It's an incongruous feeling to view the foaming wave of misplaced nostalgia from those who seek a revocation of the 80's like some brain-perverting smell from last year's grass cuttings where we buried the cat. These nobodies who wish they were somebodies again, feed flesh to the parasites of a decades-dead culture in the hope of the fattened juices once again oozing out to shrivel our tongues in rancidity at the return of singing Page 3 girls, shoulder pads, yuppies, Tories and -worse- Duran fucking Duran.
The 80's smeared a shimmering veneer to the dark infestations bubbling rancorously beneath. While people in outlandish quiffs and thick red braces called Piers or Crispin bellowed into their coffin-sized mobile phones, others endured years of unimaginable struggle and hardship, doomed to be picked off by the augeries of their demise, like harpies at a KFC trolley dash.
My dad was such a victim. His career as a crane driver in the local steelworks smashed against the rocks of 'restructuring'; his security and definition thrown onto a putrescent heap containing all his school friends, followed by a liberal sprinkling of quicklime to dull the rancour. I can recall him wandering in the garden, shuffling aimlessly in a soporific daze of disbelief that he was going to be made redundant. While never displaying the sort of militantism of some of his striking cohorts, he nevertheless was enraged enough to enlist on the picket lines, and emboldened by this unnatural rush of commitment, kick down the door of the fearfully abandoned payroll office. I don't know if he expected to find anything other than meaningless reams of printouts, discarded fag coupons and a saucy calendar, but he'll never convince anyone that it wasn't he who took a shit on the cashier manager's desk.
The dismantling of the steel industry by Thatcher and her chosen executioner MacGregor was akin to Victorian surgeons peeling at a wretched disparate strapped to a slab; excising all the healthy flesh and leaving behind a blob of writhing scabrous mulch. Thousands suddenly found themselves without a future, and although sales of betamax video recorders hit critical mass, so did the sight of grown men drunkenly staggering out of social clubs; their thousand yard stares framed in bloodshot eyes of hopelessness.
Taking on the steel (and rail) workers was Thatcher's little dress rehearsal for the miners. Like a precocious débutante about to perform at the Albert Hall, trying out her apocryphal talent on a front room of squeaking grannies too shocked or timid to denounce the nauseating display of selfishness before them. Consequently, hitherto horny-handed and grease-daubed hardmen wilted in a pathetic display of capitulation not seen since the day Charles Hawtrey was gang-raped by Hell's Angels.
Eulogised by the Sun-reading masses only too keen to devour spurious pictures -amidst the tits- of a UK pauperised by unburied dead children and sneering blackened faces sticking their unwashed cocks into effigies of the Queen; Thatcher drew a line in the coal where uniforms and riot shields assembled to beat a rhythmic Zulu incant, before caving in the skulls of men trying to save their jobs and the heartbeat of their communities. 1984: The last great battle for the soul of Britain's society had begun ...and things would never be the same again.