I’d take a statue of Mrs T over a suffragette any day...
THAT Margaret Thatcher statue in Parliament Square? Somewhere deep within my own mighty superstructure, I suspect it is never going to happen. Five-legged pigs will fly over a blue moon on the twelfth of never before the former Conservative Prime Minister is so honoured, raised high on a plinth, given the pride of place she so richly deserves, right in the heart of westminster.
I can even imagine Jeremy Corbyn getting there first, cast in recycled matter from the EdStone, his Catweazle frame depicted doing something man-of-the-people, such as tossing out a spray of birdseed for the many pigeons, not the few.
Sadiq Khan has the vain air of a London mayor who has already bagged his plot, booked the sculptor and the microbag of easy-melt bronze beads. But Maggie, Maggie, Maggie? out, out, out. Five years after her death and nearly 30 after she resigned as Prime Minister, Baroness Thatcher remains what polite society calls a ‘divisive figure’. But we all know what that really means — everyone on the Left still loathes her and the passage of time has not cooled their spittle-flecked hatred.
Indeed, with the rise of Left-wing fanaticism, in the guise of Momentum and red-in-tooth-and-claw Corbynism, one could argue that the bile barometer has never been higher — with the concomitant prospects of our former leader being publicly celebrated sinking ever lower.
The idea for a statue was proposed soon after Mrs Thatcher’s death in 2013, when an appeal raised £300,000 — but since then, there has been nothing but excuses, prevarication and a lack of appetite.
A first planning application for erection in Parliament Square was submitted last May, but six months ago, that proposal and design was thrown out over fears of vandalism from activists.
The police even stepped in to suggest redesigns that included a higher, smoother plinth to prevent the pampered sons of millionaire rock stars or skunkaddled anarchists in Guy Fawkes masks climbing aboard to do their worst.
Nowofficials say there are too many other monuments in the square and there is no room for her, anyway. No room for the first female and longestserving British Prime Minister of the 20th century? Some might think she is more deserving of a place there, in that grassy square at the heart of our democracy, than long-term residents Abraham Lincoln or Nelson Mandela.
Even her daughter, Carol Thatcher, hasn’t helped. Her objection to the new statue’s lack of handbag has been seized upon as ‘ family disapproval’ by those determined to keep Maggie out.
Look. I don’t much like the tenfoot bronze (pictured) myself. It depicts Mrs T with a great crest of Lenny the Lion hair and swamped in the gender-neutral pomp of her garter robes.
Sculptor Douglas Jennings has certainly captured a glassy likeness, but I wanted something to celebrate the fact that here was a woman — a woman! — who had succeeded so spectacularly in a man’s world. Not a woman draped in the cloak of an ancient patriarchal order. Maybe Carol was right about the handbag. As this tortuous process blunders on, surely there has been too much focus placed on those who would object to the Thatcher statue, rather than the millions who would welcome it? Despite current modish concerns, in time, history will suggest that Mrs Thatcher was one of the greatest PMs Britain has ever known. Pragmatic, tough and not afraid of being disliked, she made unpopular decisions for the sake of the country and interests of the nation, not merely to ensure her party stayed in power. She did this without dither or compromise and came to understand that women have to be three times as good as men to attain a quarter of the same esteem. How one longs for that certitude and strength of character these days.
I wasn’t always a fan. As a young Lefty, I had my issues with Mrs T — one of my friends even egged her and we were thrilled. Now the red smoke has cleared from my eyes and I can see the enormity of what she achieved and how many of us have benefited from her vision.
Yet, instead of Mrs Thatcher being the first woman in Parliament Square, it is to be suffragist Millicent Fawcett, following a campaign by feminist activists.
Fawcett’s statue, made by Gillian wearing, will hold a placard containing a quote from a speech she gave following Emily Davison’s death during the 1913 Epsom Derby. It reads ‘Courage calls to courage everywhere’. Courage? I have always believed Davison’s act of stepping out in front of a pack of thundering racehorses was reckless, dangerous and selfish.
She put innocent horses and their riders in peril — the amazing thing is that the only person she killed was herself. And to make what point? I’m still not sure.
Davison’s act wasn’t courageous or heroic, it was utterly stupid. Courage was taking on the unions in a hidebound society in the Eighties, courage was daring to champion economic and individual liberty at a time when it was unfashionable, courage was dragging this country from long-term decline and reintroducing it to prosperity.
But for the moment, it is to be Millie and not Maggie who will be the queen of Parliament Square. Gah!
Every time I bowl past there on the bus or in a taxi and am reminded of the idiocy of a trampled martyr celebrated as a feminist triumph, while the real heroine is hidden from public gaze because of concerns about the unrest her presence might evoke, it is going to make me furious.