The queues outside Easington Colliery Club were reminiscent of those lining up for broth and bread 29 years ago during the miners' strike. But on Wednesday they were there for a different reason.

Except the reason was a source of dispute. A few committee members claimed it was to acknowledge the 20th anniversary of the closure of the last pit in the north-east. Everybody else, including the Durham Miners' Association (DMA), which funded the event, said it was to celebrate the death of Margaret Thatcher.

"They've bottled it," said disgruntled former miner Derek Walker. "Whatever they say, we're here to celebrate." Charlie Burroughs, his rockabilly friend with a snaggle tooth, said he poured a drink when he heard the news. "A bottle of Glenfiddich. I'd been keeping it for the right occasion."

Walker added: "I promised myself I'd take a week off work when she died – and I have done." What work did he do? Walker grinned. "I'm unemployed at the moment."

This is pretty much the story of Easington, a colliery town and village with a combined population of 7,000, which has the highest obesity levels in Britain, the highest proportion of white people, and is the UK's fourth most deprived area. Billy Elliot, the film about the ballet prodigy, was shot there – partly at the club.

Actually, when the mines closed Walker went to college and retrained as a tree surgeon; Burroughs says he has been employed in cleaning since his final shift. But they believe they belong to a luckier few. For many, Easington is shorthand for the devastation wreaked by Thatcher on whole industries and communities.

Former miners chatted before going in, many happy to see each other after years apart. Red was the colour of the day. One of the few in black was Dave Hopper, general secretary of the DMA. He rushed around in an aggravated state. What did this day mean to him? "Well I've been waiting 20 years for it," he said. The slogan on his T-shirt read, "A generation of trade unionists will dance on Thatcher's grave."

Minutes later, everything had been amicably resolved. Even a few members of the press were allowed in. Guests sat at long tables drinking bitter, Guinness and lime and lemonade. A few champagne corks could be heard exploding.

Then Hopper took to the stage to clarify. "There's been a bit of confusion here. Durham Miners' Association is paying for everyone and our hospitality is extended to everyone who's come to celebrate Thatcher's death." Huge applause. "Anyone who hasn't can leave if they so desire."

Despite the police presence outside, it could not have been more harmonious inside. Beautiful photographs, accompanied by Billy Bragg songs, were shown – images of women staffing soup kitchens, men on the picket lines, gorgeous, grinning children who will now be middle-aged. The pain was visible on so many faces as they revisited their past, but sometimes they laughed as younger, hairier versions of themselves popped up on screen.

Despite the anti-Thatcher cheers, and jokes at her expense, there was little triumphalism. The feeling here was more profound, and infinitely warmer. This was more a celebration of solidarity and survival – love, even – than Thatcher's demise. There was comedy, music, dancing, fresh hog, pints for a pound, broth and bread and more hog.

Heather Brown, who started Women Against Pit Closures (they produced 500 meals a day from the tiny kitchen here), was trying her best not to cry. She said she had just seen someone she had not seen in decades whom she had assumed dead.

She might have been walking with a floral walking sick, but her hair was a fiery red. What did the day mean to her? "What it means is, we're together again. And it just makes me think, again, how important that strike was, and how well everybody did to last a year against the state. I feel nostalgic, alive again, enthused, happy, sad, all those things. Excited, that's the big thing. Excited."