The death of Nelson Mandela, whilst sad, is also a fantastic opportunity for racist politicians the world over to whine endlessly about what a diamond geezer he was and how much he inspired them. I haven’t yet seen David Cameron’s crocodile tears and can’t imagine any response more appropriate than puking over my own shoes.
The sight of the man who, with his Young Conservative chums, produced a poster that read “HANG NELSON MANDELA AND ALL ANC TERRORISTS THEY ARE BUTCHERS”, kicking around the corpse of  man whose feet they are not worthy of washing? Yeah, throwing up’s a pretty reasonable response, where I come from.
That’s one of the big drawbacks of death for those in the public eye. Professional mourners who stand for everything you despised wringing their hands over your coffin and claiming everything good you never did or stood for as their own.
Nelson Mandela did twenty-eight years in a South African prison. “That grubby little terrorist”, as that nice Mrs Thatcher called him, had, by December of 1986, become such a political white-hot potato, that Botha was practically begging him to get the fuck out of jail before he died in there, making South Africa look exactly like the racist, medieval fiefdom it was.
But Botha couldn’t just turf him out. No, that would’ve made him look weak in front of the Thatchers and Camerons of this world. Mandela was asked to “renounce terrorism” – which he wouldn’t. He went back into his cell and Botha went back to biting his nails, terrified that Mandela’s next heart attack would be his last and history would remember the apartheid state as the monstrous, evil empire it actually was.
Oh, how we laughed when, on the same news broadcast, over in sunny California, Charles Manson was offered the same deal and he turned it down, too. Charlie’s still in jail and probably heading for a much smaller funeral, attended by far fewer world leaders.
Look at Lou Reed. Say no to drugs, kids – or you might not live to see your seventy-second birthday, either. And as for terrorism? Christ, terrorists die before their ninety-sixth. And they get to be presidents, too.

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