Sebastian Gillies – WRITER

Margaret Thatcher's passing was never going to be a quiet one; first woman Prime Minister and one of only two to change the country since 1945. Both remarkable and controversial, I can understand why some will not be moved to mourn. The barefaced glee that some have shown over her death is disturbing, though they qualify that her legacy is the object of protest – Thatcherism, not the person they call Witch and Bitch. 'Sticks and stones', she would likely reply.

Such reactions bring to mind another leader: Cleopatra VII. Though she was reared as a goddess (and Margaret as a grammar school girl) both of them sought to restore what they perceived to be national decline, both of their downfalls were dramatic and both stirred strong emotions in life and continue to do so after death, their presence remaining in our collective consciousness. Cleopatra's extraordinary afterlife makes you wonder how Margaret's will unfold. Will great poets put words in her mouth? What will she become synonymous with? What will her name be lent to?

In the test of time, Margaret would want to be assessed on merit alone and I can imagine Cleopatra, and indeed all of us, desiring the same. Cleopatra's misfortune was that her enemies had the last word. Margaret may yet share in that, but both have had and will have to endure the notion that a powerful woman is unseemly, an offensive display of immodest ambition, a repudiation of so-called 'femanine' qualities (in a word 'unnatural'), making her both fascinating and a reason in itself to be hated, regardless of her record. Wondering how Margaret can be hated as a person whilst her legacy remains untouched, Cristina Odone argues that such misogyny is the root cause of it.

Bidisha is one of many women who reject Margaret for her policies and dismissal of sisterhood, but she also notes that "Thatcher was no worse than many of the men before her, or since, or now. It disturbs me that she is held up and bashed with especial hatred, base insults and grotesque mockery while male public figures far more loathsome are treated more respectfully." Judged by our own standards, Cleopatra may be favourably compared against her contemporaries, but her enemies explained away her success by twisting her authority into shameless temptation. Will Margaret's opponents wind up reducing her into another femme fatale?

With no memory either of Britain before Margaret or of her in power, I am in a poor position to judge. But as it is impossible not to form an opinion about her, here is mine. She won many battles, but lost her war. She 'freed' us from the state, but failed to remake us as hard-working, thrifty, self-reliant and morally upright Victorians, in short – like her father. He was a pillar of Society. She didn't believe in it. I reject that, along with the soulless materialism and excessive individualism that has become associated with Thatcherism, but remember too that they were not, at heart, what she was about.

Alan Bennett's latest play takes us to crumbling Stacpoole House in South Yorkshire. Dorothy, the owner, is under pressure to endow it to the National Trust (who are enraptured by its collection of still full chamberpots), but she is also tempted by a shady art dealer (who believe that the presence of other people spoils things) and by a pornographic film-maker (she has a plentiful supply of four-posters). Bennett's point is that, as with stately piles, so with England: the past can no longer be taken for granted, graceful decay must be halted, 'heritage' is better than history, the inherent value of things is less than their market value and the rot set in during the eighties. 

Both the National Trust and the Church of England get it in the neck for adapting to the money ethic of the eighties. Dorothy's sharp Archdeacon sister envisions 'celebrity eucharists', though her Bishop is still a stock figure who bumbles onto a porno shoot (as they inevitably seem to do). Bennett imagines the Trust to be "entirely without inhibition, ready to exploit any aspect of the property's recent history to draw in the public and wholly unembarrassed by the seedy or the disreputable", since they roped in Jeffrey Archer and Soho to help 'sell' Britain's heritage.

You can't argue with the point that a price tag cheapens whatever it is attached to (Wilde said the same in 1890). The irony is that if the Trust is unembarrassed by the seedy and disreputable in getting an audience, then neither is Bennett – witness the porn set in Act 2 of 'People'. If the Trust wants to shed a tastefully dead and cosy public image for something more provocative, then Bennett has distanced himself from 'Winnie-the-Pooh' with the likes of 'Smut: Two Unseemly Stories'. If the Trust exploits history, then Bennett exploits his own and acknowledges this urge (common to all writers that all writers) in 'The Lady in the Van', where he splits himself into a Person and a Writer, the latter of which is hungry to take advantage of the tramp Miss Shepherd and to commodify her, however sympathetically, on page, stage and the airwaves. 

When someone becomes famous, or infamous enough, their Name joins common parlance, repeatedly invoked to illuminate the present. The real person behind the Name becomes fainter and fainter, as we continue to substitute them for their Name, re-using it to within an inch of its life until it suggests a type, a stock figure, instantly connecting us to a supply of images and words that we think sufficient to sum up a person and their world.

A prime example is Marie Antoinette. Say her Name, think Profligate, think 'let them eat cake' – an old chestnut even in 1775, the year when she didn't say it. The Name (and by extension herself) is invoked whenever a public figure appears oblivious to reality, conforming to the perceived type. The Name has been linked with Paris Hilton, because we judge them both to be rich, frivolous, empty-headed and extravagent types. Such comparisons would falter if we based our judgment on human beings. If a Name can become quick and useful shorthand, it then transmutes into a casual and unhelpful shortcut.

