Hope and despair in Woolwich town centre

Brian Haw - hero or crank?

Deadwood on the Thames

Analyse this: What does the Brixton Thatcher death party Say About Us All?

There’s frothing on all sides at the Margaret Thatcher death party in Brixton (and elsewhere) last night. Responses range from it’s a disgrace (Daily Mail) to it’s fine (The Guardian).

We can go deeper than this. What meaningful things do these parties Say About Us All?

Here are some theories.

1. The celebrations are performances, conjured by media command

Oh god, there’s a Thatcher is Dead street party in Brixton. Mostly attended by journalists so far, I think. I’ll avoid that then.

— Daniel Knowles (@dlknowles) April 8, 2013

There’s been something celebratory in coverage of the death parties. A sense that, whether defending or attacking them, the death parties angle was necessary to complete coverage of the death. Thatcher was divisive. No coverage which failed to recognise this could claim to be comprehensive.

If street parties celebrating Margaret Thatcher’s death did not exist, the papers would have had to invent them. In a way they did, since by publicising early gatherings they ensured they grew into newsworthy events.

2. Choreographed offensiveness is a healthy proxy for violence
Giving deliberate offence, choreographed offence, is an art and 21st century Britons are its masters. To act in a way you know will hurt people you don’t like is childish. When those people hold the keys of power, becomes childish but aubversive. Having a mildly offensive party is a sublimated riot. That’s better than a riot.

3. Death is the final vengeance
Death had done what the electorate never did: defeat Margaret Thatcher. Last night’s celebrations were originally intended for the night of the 1992 election. But the Conservative party stole the chance for the voters who despised her to depose of Thatcher themselves. These hopes have now been realised. Death was the agent required.

This leads to…

4. They celebrate death, because they fear it
Here were arrive at the deepest source of all. The celebrants yearned to defeat Thatcher, but in the end only death could do that. And so in the end it will defeat us all. Behind the flickering eyes and manic grins lies the darkest truth of all: this isn’t about politics. It isn’t about Margaret Thatcher’s death. It’s about our own deaths, which we so much fear. The parties were an offering to death itself. An unknowing, inarticulate recognition of our inexorable doom.

Six Rounds

Due Date

Everyone’s got one: the type of friend who fate threw you together with and now you just can’t seem to drop. Can’t think who it is? Then it’s probably you. Or you have no friends. In either case, you’ll probably have sympathy for Robert Downey Junior’s character in ‘new’ comedy Due Date.

The Agony of Danny Dyer: who cares about the torrent of trivial content?

It should be self-evident that the endless column and screen inches unspooling into the eather of Western capitalist culture are nothing more than the fleeting fancies of a bunch of ill-paid, dubiously motivated hacks. We, the people, should realise the media is nothing more than a megaphone, amplifying the ideas (or idiocies) of whatever fool, knave or prince happens to wield it. Yet somehow the act of publication invests words with disproportionate importance. The babbling blog torrents and freshets of DIY media serve to dilute, a little, the impact of print.
Nevertheless, newspapers and magazines are still the voice with which British society carries on its conversations.

To understand St. Paul's actions, look at who runs their foundation

St Paul’s over-dramatic media strategy has failed quite comprehensively. The closure of the cathedral, citing the all-encompassing ghoul elf and safety, always seemed questionable. Even the briefest of visits to the camp demonstrates that there is no tangible risk to visitors. Indeed, demonstrators have gone to extraordinary lengths to try to appease the church, and to come to a mutually acceptable arrangement. Many would suggest that they have gone too far. It’s not an occupation if you have permission to be there, after all.

Asher Lennon — Sound Engineer, Christiana, Copenhagen, Denmark

This was the advice I received while entering the graffitied walls of Copenhagen’s self-proclaimed autonomous neighbourhood known as Christiana. Night had fallen and silhouetted against burning oil barrels large dogs ambled through the freezing drizzle. In the past week a police raid had swept through and it seemed to have left in its wake an air of nervous subdued energy. Nevertheless a few stall holders huddled under their stalls selling marijuana, hash and skunk out of small plastic tubs. It is regarded by many as a commune-like environment and has separate laws and societal structures to the rest of Copenhagen. I met with Asher Lennon, a sound engineer at Christiana’s Flea Club and former resident to find out why he believes its survival is so important.

The Pope’s Wedding: don’t mention the war