“What may this mean, that thou, dead corse, again in complete steel, revisits thus the glimpses of the moon, making night hideous, and we fools of nature so horridly to shake our disposition with thoughts beyond the reaches of our soul?”
So speaks Hamlet when confronted by the Ghost of his father on the desolate battlements of Elsinore.
Today the vengeful spectre of another former ruler haunts the ramparts of another desolate Wall, closer to home. It is a ghost arrayed not in steel but in iron, and a wall the colour of blood. It is the ghost of Margaret Thatcher, and it is the Red Wall upon which her sulphurous spirit stalks.
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