James Roberts, Features editor, speaks of his experience at the funeral of Baroness Thatcher.
ONE Monday afternoon, in a sleepy London pub, the BBC announced to me the death of my political idol, Margaret Thatcher. And a week later, on a packed London street, I stood in line to say an emotional final farewell to her.
Image Credits- BBC
I wasn’t alone: opposite me an ordered line of former paratroopers who had fought in the Falklands; next to them a restless flock of suited City investors; a coach load of Birmingham housewives and a rabble of placard-waving protestors. Looking around me, at the array of well-wishers, revellers and demonstrators, I realised that this moment perhaps better summed up the Thatcher premiership than even the best of Spitting Image sketches.
The atmosphere was heavy with trepidation, but laced with pride. The occasional chanting and booing of the protestors was predictably met with audible tutting, and a ripple of silencing applause to drown them out. But as the gun carriage approached, the pavements went silent – even the protestors.
It drew alongside us, the Union Flag billowing in the cold, crisp wind and a palpable cloud of solemnity seemed to descend on the deathly still crowds. For just a moment, everyone was united in the gravity of Mrs Thatcher’s legacy. Suddenly, the ranks of Falklands veterans shifted to a salute. Their hearts hardened by war, but spirits softened by the coffin of the Iron Lady. The sombre and stately music of the military procession pierced the moment, and tears rolled down the cheeks of the City boys.
Without doubt Mrs Thatcher will go down as one of the most important, and controversial, politicians of the post-war generation. But for that moment during the funeral, it was far more a personal moment than a political one. The politics of Thatcher’s legacy will live on, to be debated in television studios, university lecture rooms and pubs alike.
To most, her name will always be veiled in the crusader politics that defined her premiership. Certainly, to some, her funeral was a political event. But for those of us that were there, it was a personal experience that we will never forget.
The coffin is carried to the hearse at the Royal Hospital Chelsea. Image credit: Joshua Irwandi
Margaret Thatcher died on Monday 8th April 2013. Online Features Editor Imogen Watson discusses the funeral held on Wednesday 17th April in London as experienced on the ground.
Funerals are a mark of respect, and of commemoration.
The atmosphere in London the day before Margaret Thatcher’s funeral was like any other. That is except for the barriers lining the planned route for the procession the following day, the continued preparations around St Paul’s Cathedral, and the movie scene-like way in which a lone policeman on a motorbike, without any warning, single-handedly cut off three lines of traffic on Parliament Square with one swift skid to allow the body of Margaret Thatcher to be brought to the Chapel of St Mary Undercroft. It was so calm that the presence of sunshine was quite possibly the most unnerving, unexpected thing of the whole day.
At precisely ten the following morning, Big Ben kept its promised silence and the hearse left Parliament in the dreary drizzle. The crowds in Parliament Square were not as huge as maybe anticipated, judging by the numbers of police in the streets, although Parliament staff came out to join the public in paying their respects. Press photographers in the area from any number of outlets were disappointed to have seen only one sole protester calmly make his way across the green with a placard fairly incomprehensible in terms of English (“stealing from people public to pay wealthy few losses and tax cuts.”). After some deciphering, however, he appeared to be demonstrating against the public footing of the funeral bill, as well as presumably current government economic policy.
Image credit: Joshua Irwandi
The beginning of the procession was fast over; there was neither applause nor opposite reaction, and most moved on fairly quickly. Walking down Whitehall, a couple easily young enough to have been born after Thatcher’s demise were spotted also bemoaning the cost and public payment of the funeral, and were somewhat hounded by any reporters or photographers around. However, for all the barriers erected in advance, Trafalgar Square was surprisingly empty.
Crowds had chosen to congregate in Ludgate Circus, further along the processional route towards St Paul’s Cathedral, including people not only from across Britain. Although some Brits had travelled long distances, there were others from as far afield as the United States of America who had come to pay their respects, as well as tourists (often French) who, when asked, explained they had simply been caught up in the event. With so many around, inevitably, the small group of back-turning protesters was overwhelmed, outnumbered and rather unnoticed, meaning equally no one was arrested – perhaps to the relief of those on the protest’s Facebook event page hoping to get away from the funeral in time “to do the school run”. At St Paul’s itself, that applause missing from Parliament Square showed itself amongst the large crowds when the cortège arrived, partially drowning out the booing of a small minority.
An anti-Thatcher protester argues with supporters after the funeral. Image credit: Joshua Irwandi
Unfortunately, and I say this not as an avid Thatcher supporter, there were a few distasteful placards, with one involved reading “Rest in shame!” with the word “peace” crossed out. On Oxford Street, away from the funeral procession route, “Thatcher was evil” and “The witch is dead” had been scrawled tackily in marker pen inside a few bus shelters. Whether Thatcher herself would have minded such dissent at her own funeral is a question to which we will never know the answer, despite the speculation, but there comes a point where human decency in allowing a fellow human being their goodbye from the world must outweigh protest. Whatever the issue, just protest has a time and a place – funerals not being it.
The media has been rife with discussions and debates about the legacy of the late Prime Minister, and about the appropriateness of the style of the funeral. But, regardless of personal opinions about cost or grandeur, the funeral went ahead in the way it should have done. Despite the multitudes of feeling abound it was, on the whole, dignified. It ought to have been so not only because this one person had dedicated so much time to her country (and that in itself commands a certain amount of respect) but because violent disorder at such an occasion would have been, at the very least, completely inappropriate.
Sitting inside a café attempting to warm cold, yellowy fingers, it was obvious that, despite the heavy media attention, the funeral was not the only thing occurring in London on Wednesday 17th April; there were families and school groups on trips, people taking breaks from work and business meetings. The country continues as normal. Yet these observations were a reminder, wherever on the wide spectrum lies your opinion about Maggie Thatcher, controversial as she clearly is, that normal in twenty-first century Britain is not without her influence – even if we are not, contrary to the Prime Minister’s belief, actually “all Thatcherites now”.
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