My dad, Stan the Man (God rest his soul), adored Margaret Thatcher. Whenever I came back home in the 1980s to see my parents, and talk moved on to politics – usually after a glass or two of Remy Martin – he would wax lyrical about her.
At the time, I railed against his rhetoric. I was young, not long out of university, and (I hate to say it) a wet Leftie. Oh dear, the foolishness of youth.
Occasionally, our arguments got over-heated but, looking back, I fully understand why Stan would not say a bad word about her.
It’s because Thatcher created
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