To London’s Harley Street where, late yesterday evening, former Prime 
Minister - Lady Baroness Margaret Hilda Roberts Thatcher - took her last breath in 
a private ward at the exclusive Portland Hospital. Come dawn and citizens from across Britain had begun to
gather outside the site, bringing with them drums, loudhailers and party hats as they left tributes to the dead
woman on bits of cardboard reading: ‘Good Riddance’ and ‘Rot In Hell Bitch’.

Home Defence joined the carnival atmosphere that saw much morning frolicking, girls swinging
around lamp-posts like they were in a Hollywood musical and a few isolated instances of fucking in
the street. We spoke with some of those who had risen at dawn, discovered the good news and
resolved to join in with the spontaneous festivities.

“When I was at school she took my free milk away like some kind of hideous political witch.” One
woman dressed as a fairy tale crone in honour of Thatcher told us. “That meant we had to drink rusty
pipe water instead and my bones were never the same after that. I’m just glad to see the back of

Our interview was then interrupted by veterans of the Falklands War engaging in anti-Thatcher chants nearby. 
Beside them Chilean exiles who had lost family members during the time of Maggie’s support for Pinochet, a man
 she publicly thanked for “bringing democracy to Chile”, danced a cancan and whooped.

In recent months this 83 year old woman’s condition had worsened considerably as the 
dementia that afflicted her, and which, in hindsight, was all-too evident during her final term of office,
deepened until Thatcher was completely nutzoid. Towards the end the woman could barely recognise a
chair, let alone one of her own children. Thatcher also suffered a series of strokes which meant she kept
falling over, often in a way that was very funny. This situation necessitated the installation of metal pins in
various parts of her body until the Baroness was effectively a cyborg, and a half-dead cyborg at that; one
in a constant state of pain and suffering. This state of affairs delighted millions around the world. 

Although she hadn’t been wheeled out to face the public in a number of months, those worst effected by Thatcher’s Eighties reign of terror could still hardly believe this day would come, forever keeping their fingers crossed and praying to the Lord God that it might. Any belief Thatcher’s passing would result in a public outpouring of grief seems to have been wide of the mark, with the only individuals ostentatiously mourning this old battleaxe close members of her family and a small group of shuffling, hunchbacked Conservatives, all over the age of fifty.

Mrs Thatcher’s rise to prominence came when she made a pact with Satan (right) back in the 1940s. 
Soon after she ensnared a divorced businessman called Denis, a man with little idea of the Pandora’s 
box he would open when henpecked into paying for his wife’s legal studies. Margaret soon became a 
barrister, but because of her strong convictions, including a belief in the death penalty and an enthusiasm 
for birching (the beating of defenceless children with twigs until they bleed), Thatcher soon crossed over 
into the political arena and began to frighten a number of powerful people.

By remorselessly removing more ineffectual Tories, Margaret Thatcher was made leader of the Conservative
Party in 1975 and elected Prime Minister four years later with a mandate to revive the British economy by any
means necessary. This she did by reducing state intervention in financial systems, becoming a cheerleader for
free marketeering, and selling off national institutions to private companies. Indeed, Thatcher put into place a
set of policies that would implode the economy twenty-five years later, but by then the former P.M. was too
barking-mad-mental to understand she had sowed the seeds of Britain’s worst recession in decades.

A number of personal quirks saw Thatcher sleeping no more than four hours a night, keeping up the ‘special 
relationship’ by occasionally fondling Ronald Reagan and starting a pointless war to distract people when 
her popularity fell. By these means Thatcher somehow managed to stay in power until 1990 when she was 
felled by a bloody internal uprising, backed by millions of ordinary people who rioted their way through 
London’s streets.   

Thatcher is survived by the two children she fathered; Mark 
(‘The Coup Backer’) and Carol (‘The Insect Eater’) (left).

During the so-called ‘Iron Lady’’s eleven year reign of fear, Britain became a hotbed of
dissent and paranoia with neighbours informing on each other whenever anti-Thatcherite
views were expressed and a number of left-wingers disappearing from their homes, never to be seen again. The grief-stricken mothers of these ‘missing’ can still be seen, clutching photos of their lost sons and weeping into rosary beads as they tend shrines across the UK set up in remembrance. 

Although the true number who fell at Thatcher’s hands can never be known, official estimates have her as 
responsible for the deaths of thousands. These include the hundreds who never made it back from the 
Falklands, political prisoners who starved themselves to death in ‘The Maze’ prison, and her own husband 
(right) who was lost to drink a while ago. Even after Thatcher’s political downfall, the British establishment 
continued to quake with fear at the mere mention of her name, trying to appease ‘Maggie’ with metal statues, 
meaningless titles and multiple book deals. Indeed, subsequent Prime Ministers were forced to invite the 
woman back to 10 Downing Street whenever she expressed a desire to ‘look round the old place’. Major, 
Blair or Brown would watch her like a hawk and try not to spill the tea while they trembled with fear in her 

Back on the streets of Britain, HDUK joined jubilant liberals, visitors from Continental Europe and Ted
Heath’s grandchildren; all skipping and blowing whistles as they gleefully discussed how much pain she
must have been in near the end. Mingling with the crowds we discovered jugglers, stilt-walkers, marching
bands and teams of gymnasts, all attempting to dance with us. This carousing is expected to continue
beyond Thatcher’s public funeral and memorial service, an event that will see 
ex-miners queue up to spit and urinate on the dead harpy’s coffin.

As of press time Baroness Thatcher’s soul was being held in purgatory until the paperwork could be 
cleared and a place found for her in the hottest circle of hell. Once there she will join her old friends, 
including Augusto and Ronnie, while burning for all eternity.

with Al Likilla

Home Defence UK
A Symptom of a Greater Malaise
Thatcher Dies
Hated Dictator Breathes Her Last
All-Night Rejoicing Clogs British Streets
A jubilant crowd gathers.

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