The Legend of KingArthur
Arthur Scargill was one of the leading political voices of the eighties, reviled by Margaret Thatcher as the Enemy Within. Vagabond pays personal tribute to the man who led the fight against the pit closures.

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To a predominantly Southern Tory controlled Press Arthur Scargill was the personification of evil incarnate, Thatcher's nemesis, leader of "the enemy within". That mythical great horde of wode wearing, whippet owning, cloth cap and clog bedecked Pagans who at any moment might spill out from their blackened Satanic Hell hole located in some foul never-land just over the horizon named "Oop North", and descend upon Olde Englande as the wild men from the East fell upon Rome, and despoil the Thatcherite Revolution, the Economical Miracle of cheaply flogged Council Houses and Gas and Telecom Shares. If you see Sid, tell him to watch out, there's a Loony Lefty about.

They loved to hate him. In an age when the Sun's graphically challenged half-witted cartoonist Franklin was still portraying coloured people as spear chucking cannibalistic savages with bones through their noses, Scargill was a gift from the gods of political satire, the Bobby Charlton sweep, the Yorkshire accent, the nose, the pointing finger, all became icons to a generation of tabloid readers too dim to care about the message. King Arfur, Ol King Coal, Gor Blimey he looks maaaaayd, don't he Rodderny.

The working class of the South sold it's soul to a Grocers Daughter, but wanted us to pick up the tab. We're going to pay, Scargill warned. Lost jobs, closed pits, devastated communities, a whole generation written off, surplus to requirement. Whilst the Iron lady was polishing up the knuckle dusters and knocking a few more nails into the baseball bat, the Labour Movement waded in with feather dusters. Water pistols at twenty paces. Not Scargill. Scargill was the representation of Northern resistance and Northern Pride, the public face of people prepared to stand up and say no.

In the face of an onslaught by the Thatcherite propaganda machine that was quite willing and more than able to sink to hitherto unknown depths, Scargill stuck to the facts. Truth versus the riot shields and big batons. The shape of things to come; pit closures and factory shutdowns. Mass unemployment. Fear of the dole. Join a trade union? Not me boss, I'm a good lad, me. Yes sir, thank 'e guv'nor.

Scargill was fighting a system prepared to go all the way if necessary, where Chief Constables were prosecuting miners who had their heads kicked in by Police officers with "damaging police property with their teeth". The rules were being changed by the dealer on an ad hoc basis. Thatcher was holding 5 aces, and the end was inevitable.

This was however no tame capitulation. The return to work was a glorious occasion; the sight of Scargill leading the men back to the pits is as powerful and moving an image now as it was back then. Beaten but not bowed. Pride intact. History shows us that all Scargill predicted did indeed come to pass. Sceptered Isle Plc went on to commit economic and social rape and pillage on a truly grand scale.

Perhaps that is the most important thing. At the end of the day it matters not whether you subscribe to the view of Scargill as your political messiah, fighting to preserve your way of live, job and dignity, or as an agent of some imagined Marxist Leninist plot, the inescapable fact remains that he was right.

Simple as that.

An illustration published in the music press that Christmas by John Shelley

 

 

Eight of of ten minors will pick it.

Arthur Scargill enters public conciousness as this trade ad for Lego shows.

Click here for one of the Yorkshire miners' leaflets to mobilise for the strike.