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Quiet Riot Limericks
Written in April 2013 upon the demise of Some Old Woman.
There was an old woman called Hilda,
Life-long parsimony filled 'er,
Installed at the Ritz,
She went into fits,
In the end maybe luxury killed 'er.
Famously frugal Margaret Hilda Thatcher (1925-2013) died of a stroke at the Ritz Hotel… “The suite, which would cost up to £3,660 a night, boasts 24 carat gold leaf and antique Louis XVI furnishings, and is the size of a small flat.” (said the Daily Fail)
Our glorious leader is fallen!
And the stink kicking up is appallin',
We all say "Ding dong"
And download the song...
And Radio One gets a maulin'.
“The BBC has defended its decision not to play in full on Radio 1’s Official Chart Show a song at the centre of an anti-Baroness Thatcher campaign. A five second clip of Ding Dong! The Witch is Dead will be played in a news item on Sunday’s show.” (BBC defends Baroness Thatcher Ding Dong song decision)
Today, over twenty years later,
Hilda's legacy keeps getting baiter:
Squatters, socialists, miners,
And all folks with vaginas,
Are still united to hate her.
And are back in a Square that is haunted
By the ghosts of past comrades undaunted.
Be there but be quiet,
Don't be tempted to riot,
A riot is JUST what she wanted.
Just over 23 years ago (31 March 1990) I was one of many thousands of people who gathered in Trafalgar Square to protest, as people are doing today. We were kettled for hours and then the mutha of all riots erupted. (see Poll Tax Riots)
Hilda's cortège now hoves into view,
No I wasn't invited, were you?
Just the good and the great,
Sitting ducks, funeral bait,
Ask Guy Fawkes, he would know what to do.
The not-quite-a-state funeral of Margaret Hilda Thatcher – said to be costing the taxpayer 10 million quid – will be attended by Some Other Old Woman and a roll call of world leaders, captains of industry and celebs.
Guy Fawkes was a member of a group who planned the failed Gunpowder Plot of 1605. Last Saturday (13 April 2013) would have been his 443rd birthday.
Come along to the Hilda museum
If it's relics you want you can see ‘em,
RIP to the mines,
To unpaid Poll Tax fines,
And to decency much oppro—brium.
All hail to the selfish and greedy
Fuck compassion, it’s just for the weedy,
Put the past on display,
And then make people pay
To see rich folks crap on the needy.
But why in the hell should we thank 'er?
Her legacy's pure spite and rancour!
Fifteen million notes
Just to win you some votes?
Oily Dave, you unbearable WANKER!
I wrote these last three verses in October 2013 after reading that David Cameron was still punting the idea of a Thatcher museum, an idea which had been doing the rounds since her death in April.
From the Grauniad, 14 April 2013: Margaret Thatcher fans plan US-style memorial as row grows over funeral
Lord Prescott, the Labour former deputy prime minister (…) suggested the 13,000 millionaires who had each received a £100,000 tax cut as a result of the government’s reduction in the top rate of tax should instead each contribute £770 to pay for it. “Privatise her funeral. It would be a fitting tribute,” he wrote.
from writing to performing
Having just written some new verses on the very day when I was planning to attend a Spoken Word open mic night for the first time, I obviously had to put my name down and perform them, so I did.
And it was recorded for posterity, which was nice.
As I said in my performance, I’m not ranting about the frail elderly woman who died, but about the hateful hag who installed neoliberalism in this country during the 1980s.
These days we live in a world beyond satire, but back then it still had teeth and public figures seemed to morph into their Spitting Image puppets.
So that’s how it started. I was pissed off about something and it came out in rhymes. At the time of that first open mic performance I couldn’t possibly have known I would go on to write hundreds of lines of rhyming verse.
Blame Thatcher.
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