Thursday 11 April 2013

That bastard was a saint. A SAINT. The bastard.

So I may have mentioned the Catholicism here on the blog - it's a real and unironic part of my life even if I'm as ambivalent towards the church as any sensible person should be when it comes to monolithic, rich, powerful right-wing organisations run by people who put themselves above the laws of man as a matter of principle - and I may have mentioned the living in Northern Ireland thing, and the working class thing - although I gather there are technically now seven rather than three classes, so just whatever the class is where you can't afford university but you can afford to eat regularly, that's what we were - so I guess it is probably expected that a Northern Irish working class Catholic might have an opinion on the passing of Margaret Thatcher: I think she is burning in Hell right now, and that's a hard thing to celebrate.  Unless you're a Klingon or something, and even then I'm pretty sure you're only happy if someone is burning in Hell if you're drinking wine from the skull you've just hacked off their body with one of those crazy boomerangs Klingons have after a lengthy fight where you've been shouting "kerplunk" at them because they don't just go around celebrating when they hear any old baggage has dropped off the perch otherwise the whole planet would be legless all the time.  Don't get me wrong, they're clearly not a people who have their shit together, but that is not how they roll.
So no, I am not particularly happy that an old woman is dead now as some seem to be - street parties in West Belfast, apparantly - as it basically just means more prayers than usual for her poor damned soul

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