A Guy Called Gerald

A Guy Called Gerald
June 11th 1987 saw Margaret Thatcher complete a hat-trick of election triumphs. The sense of deflation the next day in my Moss Side-Fallowfield orbit was acute. Cossetted in our little lefty bubble we weren’t expecting this. Neil Kinnock had proclaimed victory at a big rally in Sheffield, Manchester was covered in Labour posters, Glenda Jackson thumped the table at a rally in a school on Platt Lane whilst Gerald Kaufman looked on, beaming his approval and preparing for the arrival of his ministerial car. Glenda was standing in Hampstead, what did she know? Manchester became a Tory-free zone and even Fred Silvester was gunned out of town. But the rest of Britain was still a long way from being ready for new-ish Labour. Ten years in fact. The next day it was hot and sunny and my head was befuddled by Spectre Jim’s Thunderbird. I watched some news footage of jubilant City workers in London clutching their brick-sized mobile phones and quaffing champagne. It was all about buying shares, accumulation and getting a foot on the property ladder. They might as well have been from another planet.

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