And as for those ladies from a background of pearls

“And make no mistake, the leadership of the Labour party wants what it has always wanted, the full-bloodied socialism that has been the driving force and purpose of its political life and leadership.
Mr Wedgwood Benn says that: ‘The forces of Socialism in Britain cannot be stopped.’ They can be and they will be. We shall stop them. We shall stop them democratically, and I use the word in the dictionary sense, not the Bennite sense. What they cannot be is half stopped, least of all by those who for years helped to nurture and support them.”
So spoke Margaret Hilda Fucking Thatcher at the Tories’ conference in Blackpool. The grocer’s daughter from Grantham. From there along the long road to Finchley; her hairspray, her milk-snatching and her allies. The Cecils and Normans, Keiths and Kenneths.
Now she is in Blackpool – the working class report – with her cronies, sycophants, young and old.
The young ones were on the train I was on during the week. Heading north replicating what their sort did in the 1700s when it became the fashion among the ‘comfortably-off’ for going to the seaside as a means of promoting good health. Their descendants were now on my train. And it is my train. It’s a train of northerners. A train for northerners. From the mill towns, the port of Liverpool and the city of Manchester.
Towns and cities. Buildings constructed from capitalism but the soul of those towns and cities was maintained, expanded, formed and styled by socialism. A socialism that she – who is not the cat’s mother – intends to destroy.
Us lot going home for the weekend. After trying to earn a crust by whatever means necessary in that big beautiful city by the Thames.
Earning a bob or two by whatever means necessary. Meanwhile her lot going north to lord it up. The Brunos and Ruperts in their inherited suits from the Row. They will soon be fitted for their own suits and the tradition continues: Prep, Eton or Harrow, up or down to Cambridge or Oxford or whatever it may be and then into pater’s company – and club and then on to their arranged marriage to Jemima or Susannah.
One of those girls on the train going home the other day. All pearls and cashmere. Pissed as a fart, swigging Moet from the bottle and being rude to the guard. I told her to “shut the fuck up” at one stage. She ignored me. Looked to Hugh for encouragement… “And what the fuck are you looking at?”
They moved seats.
She will have spent the last week being fucked senseless by Hugh or Ralph or Piers or all three. In the Imperial Hotel – most likely – in her own small and vacuous world. Now she will be listening to her great leader.
While outside five thousand demonstrators join the eight hundred ‘Right to Work’ marchers.
That won’t bother the girl or her great leader, or St John or Cecil and the rest of them.
All of this in Blackpool – the working class resort…
The sleepy seaside village that was transformed with the advent of the railways. Blackpool was linked with the industrial towns and cities of the north of England. When Talbot Road station opened in the town in the eighteen-forties the railway – our railway – arrived in Blackpool and the holidaymakers came in their thousands.
And as the mill and factory owners closed the premises for a period every year to service and repair machinery these weeks, that became known as ‘Wakes Weeks’ would see the downtrodden workers leave their mills and terraces and Conservative supporting bosses and decamp in Blackpool.
Then the post-war Labour government introduced paid annual holidays for all employees, again boosting tourism in the resort. That is why it is a working class resort. The same way that the train back home belongs to us and not them, Blackpool belongs to us and not them. However Margaret Hilda Fucking Thatcher is here telling the world how she will destroy socialism. We will see…


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