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The unforgiven

It is impossible to convey to outsiders or the young why Margaret Thatcher is loathed, to this day,

You have to be at least 40 years old to have voted for her as prime minister the last time she stood for election. The void shows in popular understanding. Probably even most correspondents in the Westminster lobby have no direct knowledge of her decade in power. They have only read about it in books, or heard stories from old men.

They weren't there and, just for once, being there was absolutely critical. If you never actually heard her at the Despatch Box shouting, "Never! Never! Never!" or condemning an entire section of loyal working people as "the enemy within", you cannot really grasp what those years were like. They were truly awful, and her malignant legacy soured all who followed her in public life, most dismayingly in the New Labour project.

Over the top? Then consider her nicknames at the time. The first, TINA, standing for There Is No Alternative, came from her own cabinet table. Then, the Iron Lady, Moscow's ironic compliment. She Who Must Be Obeyed. Attila the Hen. The Great She-Elephant. The verb "to handbag" was invented for her. Nobody would use such terms now, because they are sexist, but that is how politicians and the people alike understood her. Not that they ever said it to her face, only behind her back - a measure of the fear she inspired almost to the end.

In 1979, Thatcher was still rather an unknown quantity. Her time as education secretary in the Ted Heath government was remembered only for her abolition of free milk for schoolchildren over the age of seven, which earned her the sobriquet of Milk Snatcher. Thatcherism as an ideology was still a mad gleam in the eyes of her economic guru Keith Joseph. Everything changed when she turfed complacent Jim Callaghan out of office. Taxes were cut, public spending was slashed and the sell-off of state-owned industries began. The police and armed forces got big pay rises. Europe was served notice that the UK would pursue a doggedly self-serving line.

This was the shape of things to come, not all at once, but by degrees, when she was sure the first changes were irreversible. So, her first steps to put working people in their place - by emasculating their unions, under the employment secretary Jim Prior - were tentative. Then, she moved in her hard man, Norman Tebbit, to expose the unions to fines and seizure of funds. Initially it was the National Graphical Association in provincial Warrington, and then the miners across the nation - hated because they were credited with bringing down a Conservative government in 1974. In 1981, not being ready for the final confrontation, she body-swerved the National Union of Mineworkers. Three years later, everything was in place: coal stocks, police powers and preparedness, labour laws and a pliant hit man in the shape of Ian MacGregor, chairman of the National Coal Board. He soon discovered just how disposable were her instruments of power once they had served their purpose (a year after the strike he was out on his ear). The miners were only too aware of their fate.

It is virtually impossible to convey to outsiders just how much Thatcher is hated in the former mining communities. Indeed, hatred became common coinage in those unhappy days. The miners' detestation has scarcely abated a quarter-century later, long after they were crushed and their way of life destroyed for ever. There will be street parties in the pit villages when she dies.

Yet they were only the most prominent of her victims. Think of the countless steelworkers, British Telecom engineers, water industry employees, British Airways workers, civil servants, dock workers, railwaymen, National Health Service staff, council workers and all the other employees who lost their jobs in the years of priva­tisation. Those workers who now inhabit the twilight, insecure world of temporary contracts, agency work and sacking by text message.

Nobody ever "told Sid" (Thatcher's fictional, share-owning Everybloke) it would be that bad. Thatcher knew, and didn't care. Rejoice! Rejoice! In the same way, she did not care about the impact on "the little people" of her Big Bang in the City, which freed the bankers from supervision in 1986 and set building societies on the corrupt road to demutualisation and bankruptcy. There were no rules for the rich, only for the dumb fools who had to punch a time clock every morning: the people who travelled on public transport, whom she labelled as failures in life.

No wonder her own family was so dysfunctional. Inevitable, maybe, where such vaunting ambition and manic ideological zeal is at work. "I will roll back socialism for ever," she boasted. Yet she passed on a deadly microbe to society at large (the one she refused to recognise the existence of). Rampant individualism, the devil take the hindmost, beggar thy neighbour - call it what you will, it was a corrosive reflection of her own selfish value system. A politician who can take the train to Glasgow to hector the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland on Christian morality has nothing to learn from others. She didn't just smash the moral compass. She threw it in the sea.

