History of England 1-6

In the spring of 1984, news came that Ethiopia had fallen victim to a famine. Even to a nation jaded by pictures of Belfast bombings, the images of suffering had the power to move and appal. One man was convinced that something could be done, and by musicians. Bob Geldof, lead singer of the Boomtown Rats, possessed an almost boundless force of will. In November 1984, he and Midge Ure of Ultravox composed ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas?’ for famine relief, and it soon sold over 3 million records. But Geldof had only begun his mission. He appeared on television, tired, tousled and plainly impatient, addressing the camera with jabbing finger. ‘If you’ve given your money already, go to your neighbour and bang on their door and tell them to send some too.’ In 1985, he employed his formidable skills as missionary and arm-twister to cajole the great and good of the musical world to play at a concert, for free. It was to be called ‘Live Aid’. Although George Harrison had established a precedent in a concert for Bangladesh in 1972, nothing on this scale had been attempted. More remarkable yet, it was all arranged within a month. Over a fifth of the world’s population watched the concert and it generated many millions; as with many such feats, the purity of the original vision occluded many troublesome questions about its effects. The important thing, as Geldof proclaimed, was that something be done. The idea is with us still: good intentions are sacred in themselves. It was not quite a Thatcherite position, but it suited the climate well and set a precedent. The role of the musician was no longer to furnish entertainment; he or she was now moral instructor and spiritual guide.

Another conception of the artist as deserving beneficiary rather than paid jongleur was seen in the artistic community’s response to Thatcher and Thatcherism. Indeed, the reaction of many artists seemed not so much emotional or intellectual as olfactory; she stank in their nostrils till they quivered. Jonathan Miller spoke of her ‘suburban gentility … her saccharine patriotism.’ How could such a one understand the aspirations and yearnings of the true artist? The hatred had at least as much to do with her policies as with her personality. Although her government spent more on the arts than its predecessor, it spent less as a percentage of GDP, which could not help but impinge upon an innately delicate realm. Particularly for those in the performing arts, labour-intensive and largely unprofitable as they must be, the smallest dip in subsidy could result in ruin; this was seen in the collapse of the D’Oyly Carte Opera Company in 1982. The answer, Thatcher reasoned, was to bring in the businessmen, which only exacerbated matters for the intelligentsia: was the holy of holies to ring with the vulgar cries of the costermonger? Moreover, the theatre particularly had a proud tradition of leftist sympathies; the values of drama and Thatcherism were thus felt to be irreconcilable.

54

Was she always right?

In some quarters of the artistic establishment, Thatcher was openly declared a fascist. Her politics were understood as ‘an authoritarian dogma … bright with pastels’. In Greek, Steven Berkoff’s reimagining of Oedipus Tyrannus, the Jocasta character refers to Thatcher as ‘dear old Maggot’, mentioning that her portrait is on the wall beside one of Hitler. A production of Richard III was criticized for failing to make a comparison between the hunchbacked tyrant and the current prime minister. An increasingly politicized Harold Pinter seemed to take it for granted that Thatcher represented a new and sinister mutation of the fascist plague. In popular culture, the notion was still more prevalent. A video for the pop group the Communards depicted Britain as a totalitarian state, with grey overcoats and menacing guards in evidence. And Spitting Image regularly portrayed Thatcher in the attire of a military leader who had attained power by dubious means. It may be that the word ‘fascist’ had lost some of its power as the generations rolled. When Enoch Powell was heckled with cries of ‘fascist’ and ‘Nazi’, he remarked, ‘Before many of those accusing me of fascism and Nazism were born, I was fighting both fascism and Nazism.’

Thatcher herself was certainly authoritarian in temperament and often in address. She was deeply unpopular even among many who voted for her. She was unapologetic in her belief that the police were the guardians of law and order and should be respected as such. That she presided over more than her due share of battles between policemen and dissidents cannot be denied. In education, she imposed a national curriculum on unwilling teachers, though her influence in that sphere was far less pervasive than was generally believed. During the Falklands War, her willingness to accept help from the Chilean dictator Pinochet stained her in the eyes of many. And it may be that her very poise counted against her: she was always right.