October 12th, 1984. Brighton, England.

Ever tried to remember something really, really hard? Sometimes, your mind spits back memories at you in the form of blurry images. Your brain wants to tell you about whatever it is you're searching for... but, at the same time, wants you to relax. That's when these recollections of split seconds reappear, teasing you into engaging your thought process once again. Now, as I rock backward in my chair and try to tell the story of October 12th, 1984, I find myself in this very situation. It's like a jigsaw designed for your mind - try and piece together the memory thus reliving the moment. Let me just spit out the few vague segments of my 8th birthday that originally came to the forefront of my thoughts when I first pondered events surrounding my 8th birthday.

Sunlight peering through the clouds. Candy floss. Brighton promenade. Men in black suits. Sea. Sand. My Mother's red dress.

I guess that's just about it. When you're 8 years old, you're far more concerned with the toy car that your Auntie Linda bought you than anything else...

"A terrorist attack? In England? Excuse me, but I'm 8 years old. I really could care less. I've survived. So has my toy car. Now, please, go and watch the news, read your papers or talk about silk quilts... Just go away and do what ever you grown ups do."

That's right. A terrorist attack. Now, since I don't actually remember the event in question myself, I've relied on my parents to tell me the tale of the Brighton bombing. Believe you me, they've told it and told it and told it and... You get the picture. So, at the grand old age of 27, I now feel well enough equipped to give you an accurate version of events on October 12th, 1984.

The wind roamed through my hair, carefully meandering and dancing around on my head. I wasn’t really too bothered about whether or not my hair was an untidy mess – I was 8 years old and my parents had taken me for an outing to the sea side. Of course, when I say they’d taken me on an outing, I don’t necessarily mean they went out of their way to do so – we’d visited my Uncle Andrew, who owned a cosy little coastal cottage with a fantastic view of Brighton’s bay.

So it seemed like the obvious thing to do. Kill two birds with one stone. Let the 8 year old have a day on the beach to celebrate his birthday.

“That Conservative party conference is being held somewhere down here,” mumbled my Dad, as he gripped my hand tightly.

“Whatever gave that away?” questioned my Mum sarcastically, as she stared around the overcrowded streets at the hordes of suited government officials. It was like a damn carnival parade.

When you can’t see above waist height though, parades don’t really take your attention by the scruff of the neck. I was more interested with the sand of the side of the road and the ant colony that had gathered near one of the sewage grids. Whilst being half heartedly dragged down the sea front, I began to name the ants. Roy. Bob. Norman.

The grown ups could keep their parades, long walks on the beach and fancy cars. I was giving a select group of ants their individuality back. Now who’s got the power?

Sadly, the moment passed rather suddenly as my father jolted me from the floor and threw me onto his shoulders. Dad’s like to believe that kids love that kind of stuff. However, given the circumstances, I’d much rather have liberated the ant world than been given a good view of the line of suits the filled the road.

“Look! Christopher! Look! Margaret Thatcher’s is in that black car there!” proclaimed my Mother excitedly.

Margaret Thatcher? Who? At first, I couldn’t make the connection between the name and the face. It was easy to figure out that she wasn’t one of my school yard friends though. Who the hell would name their daughter Margaret? This was 80s… We were cool. We wore fluorescent tracksuits. Hell, we had Wham! That’s when I realized that this Margaret person had to be some kind of celebrity grown up.

“You know, she’s our Prime minister, don’t you, Christopher?” grunted my Dad with a mumble. “Our first ever woman Prime minister… and the last if my vote has anything to do with it.”

Now, don’t get me wrong, my father wasn’t sexist by any means. It was just that Thatcher’s policies had done a lot to piss off the working class. She’d introduced the ‘poll tax’ which had basically crippled a lot of low earning families. My Dad’s Dad hated her because of that – and would never forgive her. That’s where my Dad’s personal dislike of the woman began, but as he grew older himself, and began to actually follow politics, it developed without the aid of his father’s views.

Boom.

Several minutes after Thatcher’s car had rolled past us, a state of panic destroyed my birthday and changed Brighton forever. Fire trucks, police cars, helicopters and just about every other form of emergency vehicle had been dispatched and were sent speeding towards the ‘Grand Hotel’ – the site of the Conservative party’s conference.

We were around a mile away from the actual Hotel when the bomb detonated. Luckily for us, it wasn’t a huge explosion – however, it was enough to complete obliterate 11 of the 12 floors of the Grand Hotel. Apparently, Thatcher was rushed out of there in the nick of time, but others hadn’t been so fortunate. Within seconds, thousands of people had turned away and bolted straight back down the promenade, screaming in fear of their lives.

“I think we’d better go too!” sounded off my Mother, almost in a state of shock.

I’d later find out that the attack on the Hotel was part of the IRA’s plan to kill Thatcher and any other leading Conservatives after the way she’d treated Irish ‘prisoners of war.’ Apparently, her ‘no nonsense’ approach to politics had led to the starvation of one particular prisoner that went on hunger strike. The Irish were angry for the way they’d been treated by the Conservative government.

Despite the bomb, Thatcher battled on and gave her speech at the conference… albeit a day later. I’ve never liked her on a personal level – but you can’t fault commitment like that.

As we trundled back down the sea front and reached the safety of my father’s Vauxhall cavalier, we all breathed a heavy sigh of relief. Naturally, the events had shaken me up a great deal. My mother wrapped her arms around me and cried her eyes out. She was happy to be alive. So was I.

The IRA had spoiled my 8th birthday. Happy birthdays are something you expect as a God given right as a child too. That’s where my personal hatred for them started. Soon enough, it degenerated into a hatred for the Irish people as a whole.

Love Irish? Fuck no.

We interrupt this memory to bring you an important phone call.