It is too easily forgotten that the Thatcher decade began in violence, continued in violence and ended in violence. In 1981, she faced down the IRA hunger strikers, ten of whom died, and brought Republican terror to mainland UK. But the streets were already torn by riots. Brixton went up in flames in April that year and disturbances followed most of the summer, in Toxteth, Bristol, Birmingham, Hull and Preston. In March 1990, countrywide protests greeted the fixing of Thatcher's poll tax, loathed for its inequity and culminating in the worst riots the centre of London had seen in generations.

Along with the resignation of the then deputy prime minister, Geoffrey Howe, over her hostility to Europe, this mayhem probably did for her premiership. It was difficult to turn either event to advantage, but she was not above exploiting violence for political ends. With her ratings on the floor in 1982, she sailed with gusto into the Falklands War and called the khaki election of 1983 to capitalise on Britain's successful military campaign. Winning that poll on a wave of jingoism, she unleashed a martial campaign against the miners that confirmed her, in her own mind, as a war hero in the mould of Winston Churchill.

Who now remembers these events? Or, for that matter, the Westland helicopter scandal, triggered by her duplicity? Or the resignations of one top minister after another, unable to take any more of her haughty self-absorption? Or the other hideous landmarks of that time, from the introduction of cruise missiles in Britain to the hounding of the Greenham women, from the nauseating billing and cooing with Ronald Reagan to the pompous assertion that she could "do business with" Mikhail Gorbachev, a man infinitely superior to her.

As the shadows darken over her mind and she nears death, there is a temptation - devoutly to be resisted - to engage in a cloying collective amnesia about the real Thatcher, and remember only her "good" points. First female party leader, first female prime minister, the Boudicca who restored Britain's place in the world - I can see the headlines in the Daily Mail now. Conservative grandees, with Tony Blair and even Gordon Brown in tow, will queue up to praise the greatest conviction politician of her age. All I ask is that her many offences be taken into consideration before judgment is passed.

Perhaps the last word should go to another woman, the actress Lindsay Duncan, the latest to play the part of Thatcher in a television drama. She says: "I loathed her and everything she stood for." Amen.

Paul Routledge was political diarist of the NS (1999-2004). During the Thatcher years he was labour and industrial editor of the Times (1969-86) and political correspondent at the Observer (1986-92), followed by a stint as chief political commentator for the Mirror

This article first appeared in the 02 March 2009 issue of the New Statesman, Thatcher: 30 years on, the final verdict

Biteback and James Wharton
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“It was the most traumatic chapter of my life”: ex-soldier James Wharton on his chemsex addiction

One of the British Army’s first openly gay soldiers reveals how he became trapped in a weekend world of drug and sex parties.

“Five days disappeared.” James Wharton, a 30-year-old former soldier, recalls returning to his flat in south London at 11pm on a Sunday night in early March. He hadn’t eaten or slept since Wednesday. In the five intervening days, he had visited numerous different apartments, checked in and out of a hotel room, partied with dozens of people, had sex, and smoked crystal meth “religiously”.

One man he met during this five-day blur had been doing the same for double the time. “He won’t have been exaggerating,” Wharton tells me now. “He looked like he’d been up for ten days.”

On Monday, Wharton went straight to his GP. He had suffered a “massive relapse” while recovering from his addiction to chemsex: group sex parties enhanced by drugs.

“Crystal meth lets you really dig in, to use an Army term”

I meet Wharton on a very different Monday morning six months after that lost long weekend. Sipping a flat white in a sleek café workspace in Holborn, he’s a stroll away from his office in the city, where he works as a PR. He left the Army in 2013 after ten years, having left school and home at 16.


Wharton left school at 16 to join the Army. Photo: Biteback

With his stubble, white t-shirt and tortoise shell glasses, he now looks like any other young media professional. But he’s surfacing from two years in the chemsex world, where he disappeared to every weekend – sometimes for 72 hours straight.

Back then, this time on a Monday would have been “like a double-decker bus smashing through” his life – and that’s if he made it into work at all. Sometimes he’d still be partying into the early hours of a Tuesday morning. The drugs allow your body to go without sleep. “Crystal meth lets you really dig in, to use an Army expression,” Wharton says, wryly.


Wharton now works as a PR in London. Photo: James Wharton

Mainly experienced by gay and bisexual men, chemsex commonly involves snorting the stimulant mephodrone, taking “shots” (the euphoric drug GBL mixed with a soft drink), and smoking the amphetamine crystal meth.

