Mirror columnist says he remembers the night of June 9, 1983 like a slo-mo flashback from a slasher film.
I remember the night of June 9, 1983 like a slo-mo flashback from a slasher film.
I was in a Henley-on-Thames nightclub with a girlfriend who had a set of mates, some of whom probably now own small islands on the back of what happened that night.
In the early hours of Friday, I rang home to ask how the General Election was going and heard my mum close to tears as she said it was such a disaster that even Tony Benn had lost his seat.
When I returned, stunned, to my girlfriend, news of the Tory landslide had reached her mates who were mwah-mwahing each other’s cheeks, popping Champagne and toasting “Good old Maggie ” for delivering them and their families to the Promised Land.
I felt sick to the pit of my stomach knowing that undiluted Thatcherism would now be unleashed. That with a 144-seat majority she would go after her enemies with a merciless vengeance and the country would be brutally divided between Us (her disciples) and Them (the rest). It was.
She declared war on the unions, ripping apart whole communities.
She privatised key publicly-owned industries, handing the profits to rich pals in the City.