The Summer of '82

The mention of the year 1982 brings a whole collection of words into my mind without too much thought: Falklands, John Nott, Margaret Thatcher, ABC, Goose Green, HMS Sheffield, Tumbledown, Culture Club, Marco Tardelli, The Clash at Poole Arts Centre, Super Etendard.

And it's Marco Tardelli

Like most things in life (well adult life anyway), your views on the Falklands War depends on your age, political beliefs and whether or not you believed that standing firm on whether or not you should defend a piece of rock thousands of miles away was the right thing to do. I'd be prepared to defend the Isle of Wight but the French could take the Channel Islands and I couldn't give a stuff, so if we were going to fight over somewhere that the majority of people back in 1982 thought was one of the Outer Hebrides I needed some persuasion.

The background to the conflict whether in Argentina, the unpopularity of Galtieri, or Britain, the unpopularity of Thatcher are better explained by other people. It is worth noting however that successive British governments had been considering a watered down version of 'self determination' before the Argentines made the mistake of invading the islands. Years of central government neglect and an economy increasingly dependent on Argentina had seen the island and its closest mainland neighbours grow close.

The fact that we'd been trying for decades to offload the islands, with the ardent Thatcherite Nicholas Ridley presenting a leaseback solution to the House of Commons only two years previously, was forgotten. The fact that we'd traded with the junta, welcomed its leaders and sold arms to them, but now realised that it was a filthy dictatorship after all, was accepted without any sense of irony whatsoever. I worked closely with a client who, working on behalf of the U.K government, switched trading with Buenos Aires to Santiago overnight, Argentina's loss was the Chilean Naval Missions gain.

The reaction to the invasion was inevitable, what British prime minister wouldn't have done the same. Historically Argentina had been a friend of Britain, in fact in World War 2 it had been almost the sole supplier of grain to the allies. There was a certain irony that Lady Thatcher would turn to the evil bastard Pinochet in her times of trouble and ultimately we would provide parts and servicing for the Hawker Hunter aircraft that had been used to kill Allende and signal the beginning of years of torture and the disappearing of anybody who opposed the old bastard.

Our armed forces were, surprise, surprise, armed with crap weapons, boots that leaked, little in the way of back-up and helicopters that seemed to crash into the South Atlantic with a worrying rapidity, but they had plenty of that old plucky British spirit. The Argentine conscripts on the other hand were boys sent to do a man's work, similar in some ways to the American Air Force pilots in WW2 who couldn't fly at night through lack of training.

Super Etendard - Sexy name, flown by boys not men

I was living at Poole in 1982 about two hundred yards from the SBS headquarters and the streets were lined with union flags, it was like some bizarre royal jubilee was taking place. The local news stations made a big deal out of it, first off QE2 went, then Canberra, then various ships left Portsmouth - Fred Dienage has rarely been more excited, excepted in those times when Portsmouth won promotion, I'm sure he had an erection each time the words 'Task Force' were mentioned.

The whole business surrounding the retaking of South Georgia was faintly bizarre, the old bat standing outside number ten and announcing 'simply rejoice' like some stupid old hag who had just found the free plastic dildo in her packet of pornflakes.

I'd started going out with Janis in February 1982 and it was a twenty five mile drive from her house to our caravan in Poole. Each night when I left her house from April to June I'd switch on the car stereo and listen to the latest propaganda from Northolt or wherever. I didn't have anything against those brave men and women who were down there fighting their leaders war but the stuff we were being fed daily would have made a family of mushrooms happy for life.

I had almost daily arguments with my family about the conflict, after all being the only leftie in the house it was my duty and let's face it poor old Michael Foot wasn't able to stand properly let alone stand up to Mrs Thatcher. Mind you he couldn't really could he. I wasn't opposed to us defending British interests per se, whatever or however they were defined, I mean I had two Grandfathers who fought in successive World Wars, it was just that the whole thing stank of hypocrisy, of opportunism, of saving your political life. Funny how 25 years on you can protest in the streets against a war in Iraq, whilst back then you risked a good hiding if you spoke out of turn against the war in the Malvinas.

Is there ever a good war? A just war? The fact that there were a mere 1,800 islanders, and that their way of life was preserved at the cost of 1,000 British casualties and 1,800 Argentinian ones seems a grossly stupid and expensive way of conducting foreign policy. Oh, and by the way we had also been trying to get rid of Gibraltar prior to the Falklands, but afterwards it suddenly became as British as HP Sauce (as it was then).

When it was all over Britain forgave Mrs Thatcher, made her popular again, let her dismantle the unions, let Rupert Murdoch do what he liked, let some bald headed American with a Scottish name destroy the coal industry and made Arthur Scargill look a bigger prat than that combover had previously done.

Once the Falklands War was done and dusted we got on with the bigger questions, like was the lead singer with Culture Club a bloke or bird, why did ABC wear those stripey jackets in the video of Look of Love and would there ever be a goal celebration to beat Marco Tardelli's.

War Memorial in Port Stanley

There, that's got that off my chest.