“It will be years before a woman either leads the party or becomes Prime Minister” – Margaret Thatcher quoted in 1974.

Would that I could write a paeon to the Baroness of Kesteven based on her politics, but I do not consider myself qualified to do so.

Yes, her policy with regard to Rhodesia and South Africa left me a tad gobsmacked.

Yes, I am aware of all the rumours swirling about her son Mark and his alleged arms dealing. Yes, I know they called her Attila the Hen…

Yes, yes, yes, she loathed Socialism. (Any thinking person should.) But that’s a topic for another blog.

I write this little piece not because politics is my strong suit, but because recognising a strong woman is.

I also write this piece because I am faintly bemused by the hooligans in my green and unpleasant land, pogo-ing up and down and shrieking ‘Ding Dong the witch is dead!” while spraying each other with cheap champagne.

Why, I have underwear older than most of them. They weren’t yet born when Mrs Thatcher was the Iron Lady of the Western world.

They are cut of the same cloth as the ‘Rent-a-crowds’ that are useful idiots for all manner of causes. Their politics are not of conviction but ignorance. Their savageness comes from a well of weakness.

My memories of Mrs Thatcher’s resignation flooded back to me when when I heard that she entered into immortality on Monday April 8.

History in the making took place on Grey Thursday, November 22 1990 when Mrs Thatcher was whisked to the Palace in a shiny black limo to inform the Queen that she was resigning.

The woman who was elected three times by 30-million people was brought down by 130 of her colleagues. It was such classic tragedy that even The Sun lapsed into Latin on the front page.

“Et tu Geoffrey?” referring to Geoffrey Howe (Howe-Dull-Can-You-Get as the blats called him) was Leader of the House of CommonsDeputy Prime Minister and Lord President of the Council. His resignation on 1 November 1990 is widely considered to have precipitated Thatcher’s own downfall three weeks later.

With her passing it was the end of an era.

The stickier the wicket the better Margaret played.

“I’m still at the crease, although the bowling has been pretty hostile of late. And in case anyone doubted it, I can assure you there will be no ducking the bouncers, no stonewalling, no playing for time…”

Who was it who said “A witty woman is a treasure: a witty beauty is a power.”

Mrs Thatcher’s defence of Westminster’s ancient liberties, her cries that the Queen’s head on the coinage is the innermost symbol of sovereignty….all have been criticized and catalogued. Catalogue all you wish.

I mourn because there was only one Margaret Thatcher. There will never be another with her steel-spine. She was the best man in any parliament. An irreplaceable.

Curiously, within moments of her announcing her intention to resign, a strange hush fell over Albion.

Even Neil Kinnock, the Labourite to whom Thatcher-baiting was more of a way of life than a career, was uncharacteristically humble.

“She was far greater than those who turned against her.”

I remember driving my Mini to Downing Street hoping to catch a glimpse of the Boadicea of the 80’s.

Right up until the credit titles rolled, lorry loads of flowers arrived at the door of Number 10. A floral Birnam Wood was coming to Dunsinane.

The most impressive was an arrangement of 1000 red roses.

It was, in my humble opinion, a merely adequate tribute.

When the Leaderene is laid to rest on Wednesday the world will be diminished.