(Headline borrowed from The Guardian, November 1990)
When George Best died, former team-mates such as Denis Law wept openly. It was hardly a shock: Best had clearly been drinking himself to death for a long time. But I suspect his friends were also weeping for the career that was wasted thirty years earlier. And somehow they couldn’t weep before. Because when Best left Manchester United, there was still a chance he might find his way back: and as it became clear he wouldn’t, somehow the moment for weeping had passed.
In a similar way, perhaps, it was difficult to rejoice greatly when Thatcher resigned, because her party remained in power. (For over six years. And New Labour, despite its name, did nothing to change or refresh our travails.) So the moment for rejoicing passed. And now, in a mirror image of Law’s tears for Best, we are catching up on the partying we did not do 20 years ago.
Thatcher’s death is not in itself noteworthy or newsworthy. (I am sorry, did you think she was immortal?) She was 87. She retired long ago: any damage she did, she ceased to do in 1990. Some things she may have left beyond repair, like George Best’s liver: but many others we have destroyed without her help.
The important thing, having partied (or wept, if you prefer), is to put her behind us. The world has changed. Her policies are no longer relevant. Her insistence that Nelson Mandela is a terrorist is no longer helpful. Nor is her policy of closing down factories and communities, now that we hardly have any. The good news is, we don’t have to feel we are under her shadow any more. She’s gone. Let’s move on.
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