09/04/2013 08:47 BST | Updated 09/06/2013 06:12 BST

Maggie, Maggie, Maggie... Dead, Dead, Dead

Stepping out of Brixton Underground station, I hear the drums before I see them.

There's an excited buzz around the place, the kind of electricity in the air that generates as the masses descend on South London's famous Academy ahead of a top-line gig.

But the hum of the crowd wasn't leading me towards the grand venue on Stockwell Road, rather to the Ritzy cinema where a carnival-like atmosphere had enveloped the Brixton Oval.

This wasn't like any cultural celebration I had been to, where the jubilation came not from commemorating the heritage and lives of many, but rather basking in the demise of one.

"Maggie, Maggie, Maggie... Dead, Dead, Dead".

On April 8 2013, Margaret Thatcher died from a stroke, at the age of 87. She was the Grantham girl who became the British Conservative politician of history, governing this country for 11 years.

On April 8 2013, the masses turned out to celebrate her death on the streets of Brixton, but there was barely a face among the merry gathering old enough to understand the good and the bad she brought to this country.

Not that they didn't look the part; a spattering of acid washed jeans, bomber jackets, Dr Martens and scrunchies certainly screamed of the youthful style favoured in Thatcher's 1980s Britain.

But their fashion choices seemed to be the only link they had to the society of thirty years past, and when I asked a few of these revellers why they were in attendance, their answers certainly confirmed this.

"I'm here to party!"

"Because Thatcher's a bitch!"


OK, the last example wasn't technically correct, but it pretty much summed up the thoughts of the raving 90s born kids, screaming and chanting over the beats of a ragtag percussion section accompanied by a mid-level soundsystem spurting out Pendulum.

Billy Bragg's Waiting For The Great Leap Forwards obviously wasn't making the playlist.

However, for every 15 hipsters, there was one attendee who lived through the Thatcher years, and could tell me why this day was meaningful to them.

"I need medical treatment but I can't got to my local hospital in Lewisham because its services have been reduced and privatised", the gentleman told me. "If it weren't for Thatcher's PFIs (Private Finance Initiative) then I wouldn't be in this position".

"To me this day marks an end to her politics".

True, the former Tory leader put into place a programme of privatisation that was implemented by John Major in 1992, and subsequently in varying forms by every government since. So I thanked this gentleman for actually giving me a reason for his malcontent.

As he rejoined the mix, the look of despondency was evident on his face.

He did not sing, he did not dance.

He stood and watched 'Thatcher's children' showing their political illiterateness with every chant.

As I left the waining celebration I thought back to Baroness Margaret Thatcher, and how she affected a lot of lives, for better and for exponentially worse. And as the drumming noise dimmed, I could honestly say that I had never felt so uncomfortable with community spirit and joy, than I did on Monday night.