These drugs make you “HnH” (high and horny) – a shorthand on dating apps that facilitate the scene. Ironically, they also inhibit erections, so Viagra is added to the mix. No one, sighs Wharton, orgasms. He describes it as a soulless and mechanical process. “Can you imagine having sex with somebody and then catching them texting at the same time?”

“This is the real consequence of Section 28”

Approximately 3,000 men who go to Soho’s 56 Dean Street sexual health clinic each month are using “chems”, though it’s hard to quantify how many people regularly have chemsex in the UK. Chemsex environments can be fun and controlled; they can also be unsafe and highly addictive.

Participants congregate in each other’s flats, chat, chill out, have sex and top up their drugs. GBL can only be taken in tiny doses without being fatal, so revellers set timers on their phones to space out the shots.

GBL is known as “the date rape drug”; it looks like water, and a small amount can wipe your memory. Like some of his peers, Wharton was raped while passed out from the drug. He had been asleep for six or so hours, and woke up to someone having sex with him. “That was the worst point, without a doubt – rock bottom,” he tells me. “[But] it didn’t stop me from returning to those activities again.”

There is a chemsex-related death every 12 days in London from usually accidental GBL overdoses; a problem that Wharton compares to the AIDS epidemic in a book he’s written about his experiences, Something for the Weekend.


Wharton has written a book about his experiences. Photo: Biteback

Wharton’s first encounter with the drug, at a gathering he was taken to by a date a couple of years ago, had him hooked.

“I loved it and I wanted more immediately,” he recalls. From then on, he would take it every weekend, and found doctors, teachers, lawyers, parliamentary researchers, journalists and city workers all doing the same thing. He describes regular participants as the “London gay elite”.

“Chemsex was the most traumatic chapter of my life” 

Topics of conversation “bounce from things like Lady Gaga’s current single to Donald Trump”, Wharton boggles. “You’d see people talking about the general election, to why is Britney Spears the worst diva of them all?”

Eventually, he found himself addicted to the whole chemsex culture. “It’s not one single person, it’s not one single drug, it’s just all of it,” he says.



Wharton was in the Household Cavalry alongside Prince Harry. Photos: Biteback and James Wharton

Wharton feels the stigma attached to chemsex is stopping people practising it safely, or being able to stop. He’s found a support network through gay community-led advice services, drop-ins and workshops. Not everyone has that access, or feels confident coming forward.

“This is the real consequence of Section 28,” says Wharton, who left school in 2003, the year this legislation against “promoting” homosexuality was repealed. “Who teaches gay men how to have sex? Because the birds and the bees chat your mum gives you is wholly irrelevant.”


Wharton was the first openly gay soldier to appear in the military in-house magazine. Photo courtesy of Biteback

Wharton only learned that condoms are needed in gay sex when he first went to a gay bar at 18. He was brought up in Wrexham, north Wales, by working-class parents, and described himself as a “somewhat geeky gay” prior to his chemsex days.

After four years together, he and his long-term partner had a civil partnership in 2010; they lived in a little cottage in Windsor with two dogs. Their break-up in 2014 launched him into London life as a single man.

As an openly gay soldier, Wharton was also an Army poster boy; he appeared in his uniform on the cover of gay magazine Attitude. He served in the Household Cavalry with Prince Harry, who once defended him from homophobic abuse, and spent seven months in Iraq.


In 2012, Wharton appeared with his then civil partner in Attitude magazine. Photo courtesy of Biteback

A large Union Jack shield tattoo covering his left bicep pokes out from his t-shirt – a physical reminder of his time at war on his now much leaner frame. He had it done the day he returned from Iraq.

Yet even including war, Wharton calls chemsex “the most traumatic chapter” of his life. “Iraq was absolutely Ronseal, it did exactly what it said on the tin,” he says. “It was going to be a bit shit, and then I was coming home. But with chemsex, you don’t know what’s going to happen next.

“When I did my divorce, I had support around me. When I did the Army, I had a lot of support. Chemsex was like a million miles an hour for 47 hours, then on the 48th hour it was me on my own, in the back of an Uber, thinking where did it all go wrong? And that’s traumatic.”

Something for the Weekend: Life in the Chemsex Underworld by James Wharton is published by Biteback.

Anoosh Chakelian is senior writer at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 02 March 2009 issue of the New Statesman, Thatcher: 30 years on, the final verdict