Vanquished And The Dead

I remember the Thatcher years well. The UK’s first and only female prime minister took office five days after my thirteenth birthday (Figure 61.1) and left it five days after I had received the Freedom of the City of London at the age of 24 (Figure 61.2). I am, therefore, one of ‘Thatcher’s Children’, regardless of choice.

Figure 61.1: For me, the formative Thatcher era began like this ...

Copyright © 1979 Paul Spradbery

Figure 61.2: ... and ended like this.

Copyright © 1990 Paul Spradbery

It is now five days since Margaret Thatcher died. No British politician since Winston Churchill (1874-1965) has made such a dramatic, and lasting, impact – on domestic and international stage alike. Given the woeful calibre of today’s politicians, most of whom have probably never had an original idea between them, it is a safe bet that the accolade will remain with the ‘Iron Lady’ for at least another generation.

This week, statesmen and politicians have provided the requisite comments post mortem. Those on the right of the political spectrum have, understandably, been adulatory in their eulogies. From the left, almost all of whom would have fought Thatcher tooth and nail, most responded nonetheless with dignity and tact. A minority, however, did not. Labour MP Glenda Jackson disgraced herself in the House of Commons with a speech which was both churlish and unwarranted.

Amid the soundbites, one devout old foe has so far remained tight-lipped. His name is Arthur Scargill, President of the National Union of Mineworkers (NUM) from 1982 to 2002. The political war between him and Margaret Thatcher has become a legendary episode of British industrial history.

To set the scene: in 1974, a Conservative government, led by Edward Heath (1916-2005), was brought down partly by intense industrial action orchestrated by Scargill and the miners’ union. Thatcher succeeded Heath as party leader in 1975 and was elected prime minister in 1979. In 1981, the Thatcher government was on collision course with the NUM over a proposed pit closure program. Remembering the fate of her predecessor, and as national coal stocks were dangerously low, Thatcher backed down. It was a wise tactical retreat; and she realized full well that Scargill had given prior notice of his ultimate intention. The two of them shared the same street-fighter mentality. There would inevitably be a ‘next time’, and it would be ‘winner takes all’.

The program was reinitiated in 1984. Scargill responded with threats of an immediate nationwide strike, and hoped to persuade other trades’ unions to offer full support. This time, however, Thatcher was well prepared. She had spent three years taking shrewd advice. Coal stocks had been replenished. Power station supplies were thus protected. (Why Scargill chose to strike in the Spring never made sense to me.) What followed, for an entire year, was the most bitter and violent industrial dispute Britain has ever experienced (Figure 61.3). Tens of thousands of striking miners, caught in the crossfire, suffered extreme hardship. Mining communities were divided. Lawlessness was rife.

Figure 61.3: Pitched battles between police and striking miners were commonplace in Britain in 1984-5.

Copyright © 2013 Channel 4

In the first weeks of 1985, destitute miners returned to work in increasing numbers. The NUM’s solidarity crumbled. On March 3rd, the epic strike was officially called off. Thatcher had won. Scargill had failed to bring down – or even weaken – her government. The miners had been collectively humiliated, their historical loyalty exploited by a union boss who was too proud, or too arrogant, to realize that he had met more than his match. The playground big-mouth had, in full view of everyone, picked a fight with the head girl – and been routed.

Throughout the following two-and-a-half decades, Scargill and his female nemesis never again locked horns. Nor, as their respective powers ebbed away, did they dwell on past conflict. Since Thatcher’s death, journalists have anticipated Scargill’s comments with bated breath. His silence has disappointed them, but not me. Has he declined offers to comment out of fundamental decency; or does he not wish to draw attention to the fact that his toughest battle ended in abject defeat? It would be greatly to his credit if it were the former; and I am certain that Margaret Thatcher would have responded in the same way had she outlived him.

Virgil was right: there should be no strife with the vanquished or the dead (Figure 61.4).

Figure 61.4: The eponymous Scargill and Thatcher

Copyright © 2013 BBC

Copyright © 2013 Paul Spradbery

It Tied The Room Together

I was once mistaken for a tramp. This is the one recollection which never fails to crease up my kids. I had better explain. There used to be a ‘sleeper’ service on the Liverpool-to-London train. (It was discontinued twenty years ago, just prior to the botched British Rail privatization.) In my early twenties, I boarded it for the first and only time, arriving at the capital utterly dishevelled at six in the morning. I had arranged to meet a cousin at a small, first-floor breakfast café – now also long gone – on Bridge Street, directly opposite Big Ben.

