Hail, Galloway!

I spent last weekend trying to become a revolutionary. In early July the sunny avenues of Bloomsbury fill up with Marxists at their annual conference. The jamboree lasts a week (it’s still going on right now) and there are lectures on a range of subjects from ‘The Roots of Gay Oppression’ to ‘Luk•cs and Class Consciousness’ and ‘The Meiji Restoration: Japan’s revolution from above’.

I passed a useful morning in a lecture hall attending a three-module course in political theory. I opened my eyes to historical materialism. I learnt with disgust about the oppression of the workers. I felt a thrilling revulsion at the vices of the ruling class. But at the end of the second hour, something unexpected happened. I grew thirsty and suddenly tired. The air in the cosy lecture hall began to bear down on my spirits. My fellow students, crouching attentively in their rows, were like a tribe that I no longer recognised.