Festival of Maggie's Downfall

It's been twenty years since that dies mirabilis when we found out that Margaret Thatcher had resigned.  Who can forget where they were that glorious moment when they found out? Apart from those who went straight down the pub to celebrate, obviously.  Twenty glorious years, in which we have seen the boring technocrat Major, the  warmonger Blair, the bad-tempered and incompetent Brown and now some bloke called Dave. So in normal circumstances, we'd be celebrating. But in a weird kind of way, I'm feeling quite nostalgic.

Dress code: Stab-proof vests and dark suits

Archdruid: Maggie! Maggie! Maggie!

All: Didn't we do this a while back?


The liturgy of the Miners' Strike


Archdruid: Vanity, vanity, all is vanity


All: Especially if you're a bloke called Scargill with a hair cut like a shredded wheat.


Archdruid: The irresistible doctrine met the immovable vanity. In a power struggle that wrecked communities and lives.

All: But in the end just one remained.


Archdruid: Just the doctrine. No vanity. No conflict. No power. None of Scargill's hair.

All: No coal mines.


Archdruid: Let us give thanks for the Service Industries [bows head]


All: Oh no! Here comes Tarzan!

Drayton Parslow swings in on a jungly tendril and tries to push the Archdruid off her Box of Leading. But a boring finance man (Burton Dasset) pushes him into the Brook.

Archdruid: et tu, Drayton. Take him away to the Doily Mines.

All: We can't. You've closed them.