Tramp the dirt down

Tramp the dirt down

Cos when they finally put you in the ground

They’ll stand there laughing and tramp the dirt down

The Daily Mail says, without an iota of doubt, that I’m wrong. I’m often wrong. Naturally bullish in outlook, I need regular questioning and winding in of the neck. However, when the Daily Mail’s sure you’re wrong, that’s a good indicator that you’re right. According to the Mail, the hate and vitriol heading Thatcher’s way comes from the left.

Wrong. My hate and vitriol (and, actually, there’s hate, vitriol and anger there, for sure, but why do I feel like singing, dancing, and grinning myself to death? Why does every hateful, vitriolic, nasty pro-Thatcher retard politicise my opinion? Left, right, middle, they all attract nothing but distain and criticism from these parts. Inhumanity, insanity, arrogance, deceit, pride and vanity, that’s what’s made me happy she’s dead, that’s what will make me equally happy when her boy Tone buys the farm) isn’t anything political. It’s for ripping communities to shreds, and revelling in the misery thus inflicted.

Two things are perfectly clear this morning:

Us lot in the Ding Dong Maggie’s Gone, party party camp, have a sense of humour her supporters lack. Look, if Wenger had a heart attack and fell off the perch pitchside, and the opposing fans struck up a funny song, for every braincell thinking ‘that’s wrong’, there’d be three of four thinking: ‘that’s actually quite funny, we’d be doing the same, and fair enough, wait till Fergie dies: another party’. All I’ve seen from the pro-Thatcher camp are simpering RIPs, brown-nose garbage, and “what’s so funny?” at us lot. Your apoplectic, impotent rage, that’s what’s so funny mate. You seem to love her so much you’re doing your best to emulate her aneurism.

Us: sense of humour. Whoever does whatever (including popping their clogs) fair game. You: weeping. Wailing. Gnashing of teeth. Get over it. Tarts.

Cuckoo Madame,

it's no wonder you’re shy.

You’re Greta Garbo,

you're the witch of Salem.

You’re anti-social, and

you are too bloody lonely

for the likes of us.

I was wrong. Not so long ago, I had an absolute personal ban on terrestrial television. All rubbish. Simon Cowell, Big Brother, Ant and Dec, Strictly Come Ice Skating in the Jungle. Why waste a second on these abominations when there’s books to read? I was wrong to ever let that ban slide. They couldn’t wait with their tribute programmes. Where’s the balance? I imagine the viewing figures would reflect a north / south divide, and don’t forget just how reviled she was in Scotland. After Thatcher the Scottish tories may as well not bother turning up. There’s one, I think, in their parliament. So. The absolute ban returns.

Oh, and this: