A baloldali szakszervezeti militantizmus hazai megjelenésével ("Where were you in 1916? I wasn't born yet. Excuses, always excuses.") rövid összeállítást készítettem a Thatcher időszak angol/ír zenei hagyományaiból. Kifejezetten várom, hogy Kodály országában is zenés versbe öntsék gyűlöletüket és frusztrációjukat a szuperkedvezményeik elvesztésétől félő tűzoltók, a munkanélkülivé váló orvoslátogatók és a "collateral damage" módjára felperzselt mindenki más a gazdasági woodoo időszakában. Ami azért, ismerjük el, nem kevés hasonlóságot mutat a Vaslady regnálásával.
Először a kedvencem, Sean Brady-től, ami az ír álláspontot tükrözi.
A szövege nagyjából ez (trágár szavak nélkül), bár a Youtube-on hallgatható változat helyenként eltér (felirat is van a videóhoz):
Maggie Thatcher you can't match her she's the darling of us all
She's the curse of the Irish Nation Fine Gael and Fianna Fail
She's destroyed me hire purchase and she's put me on the dole
If I could only get my hands on her I'd kick her up the-----
Good onya Mrs Thatcher you're the cutest girl of all
such a biddy fine and buxom sure the likes you'll not recall
when she holds negotiations things they always reach a hitch
she's the world in ruination such a schemer the old--------
Good onya Mrs Thatcher no one in this world can match her
but she's trying to take the vote away from the paddies once again**
we're not worried 'bout your English vote nor your politicians gas
you can keep them Mrs Thatcher you can shove them up your----
Help us Mrs Thatcher with the prices rising high
and the work is getting awful scarce paddy's losing that's no lie
now you say that you don't want us that we've stayed here long enough
(now you say that you don't want us that we're really out of luck
but if I were a taxidermist I would tell you to get -------
Fair play Mrs Thatcher sure you know a trick or two
and each time you come to Dublin well we know just what you'll do
you'll dress up in your finery and preach with all your might
but all of your fancy promise's are just a load of-----
We love you Mrs Thatcher like your old man loves his brew
such a lad your husband Denis when he's had a sup or two
sure he'll take a pint of porter and a glass of Irish mist
and because he faces you each night no wonder he gets------
Thatcher you can't match her she's the darling of us all
She's the curse of the Irish Nation Fine Gael and Fianna Fail
Az ígéretes című Margaret on the Guillotine sajnos zenének és szövegnek is gyenge:
The kind people
Have a wonderful dream
Margaret On The Guillotine
Cause people like you
Make me feel so tired
When will you die ?
When will you die ?
When will you die ?
When will you die ?
When will you die ?
And people like you
Make me feel so old inside
Please die
And kind people
Do not shelter this dream
Make it real
Make the dream real
Make the dream real
Make it real
Make the dream real
Make it real
Egy fokkal jobb a "The day when Margaret Thatcher dies":
WHEN MARGARET THATCHER DIES
THERE WILL BE NO TEARS
SAVE YOUR SORROW FOR THE PEOPLE THAT SHE STOMPED FOR YEARS
SHE TORTURED NORTH OF WATFORD WITH A VICIOUS HATE
SO WHEN MARGARET THATCHER DIES
LET'S CELEBRATE
and i say
HEY HO
HERE WE GO
TELL EVERYBODY THAT WE KNOW
SHE'S GONE!
COLOUR ME WITH LOVE
BUILD A BONFIRE
PAINT THE SKY
COME ON DOWN
I'LL TELL YOU WHY.
SHE'S GONE!
AND NOBODY CRIES...
THE DAY THAT MARGARET THATCHER DIES
THE DAY THAT MARGARET THATCHER DIES
YOU WANNA GIVE HER A STATE FUNERAL?
WELL THAT'S JUST GREAT.
IRONIC,COS SHE LEFT US IN A SORRY STATE
I PROTEST!
IT'S MONEY WASTED
BUILD A SCHOOL INSTEAD
THE ONLY REASON THAT I'LL GO IS TO MAKE SURE SHE'S DEAD
Bár Thatcher nem közvetlenül tárgya a következő dalnak, zene és szöveg terén is kiemelkedik mésik kedvencem, a bányász sztrájkról írt Ewan McColl dal:
Daddy, what did you do in the strike?
It was in the year of eighty-four shit really hit the fan
When Mac the Knife MacGregor, Maggie Thatcher's hatchet man
Said "Another twenty pits'll have to close to meet the Plan,
And we'll dump another twenty thousand miners."
Daddy, were you with the first of the first?
Did you tell the NCB to do its worst?
Or did you save your lily liver?
Sell the Union down the river?
Be a scab, a blackleg, one forever cursed?
When Arthur Scargill heard the news he cried "This yankee slob,
He's a gift from Cowboy Reagan and he's here to steal our jobs,
Do an axe job on the Union for the crummy Thatcher mob,
But we'll show him what it means to be a miner."
Daddy, did you man the picket line?
Did you fight to save the future of the mines?
Or did you take the wrong direction?
Did you squeal for police protection?
Did you let them see your indiarubber spine?
Well, the Yorkshire lads came out on strike and said "It's evident
The only way to stop MacGregor and the government
Is to bring the lads out everywhere from Scotland down to Kent,
And we'll show 'em what it means to be a miner."
Daddy, what did you do in the strike?
Did you stand there with your mates and join the fight?
Or did you show a yellow belly?
Spill your guts out on the telly?
Did you let the bosses fill you full of shite?
Some didn't heed the strike call, for guts and brains they lack
They're the colour of a primrose, though their hearts and legs are black
And their noses are all brown with being up the rear of Mac:
They're just a bunch of dirty blackleg miners.
Daddy, did you march at the head?
Did you stand there on the picket line unfed?
Or did you sell your mates to have
A fortnight on the Costa Brava?
Did you choose a two-week holiday instead?
Well, the battle it is joined at last, the forces they are massed,
On their side the press, the telly, all the weapons of their class,
Plus MacGregor and his blacklegs, but we'll never let 'em pass:
The NUM's the weapon of the miners.
Daddy, what did you do in the strike?
Did you scab and let your workmates wage the fight?
How the neighbours stood and booed us
Said we had the stink of Judas
Daddy, what did you do in the strike?