It's not just Marie Antoinette. Say Cleopatra, think Seductive – regardless of her other multitudinous capabilities. Say Richard III, think Hunchback – never mind the findings of The Richard III Society. Say Hitler, think Evil, forgetting that it is more frightening to see what an obnoxious person can do if conditions permit and with enough popular support. You can be associated with Hitler's Name (and the crimes that go with it) if it suits the person who disagrees with your views, whether liberal or conservative. 

If we want clarity then we should presumably take care, rather than casually copy, but if it's lazy to think in types then that's why we all do it all the time. There's not a lot we wouldn't do for convenience's sake.

Max Hastings wonders if our native Film Industry will ever give us some patriotic pep with a heartily unembarrassed story of British pride and glory, in the mould of Spielberg's Lincoln and Mel Gibson's Braveheart. Our own efforts appear abashed by comparison – the porphyria of George III, the widowhood of Victoria, the stammer of George VI and the dementia of Mrs Thatcher. Surely Britain can match America in the heroism stakes with the derring do of Nelson and Wellington? Our comparable Lincoln would probably be William Wilberforce in Amazing Grace. Exceptions to Max Hastings' argument would include the more legendary (and therefore less problematic) retellings of King Arthur and Robin Hood, Olivier's Henry V and Elizabeth: The Golden Age.

The Madness of King George, Mrs Brown, The King's Speech and The Iron Lady could be called patriotic, if only in that understated and self-deprecatingly British way. Crowds turn out for Royal pageantry, but there is a difference between flag waving for a flesh-and-blood Queen and feeling the same emotion for a made-up actor in a movie. Shakespeare knew that the stories which prod us in the belly with their flawed heroes of complex greatness are more satisfying than easy hymnodies to lionised idols that pat us on the back. If all drama is conflict, then a conflicted hero will beat a virtuous one every time. Besides, the British are good at taking each other down a peg. Having your life turned into a celluloid narrative could certainly be construed as getting above yourself. 

Another problem with heroic British tales is the fact that we judge the past by our own standards. Thus, Imperial Victorian heroes are now the villains of our post-colonial world, whilst the steadfast trials of the Marian Martyrs would baffle a mostly secular country. Things are further complicated by the fact that Britishness encompasses English, Welsh, Scottish and Irish identities, a rainbow of different ethnicities and a multitude of faiths.

Also, are we perhaps too far removed from the likes of Boudica, Alfred the Great, Harold Godwinson, Hereward the Wake, Wat Tyler, Gerrard Winstanley, John Churchill, James Wolfe and The Tolpuddle Martyrs for them to hold any relevant appeal? Who is to say that an Hispanic American, Asian American or Native American would relate to a 19th century Kentuckian as a symbol of America, any more than today's Italy would look to the Emperor Augustus, or modern Egypt identify with Cleopatra VII?

We all have a voice and the Internet gives us a greater chance than ever to be heard. Each of us is able to offer a comment on what's going on, from Comment is Free, to Twitter, to this blog. Such observation, analysis and discussion is a liberating part of free speech. If there is something about it that sticks in the throat, it is when people feel obliged to pass comment on something about which they are actually indifferent, such as the appointment of Justin Welby. Such cases feel less like constructive comment and more like sticking an oar in. If we don't care about such things, then why bother to comment as much? If we've got different priorities, then why let such low ones get in the way? In the same vein, why say that the CofE has lost credibility by vetoing women Bishops if you don't believe that its inspiration never was credible? Rather than passing comment merely because we can, can't we just sometimes say 'No Comment'?

Andrew Marr's History of the World in eight hours inevitably tells of the movers and the shakers who changed the destinies of nations and of man. Such a narrative stands in contrast to another documentary, relating the short and simple annals of Christina Cok (d. 1345), a Hertfordshire peasant from Codicote. Why use someone so insignificant to look at the tumultuous early years of the 14th century? Does a worm's eye view lead to any greater understanding than a bird's eye view? Dan Jones remarks that "fetishising the ordinary voice isn't just a historical trend; it's a hallmark of modern society. We all think we matter, and there's less respect for the people in power. In some ways that's great, but we can forget just how pointless and inconsequential most people's lives – including our own – are. They might be illustrative but that's not to say they are important." 

The vast majority of us may be middling, though Facebook encourages us to think that even the most banal tidbits of information are important enough to be written down, minute by minute. However, the great people of history don't exist in a vacuum. It is us, the inconsequential and pointless chorus, who have to make the best of their achievements and failures and who endure long after the stars have made their exits.

The preoccupations of ordinary people during great events provides an answer, a shrug, to power. History may be in the making, but we've all still got our own lives to lead. The death of the King? "Had a super evening. Got a long way with Dorothy. She's lovely, the best girl i've ever had. Find my history book at school… Dull morning". Exploding the atom bomb? "Lever Bros have launched a new powder, Surf, and send thro the post coupons to those on the voting list, which entitle the recipients to buy 1/11 size for 7d."

History may mark us as either important or as merely illustrative, but from the Earth's point of view mankind is wholly illustrative.