First to arrive, and with the café not due to open until seven, I ambled round the corner to a virtually-deserted Victoria Embankment, crashed full-length on a wooden bench and watched the midsummer sun rise above the South Bank of the River Thames (Figure 60.1). Lying peacefully there, feet up, tired head resting on a small rucksack, the world stood still – until the police arrived and told me to ‘move on’. I was astounded that they had assumed I was some sort of vagrant, but thought better of correcting them. Had I responded by insisting that I was a university graduate who happened to have a professional occupation and the Freedom of the City, they might have thought I was delusional as well as homeless.

Figure 60.1: I think this bench was the one.

Copyright © 2013 Nigel Chadwick

It might seem amusing now, but, as my cousin pointed out (once he had stopped laughing), I was doing nothing unlawful and inconveniencing no one. ‘People can be very judgemental about individuality,’ he said. ‘Even friends can, which makes it worse.’ He believed that being a slave to “the done thing” stifled originality and spontaneity. His live-and-let-live attitude impresses me as much now as it did then.

Several years after that very brief brush with the law, I watched for the first time what has become one of my favourite films: The Big Lebowski (1998), a Coen brothers production, starring Jeff Bridges, Steve Buscemi and John Goodman. Although reviewed with only modest praise on release, it has since become a cult classic. Jeff Bridges, in arguably his most iconic role, plays ‘The Dude’, an unkempt slacker who spends his spare time at the local bowling alley, while putting the world to rights with his mismatched buddies (Figure 60.2). Superficially, ‘His Dudeship’ is an out-and-out loser; and yet, despite becoming unwittingly embroiled in someone else’s crimes, he stumbles through life along the path of least resistance, harbouring no ill will towards anyone. He is a gentle rebel, placidly refusing to conform to society’s prescription.

Figure 60.2: A typical scene from ‘The Big Lebowski’

Copyright © 2013 Cable News Network 

It is, ultimately, a film about the endurance of against-the-odds friendship, made possible by contrived surroundings. The three oddballs, whose home lives remain obscure, are friends loyal and true, thanks to the bowling facility which provides them with sanctuary from a world moving too quickly, unpredictably and unjustly for their taste. It gives them the means to escape from their lives, their past and even parts of themselves. It is both poignant and incredibly funny.

In the post-Internet age, cyber-friendships have become pandemic. This has made many a commentator rage against the eschewing of direct human contact. There is, however, a powerful upside. Some friendships can work only anonymously in a selective environment. I inhabit one myself, for short periods of time. Throughout the past year or so, I have made regular contributions to a forum belonging to a major European newsagency. After seeing the same names – mine is ‘escritor’ – crop up repeatedly, we came to appreciate and anticipate each other’s views and insights. One, a financier from Florida, predicted the Cyprus ‘bank raid’ two months before it happened. Others are masters of erudition on a broad range of subjects, including those in which I myself am well qualified.

Of course, we know nothing for certain of each other’s circumstances. Is ‘jj’ really American? Does ‘harry_m’ actually work in Finland? Does ‘elliemaysgrandad’ have a granddaughter called Ellie May? Is ‘Shakespeare’ a camp quarter-wit trying to be Devil’s Advocate, or simply playing a role? I cannot be sure, but this is immaterial. Anonymity could well be the most vital ingredient, as it precludes prejudice. We have all been happy to foster civility and friendship, behind a mask, at a distance, take it or leave it. This benign masquerading is reminiscent of a Venetian ball, where partial disguise enables even polar opposites to respect and like each other. If we were compelled to give away more of ourselves, perhaps we would not click. It is surely no coincidence that so-called geeks and misfits come alive in front of a computer, where physical appearances, social backgrounds and subtle visual cues are removed from the discourse and, instead, the simplicity of the written word rules supreme.

Last week, our news website announced that its online readers will, as of April 1st, be limited to viewing just a few free articles per month. None of us is willing to cough up subscription fees, so, unless we can find a collective ‘home’ elsewhere, this is, sadly, the end.

I suppose what I am trying to nail down is that friendship without judgement is a worthy ideal, and I shall miss my geeky counterparts in their Venetian masks down at the online bowling alley. Amicitiae nostrae memoriam spero sempiternam fore.

Still, as the Dude might say: ‘Life goes on, man.’

Indeed it does. Long live the free-spirited – however they might present themselves to the world.

P.S. Having just completed this article, I have realized that perhaps it lacks a little coherence and symmetry. The themes need to be tied together more neatly. OK, how about this: one of the most original and free-spirited European architects of all time was the Catalan genius Antoni Gaudí (1852-1926). He died after being hit by a tram on Barcelona’s Gran Via. It is now widely believed that his life could have been saved. On admittance to the Santa Creu Hospital, he was seen to be dressed shabbily and without ID papers. No emergency treatment was afforded to him. The reason: those in authority thought he was a tramp. It happens to the best of us. Will that do?

Copyright © 2013 Paul Spradbery