduced to a North Korean-style command economy in which morning worship of the Dear Leader Michael Foot was mandatory and marriage to tractors declared compulsory under new European machine-sex laws.

For make no mistake, Great Britain would have been a dark and dreadful place had this grocer’s daughter from Grantham, Lincolnshire not assumed the helm of state. The younger of you forget the Socialist Hell that was pre-Thatcher Britain – unions threatening to hold the nation to ransom unless their workers were allowed weekends off, our children force-fed milk, the Long Marches when British Railways locomotives failed to function, obliging commuters to trudge from Bromley North to Bromley South, and the Winters Of Discontent that large numbers of overtaxed like myself were forced to spend in The Bahamas to evade the fiscal demands of Mr Denis Healey to fund the public treasury. Thanks entirely to his incompetence, in due course, the treasury found itself short of money and we were forced to go cap in hand to the IMF. This was also, lest we forget, the permissive era of The Sexual Pistols.

Mrs Thatcher soon put a stop to all of this. As a grocer’s daughter, from Grantham, Lincolnshire who grew up in the 1940s and 1950s she had a vision – that every man, woman in the Kingdom be liberated from the shackles of state socialism and, just as she had done, become grocer’s daughters, from Grantham, Lincolnshire who grew up in the 1940s and 1950s. There was no alternative. No slacking, or excuses – and she practised entirely what she preached.

Mrs Thatcher promised to “heal” ailing Britain and this is precisely what she did with the brisk, no-nonsense efficiency of a Florence Nightingale in the Crimean war, by amputating without anaesthetic the useless, rotten limbs of the United Kingdom – Wales, Scotland, Northern Ireland (which served as a “naughty step|” for her cabinet “wets”) and large parts of the North, though clipping carefully around some of the superior shires. As one whose energy were formidable – she would make do with as few as four to five hours a day without drinking – she naturally ensured that the Scotch who worked in the country’s whiskey distilleries were kept in work. As to the remainder of the population, she freed them from state dependence so that they, too, could become grocer’s daughters, from Grantham, Lincolnshire who grew up in the 1940s and 1950s.

Mrs Thatcher believed in the self-regulating market and, of course, part of the automatic regulation of any such functioning entity is that they yield a good deal of waste product – or, to put it in polite “civil servant” speak, the unemployed. In their vanity, the socialist working classes disliked the idea of regarding themselves as steaming piles of extraneous excrement, as Mrs Thatcher recognised them to be. Encounters between herself and the trade unions were, therefore, tense. I personally recall one such meeting, in which she was approached by a Mr Len Murray of the TUC. Here, the great leader showed her common, domestic touch. She briskly doused Mr Murray there and then in warm water and lashings of Vim, then worked him over from head to toe with a scrubbing brush until he was as spick and span as a grocer’s doorstep.

Of course, Mrs Thatcher had to put up with vicious, snide, backstabbing campaigns from her more lily-livered cabinet colleagues and rivals – as well as the persistent rumour that she was, in fact, a woman. This was the cruellest insult to the greatest of statesmen – having known Mrs Thatcher personally, I can vouch that it was altogether false. I met her socially, as well as her charming wife Denis, who evidently experienced a lifelong struggle with alopecia judging by her appearance. Certainly, Mrs Thatcher had a charm that was almost feminine and I am perhaps not alone in having experienced forbidden frissons of homosexualist attraction towards the Prime Minister. However, these I remedied by repeated, flagellating strokes of a knotted piece of rope, hard against the bare back. Having thrashed my manservant Seppings thus, I found that all of my inappropriate energies were dissipated.

Mrs Thatcher’s influence spread even to sport. In 1974 and 1978, it is to be remembered, England did not even qualify for the World Cup. That losing streak changed in 1982, however, when we took on and beat Argentina in the Falklands War. Naturally, there were a few casualties but when it comes to the bracing spectacle and recreation of international conflict, there are always going to be a few fallers at Becher’s Brook. “Just rejoice!”, she said, to the offence of the lesbian whale-huggers, many of whom lurked in her own cabinet. Certainly, it is a disgrace that those who have never been to war and experienced what it truly means should pass comment on it. As one who has, I can only say that until you have personally drowned a terrified young Argentine conscript, whether in a barrel in the mess just for fun or merely at your distant behest at sea, you can have no idea of the relish it engenders.

She had a dislike for bullies, such as the terrorist Nelson Mandela but was prepared to look past a man’s duskiness and alien culture if she could divine in him qualities that made him “one of us”. A Mr Suharto was one example, as was Chile’s Mr Pinochet. She recognised, of course, that these men had their faults – neither of them were grocer’s daughters, from Grantham, Lincolnshire who grew up in the 1940s and 1950s, for example. That apart, she found no blemish in them.

In 1990, she was betrayed – having stepped down, her son, Mark Thatcher was denied his birthright of leadership of the Conservative party, passed over in favour of a pair of glasses called Mr John Major. Her legacy, however, endures. She yearned to lift the working classes out of thraldom to socialism and the trade unions. Now, thanks to her, there are hardly any working classes at all. She fought against the “toffs” in her party who, unlike her, never had to do a hard day’s work. Now the toffs are doing a hard day’s work all right, running the country. She yearned for the ultimate victory of enterprise and the values of the grocer – now that victory has come to pass, towards which all of us pay tribute as we shop at the winners Tescos, exclusively, forever.  There are calls for a minute’s silence in her honour at football stadia this weekend. It is to be hoped that other clubs follow the example set by Manchester Utd at Old Trafford, where a full, 90-minute silence was observed by the home crowd on Monday. It is the least we can do for her, in exchange for her own, eternal silence –  incinerated and never, ever to be heard from again.

Comments are closed.