When I originally sat down to write this ‘little’ piece about the death of Margaret Thatcher I imaged it wouldn’t take very long but I knew that it was something I should do, and to be honest it wasn’t something that I thought I had a great deal to write about. I was just going to chuck a few words down on the page, move them about a bit, make sure it was suitably relevant and put it out there on the blog for the world to see. I ended up writing five thousand words.
That came as a bit of a surprise.
When I set about editing those words down into something more manageable, more interesting and something approaching a blog post more publishable I accidentally added a further three thousand words.
This was an even greater surprise.
It seems that the words I wanted to say and the sentiments I wanted to get across have been ambushed by my desire to tell a story. My story. It now seems that in my lack of haste my entire story has been ambushed and pre-empted by the desires of the world and his dog to share their experiences and thoughts. But regardless of that I still have a story to tell.
Several days after her death the popular press continues to pump them out, all those articles that have been sat there for years just waiting for this moment; all those independent journalists that had written their ‘piece’ on Thatcher months and years ago are all making their quick buck, their hours of scouring Wikipedia have paid off, and they’ll get their 30 silver coins and then get back to their insights and highlights of Nelson Mandela.
But my story isn’t like that, I haven’t had to scour the internet for juicy nuggets to bring up, I was born in 75, in a proud mining community, and I’m not trying to make a quick buck from her death, from either side
To be honest I haven’t read them all, I don’t have the internet, time or interest to do that, so if my story is one that has been relayed to you already, if my words seem familiar, then I can only apologise. The story I can tell is only my own, and at the end of the day I am only one of many millions who have the same story.
Maybe you are bored with reading about this, no problem, come back later, read it in a year’s time.
Due to the ridiculously large amount of words that have written, and the incredible difficulties I have had editing them down I am going to tell this particular story in four parts, four heavily edited, carefully constructed parts. I can’t for the life of me edit it down to any less, and if I am the only person that reads them, I don’t care.
I do realise that you must be completely sick to death of the abundance of articles on her, and the plethora of platitudes that have been written about her tenure as Prime Minister, and I understand. But regardless of that I have a story to tell, and one that I have had to remove from my brain for fear of it exploding, and this is a story a long time in the making, something I have been writing (if not actually writing it) for a long time, and it is fucking fascinating.
It begins with a small boy sat watching television, a small boy who is crying his eyes out.