My knowledge of Margaret Thatcher isn’t great, I am 32, so did not personally suffer from the Poll Tax, though my parents surely did.
I know she was in power for a long time, which takes balls. I know she reduced the national debt.
I know she divides opinion.
I know to piss off that many people you have to be honest, speak your true mind regardless of popular opinion, and not care what an entire country of strangers thinks of you.
I admire that.
I admire that more when I stop to consider we live on a planet inhabited with people who care more about how popular they are, and will alter their own opinion in order to increase popularity, than who they really are.
At least people knew who they hated and why.
Today we love an image we don’t think to question.
I know when she travelled to America, America stopped and took notice because it was a big deal; a far cry from the English politicians of today who whiten their teeth and sit, tails wagging, hoping for any thumbs-up political crumbs and appearances on American daytime TV shows.
I don’t know enough about all the bad things she is meant to have done, but even if I did – even if I had been financially destroyed by the poll tax and her ideas – I would not be rejoicing her death.
There is a saying, “he who holds onto a hot coal, only burns himself” – meaning anyone still angry with Margaret Thatcher, after she is dead, is only putting lines on their own face.
Some people might say I didn’t live through it, I don’t understand, her mistakes didn’t take money out of my pocket. And to those people, I say, you are correct. I am sorry you suffered. But I also say, it doesn’t matter now, she’s gone. Dead. It’s over.
All the anger aimed at Margaret Thatcher in life has no purpose now but to serve anger itself.
She lived with criticism.
Let her rest in peace.