A moment of silence, please, for the man who knew perfectly well what the correct interpretation of the role of First Lady was and executed it flawlessly - in pants. Denis Thatcher died yesterday. He became an iconic figure in Britain, had a brilliant parody of his letters published regularly in London's "Private Eye," and was known to be sometimes as colorful in his real life as in his satirists' imagination:
Denis Thatcher wasn't too well known here in the States but I do know he is best known in Britain for the hilarious parody letters supposedly written by him that appeared in their humor magazine, Private Eye. And from what I understand, Denis Thatcher got a big kick out of reading those parody letters.
From today's Wall Street Journal
http://online.wsj.com/article/0,,SB105710339740288100,00.html?mod=opinion%5Fmain%5Fcommentaries Sir Denis
By QUENTIN LETTS
LONDON -- Should the United States ever have the sporting zest to elect a female president, her husband/partner/regular piece of trouser -- whatever you want to call him -- would be well advised to study the example of Sir Denis Thatcher.
* * *
Sir Denis, who died last week aged 88, played a blinder. As the husband of Margaret Thatcher throughout and beyond her premiership he was magnificent. He smoked like one of your clapped-out Ford Pintos. His drinking was on a par with that of an unclipped wolfhound lapping midday water from a hot summer trough.
He was also one of the last prominent men in Britain to wear a trilby hat, and mean it.
More than any of these creditable traits, however, Sir Denis was the embodiment of old-fashioned English uxoriousness. Displays of affection he kept to a minimum. Murmurs of complaint were seldom heard. He was just plain devoted and discreet.
He never granted a media interview, nor "upped his profile" by making splashy charity gala speeches, Lincoln Center-style. He certainly never had a private staff or his own, state-paid press spokesman. The very thought would have choked him.
You could say that Sir Denis kept things under that hat of his, and quite right, too. For it meant that he never encountered the turbulence experienced by Hillary "two for the price of one" Clinton.
The obituarists have reaped ripe anecdotes. There was the time Sir Denis saw his wife striding through the door of the British prime minister's residence, 10 Downing Street, and with one hurried hand emptied his illicit gin and tonic into a flower pot, while the other hand waved a cheery "Hello, dear." And there was the time, when asked for advice by the Duchess of York, Sir Denis told the troubled girl to keep her mouth shut. "Whales only get shot when they spout," as he reportedly put it. Whales? Perhaps that's why she flew to the dewlapped arms of WeightWatchers.
Yet these occasional indiscretions, while ticklish, were not enough to seal him so firmly in the public's affection. Sir Denis tapped in to something more important. He was a success because, in his state of apparently swivel-eyed, swaying silence, he was a blank page. We were able to design our own, inaccurate image of the man. Cleverly, he did not correct it.
There was little personal information to get in the way of that likeable, comic caricature of the hen-pecked tippler. Satirists helped him. They conjured a figure who spent as heavily in the saloon bar as he did at the bookmaker's, ached daily for the golf course, and mixed with a menagerie of busty barmaids, purple-nosed cads and whiskery white-hunters fond of reminiscing about big game.
Political associates of Mrs. Thatcher have in recent days recalled a different figure. They have spoken of a Sir Denis who had firm views about the privatization of public industries. He could be sharp about foreign dignitaries. Thanks to that caricature no one really questioned his influence, but it now seems clear that he did wield considerable clout.
Few people looked hard at his hard-nosed career in the oil business. Some decidedly colorful opinions, if that is the term, about black Africa were simply shrugged off. "Denis!" people would say. "Isn't he a card?"
When the end of Mrs. Thatcher's premiership neared it was Sir Denis, with a kindly "sweetie pie" and a soft word of realism, who told her she really had to call it a day. No one else had dared. "I love her too much!" one courtier had said. "Steady on!" joshed Denis.
He was a card all right, but nothing so cheap as a joker. Sir Denis Thatcher was an ace, a crafty ace, a sly, certain winner.
Jolly good. Cherio then.