Post v.39

Of course one is always aware of the aspects of our brothers and sisters on the Left (how can you not the way they bleat on and on): peace, love, understanding, tolerance, diversity of opinion, nuance, and forgiveness.....

You know the routine:

What a fuss about Mrs Thatcher being poorly. Why the headline news, caring eulogies and taster-obituaries over the weekend? All she did was feel a little hot and faint, and wilt over her jelly. And anyway, whatever was she doing still eating her dinner at 10pm? That's far too late for someone of her age and condition. She ought to have known better. But don't worry, folks. She's all right. She has 24-hour care and her daughter Carol has visited. It wasn't even another mini-stroke. She spent only 15 hours in hospital.

If this is the sort of mealy-mouthed slop we get because she felt a bit weedy after dinner, what will happen when she really does fall off her perch? Are we going to get gallons more of the same? Will anyone remember who she was? Thatcher, the famous milk-snatcher, the woman who rejoiced in triplicate during the Falklands war. The mad privatiser who held a quasi-religious belief that the market was the ideal mechanism for social organisation, who thought naked personal ambition was fine, who crushed the unions, who knew how to appeal to our basest desires, who turned us into a nation of selfish toads.

Courtesy of our collective self-appointed Leftist betters at the Guardian naturally. Of course the comment section is filled with equally loving thoughts of humanity:

I feel no nostalgia just felt let down when Thatcher was released from hospital.

It did however stir me to do something I had been intending to do for some time. I downloaded 'Ding dong, the witch is dead' - that joyous liberation anthem from The Wizard of Oz - convert it into a ring tone and upload it to my phone for use on the day that she doesn't come out alive.

...

Oh c'mom Michelle, we need to be told when Thatcher's poorly so we can get started on organising the street parties. That way when she does finally fall off her perch we're ready to go at short notice.

....

On learning of Milk Snatcher's demise, I, for one, will immediately proceed to dance in the street, singing "Maggots 1 Maggie 0" by Attila the Stockbroker. The next evening I will go to Trafalgar Square to join the massive street party that will be going on.

....

One can only sit and wonder what tender missives we all missed by the many comments on the editorial which were:

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