"The atom bombs are piling up in the factories, the police are prowling through the cities, the lies are streaming from the loudspeakers, but the earth is still going round the sun, and neither the dictators nor the bureaucrats, deeply as they disapprove of the process, are able to prevent it." – Some Thoughts on the Common Toad, George Orwell

We are One Nation under CCTV. Increasingly sophisticated, cameras may serve their purpose, but the risk of misuse means some will never trust their merciless glare, or the authorities behind them. But it's not just the state that has cameras. We all do. It's not enough to call someone with your phone, you have to be able to take pictures with it. Power is on our side and are we to be trusted with it? For better or for worse, we all live our lives in an increasingly public way. Though we retain a measure of control over what we share, how can we trust each other when we can't be sure who might be turning our private lives into public knowledge?

If the state has its eye on us, we turn a glaring public eye on them. Those who step into its gaze may find the slightest blots magnified into grounds for resignation. A democracy may need a scathing public spotlight to scour it of hypocrisy, dishonesty and incompetence, but keeping all-too human public servants on too tight a leash of accountability will leave us waiting for angels to form a government. Democracy is not the answer to our prayers. It's the best of a bad bunch.

Giving us all a camera and disregarding the necessity of a private space for honesty does not in the end create good government, good behaviour and a feeling of security. Uncompromising transparency breeds another kind of fear that breeds another kind of dishonesty. The presumption is that those who have nothing to hide have nothing to fear. But we all have something to hide, for we all have a past. Once we were warned that even secret sins would be seen by God, "who alone knows the secrets of all hearts". This put no one off, but God's omnipresence was only half his omnipotence: "if thou Lord wilt be extreme to mark what is done amiss, O Lord, who may abide it? But there is mercy with thee, therefore shalt thou be feared." (Psalm 130)

Almost 100 years since the First World War and we still struggle to understand what it meant for those who experienced it and what it means for ourselves now. The search will reach a watershed with the centenary of the conflict. What spirit would be appropriate, now that combatants are colleagues and we question what could ever justify such a means? We won, but we still ask if it was worth it?

If we asked such a question in 1918, the majority of people would have said yes. After four grinding years, with little time to reason why, victory was God-given. The target of blame was obvious. The War Memorials are clear in their reasons: for King and Country, God, Empire, Civilisation, Home, Family, Justice, Freedom, Peace. But the War failed to secure peace (is there anything that ever could?) and whilst the Empire reached its zenith afterwards, it also felt owed greater autonomy.

Seumas Milne makes the point that “it does no service to the memory of the victims to prettify the horrific reality” by using the centenary as an occasion for national pride. In Milne's view, the casualties were victims of "an empire that was a stain on humanity, the cynicism of politicians and the despicable folly of the generals”. I doubt the combatants would appreciate our presumption at calling them victims, any more than Paralympians would. During the War there was plenty of disillusionment amongst the wage earners that had been set against eachother. Some made brave stands of conscience against the prevailing mood, but there was no breakdown of morale, or mass mutiny. In 1918, to have called the sacrifices of the dead senseless and the endurance of the survivors meaningless would have been disrespectful, to say the least. The War could be seen as the bitter fruit of competitive and jealous Empire building, but people at the time saw the Empire as worth enlisting for; millions of its people voluntarily joined the British Army. With the Empire gone, we question their choice and so miss the point.

After 100 years, neither those who were determined to win the War, nor those who foresaw that it would not bring lasting peace are going to be vindicated. The search for meaning will go on; successive generations will keep redefining what lessons should be drawn. One lesson certainly deserves to be remembered: we have the gift of hindsight over the Field Marshals, Privates and VAD's of 1914-18, something that we still fail to turn into foresight.

Last weekend, I came to the Norfolk coastal town of Sheringham and discovered that I had arrived in the middle of an orgy. Of nostalgia, that is. The community had given the weekend over to celebrating the 1940's. Despite the odd sandbag, unexploded bomb (with smoke effects) and tape on the windows, it was more felt hats and fox furs, shiny cars and uniforms, Union Jacks and Vera Lynn. No rationing, smoking, blackout, tea leaves, sides to middle, shortages, deserters, make do and mend, drabness, awful coffee, chilblains, bomb sites, black market, or dreaded telegrams. In short, no reality. What would the people who had to endure such a decade think if they could see us recreating the worst days of their lives for fun? What did the 40's do to merit the label of 'good old days'?

War brings its own kind of liberation. You can be satisfied with the moment, which may be your last. Normalcy is suspended, old restrictions and rules no longer apply – you can excuse yourself with 'there's a war on'. Mobilised in a common cause, we really were all in the crisis together, unlike today. We knew that right was on our side. All countries have recourse to the past to sustain them in difficult times. It's the optimism and confidence in the future of the 40's that we miss in our own hard times, not the material poverty. In a few generations, maybe people will devote a weekend to the way we were in the Victorious Olympic Summer of 2012.

Insignificant Theatre will be performing a short monologue that I have written, entitled 'Mud On My Shoes', at their Speakeasy Event between Monday 20th and Wednesday 22nd August.