The dead don't deserve respect, hell, they don't even want it. They don't care, they're dead. They don't want pity, piousness, or pretense.
The only thing we have to offer the dead that means even half a shit is honesty. The dead can no longer protest, permiss or persuade you with their reaction only silently consent with your opinion.
I'm not going to write about growing up, under her hateful shadow, in the shadow of the bomb, or in an area that was riddled with racism, unemployment and crime like ivy through the mortar between the bricks of a crumbling wall. I'm not going to write about that partly because It's been written better and with more of an even hand elsewhere. And partly because I make no apologise for this and frankly don't care for any explanation you offer if you feel otherwise.
I'm grieving the death of an old woman – my grief is a celebration of the suffering of someone who caused ten times more than she received. Nailing that ghost to the wall and toasting to the coming death of the army of smug school chums still under her spell. Anyone that can't see the vicious irony in spending 10 million in the same month we said the weakest among us were not worth the money is either a fool or a bastard of the highest order.
I'm not on my own either. If they really want to solve the economic crisis they should turn the room in the Ritz where she died into a 24 hour disco and urinal and charge £1 entry.
But its not about the dead, as I said, the dead don't care. It's what the living deserve, and the living deserve to grieve. And by 'grieve' I mean react in way that allows that person to move on.
'There is no right way to grieve' is a go-to maxim of councillors and head doctors all over. It just so happens that mine, and over half the country's grief, involves grim joy, defiance, and the venting of thirty odd years of hate – whatever the narrative portrayed in the media today.