Our Lady of the Jungle Sings the Blues
Mrs.Thatcher Advises Cameron and Clegg on Tory Social Philosophy
With the foresight of genius, Margaret Thatcher offered guidance to Cameron and Clegg, and to "Tories in the coming time”, 22 years ago.
Other papers this week can only bring you reports of the Labour Party Conference. Socialist Organiser scoops the lot of them by bringing you Mrs Thatcher's speech from next week's Tory Party Conference. With the aid of a remarkable machine constructed by Socialist Organiser's bearded scientific genius Les Hearn, we were able to send Sean Matgamna a week into the future to take down the following inspiring confession by Mrs Thatcher of her faith in the market economy.
Socialist Organiser 374, 5 October 1988
After the first of her fifty-three standing ovations abates, Mrs Thatcher speaks to the audience and the TV cameras
Never-ending war of all against all,
The law of the raw jungle since the Fall,
That is humanity's highest moral code
The code of our fathers in true blue woad:
You do to others what they might
Do to you. There is no respite:
Be sure you do it first.
The weak and defeated are the truly cursed.
"Woe to the vanquished," the Roman said,
For, my friends, in the long run we are all dead!
Freedom? The true freedom
The law of God's own kingdom
Is the freedom to sell and buy
The freedom to try or die
And the God-given freedom to prey,
Ruled by a government which says, "OK",
And 'anything goes' to its friends,
Your means are justified by the end,
By your goal of getting rich.
Nineteenth century Liberal kitsch?
But that true freedom, my friends,
Is the only proper human end
And necessarily it partakes
Of the raw, blue jungle, and wakes
And tears for the failures and for those
On whose gnawed bones the victors rose.
Freedom of speech, freedom to curse and damn
Everything I do? I'm a democrat, not the Great I Am!
And though I may not agree with what you say
I'll let you defend to the death - yes, you may! -
Your right to say the god-awful things you bray
At me and mine: whinge and whine if you dare. Ok?
The health of the jungle-bred species
Is paramount - it hurts, but here's my thesis:
To be poor now you must be a louse.
The weak to the wall and the poor to the workhouse!
The weak to the wall, or none of us can survive.
For God tells us we must serve or thrive,
Rise or fall, be hammer or anvil, axe or block,
In this life you must be either knocked, or knock.
You must, my friend, choose: be crunched or crunch.
And Reagan tells me there is no such thing as a free lunch!
Trade unions plot and they conspire: they combine
The rabble and the feeble against me and mine.
They gang up the weak to pull down the strong,
And they do most bitter wrong
To the lords of the jungle.
In office, Labour bungles and stumbles.
Oppressors and tyrants,
They are perverse servants of the weed,
Red spoilers who would stifle the rich
By curbing their life-giving greed.
The Welfare state too stifles
The wholesome jungle. It rifles
The coffers of the rich and of society,
Impoverishing the strong to give a moiety
To the feeble. It's a conspiracy of the weak
Against nature. Pity weeps when the poor squeak.
"Poor, poor creatures", we say - but it's snaring
And false: pity soon palls, money is hard - wearing.
Now she becomes dreamy and starts to sing:
"Hush little baby, don't you cry,
You know your mamma was born to die,
All my trials, Lord, will soon be over,
If life were a thing that money could buy,
You know the rich would live and the poor would die."
Now she jerks back to reality: her voice hardens and becomes strident:
“And why shouldn't it be? Why not?
Why should the rich let themselves be caught
By the Grim Reaper when they might pay
Their way past his toll gate and stay
Alive, to do good work? That's what I
Want to know! So? You can't pay? Die!
Let wimps say what wet wimps say
(I hear it works so well in the USA.)”
Now she talks in a deeper jazzy voice, half singing her words again:
"Poppa may have,
Momma may have,
But God helps the child
That's got his own."
Again she jerks back to reality, and again her voice hardens and becomes strident:
“And it's just tough luck
On the brat who hasn't! I don't give a fuck!
Mercy? Mercy? Well, as Freddy Shakespeare
Put it long ago - the rich see it clear -
The quality of mercy is always strained
It comes hard, reluctant, pained.
Noblesse Oblige? A reactionary wimp!
Nothing but a bleeding-hearted pimp
Serving and flattering the feeble and the cruds
With his effeminate dos and don'ts and shoulds
To rein in the rich. This is class war!
And we are the press, the cops, the judges and the law.
Our social philosophy? From each
According to our need - that's it, and let ‘em screech!
Do we need her in a job or not?
Does he answer to a need we've got?
Or is she just unmarketable waste?
That's the question - answer it to taste.
To each? To each according to what he
Inherits or can get by work or preying. Be free!
Under the law all are equal, but in wealth,
Like health, some get more equal by work, luck or stealth.
The great George Orwell explained that long ago, you see
To the Tory conference back in Nineteen-o-three
Equality? Do we not forbid the rich
God's own elect who've risen out of the ditch
Of common humanity, as well as the mangy poor
Young and old alike, fugitive virgin and whore,
To sleep in the warm forecourt at Euston
Station? Only at the discretion of the police is it done.
That, my friends, is the true and sure equality.
Anything else is a commie sham and a nullity.
Democracy? You've had it! A five yearly ballot
Is so much better, than rule by the bullet.
Every five years or so I'll let you decide
Which friends of the jungle's lords you'll abide,
Like the King's friends of old, to rule over you,
On behalf of Life’s enhroned lords. No hullabaloo!
Our future will be secure if we mix
The spirit of the huxter's shop with raw jungle tricks.
You know, I think we could call the TV show:
The 'Little Shop in the Rain Forest' - Let's go!