Hundreds of people took to the main square in Brixton, an area of south London which suffered serious rioting in the 1980s, to celebrate the death of former prime minister Margaret Thatcher.
Holding placards saying “Rejoice – Thatcher is dead”, around 200 people gathered in the neighbourhood, a hotspot of alternative culture, and toasted her passing by drinking and dancing to hip-hop and reggae songs blaring from sound systems.
“I’m very, very pleased. She did so much damage to this country,” said one man brandishing an original newspaper billboard from 1990 announcing Thatcher’s resignation. Others scrawled “good riddance” on pavements.
“We’ve got the bunting out at home,” said Clare Truscott, a woman in her 50s wearing a sparkly beret and holding a homemade sign reading “Ding dong, the witch is dead”.
“I’m from the north, where there were no jobs, where the industry was rapidly disappearing, and her policies ensured it went more quickly.”
Brixton was the scene of fierce riots in 1981, two years after Thatcher became prime minister.
Carole Roper said: “We’re here to celebrate her death.”
Sipping from a can of beer, she said, “I don’t think it’s vindictive, it’s not so much about the death of Thatcher but what she has done, the policies she introduced to this country.”
Meanwhile, in the Scottish city of Glasgow over 300 people gathered to hold their own impromptu “party”.
Anti-capitalist campaigners shouted, “Maggie, Maggie, Maggie” while the crowd replied “dead, dead, dead”.
The crowd also broke into a chorus of “So long, the witch is dead” while drinking champagne.
Thatcher, the controversial “Iron Lady” who dominated a generation of British politics and won international acclaim for helping to end the Cold War, died following a stroke on Monday. She was 87.
Bottoms up!! 😀
Same album, same subject:
Get Your Filthy Hands Off My Desert
"Oi…Get your filthy hands off my desert!"
"What 'e say?"
Brezhnev took Afghanistan.
Begin took Beirut.
Galtieri took the Union Jack.
And Maggie, over lunch one day,
Took a cruiser with all hands.
Apparently, to make him give it back.
The Fletcher Memorial Home
Take all your overgrown infants away somewhere
And build them a home, a little place of their own.
The Fletcher Memorial
Home for Incurable Tyrants and Kings.
And they can appear to themselves every day
On closed circuit T.V.
To make sure they're still real.
It's the only connection they feel.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome, Reagan and Haig,
Mr. Begin and friend, Mrs. Thatcher, and Paisly,
"Hello Maggie!"
Mr. Brezhnev and party.
"Who's the bald chap?"
The ghost of McCarthy,
The memories of Nixon.
"Goodbye!"
And now, adding color, a group of anonymous latin-
American Meat packing glitterati.
Did they expect us to treat them with any respect?
They can polish their medals and sharpen their
Smiles, and amuse themselves playing games for awhile.
Boom boom, bang bang, lie down you're dead.
Safe in the permanent gaze of a cold glass eye
With their favorite toys
They'll be good girls and boys
In the Fletcher Memorial Home for colonial
Wasters of life and limb.
Is everyone in?
Are you having a nice time?
Now the final solution can be applied.
Southampton Dock
They disembarked in 45
And no-one spoke and no-one smiled
There were to many spaces in the line.
Gathered at the cenotaph
All agreed with the hand on heart
To sheath the sacrificial Knifes.
But now
She stands upon Southampton dock
With her handkerchief
And her summer frock clings
To her wet body in the rain.
In quiet desperation knuckles
White upon the slippery reins
She bravely waves the boys goodbye again.
And still the dark stain spreads between
His shoulder blades.
A mute reminder of the poppy fields and graves.
And when the fight was over
We spent what they had made.
But in the bottom of our hearts
We felt the final cut.
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