world without being touched or moved. We shepherd our emptiness from place to place.’ But now the postmodernist dreamtime was at an end:
‘Work hard, play hard’ has been the over-eager motto of a generation in training for … what?—drawing hearts in cappuccino foam, or plugging names and numbers into databases. The gleaming techno-future of American capitalism was long ago packed up and sold to China for a few more years of borrowed junk. A university diploma is now worth no more than a share in General Motors.24
And General Motors, by this point, had gone bust. As the stimulus packages ran out, and the first waves of post-Lehman austerity began to hit public-sector pay and pension rights in 2010, those in power comforted themselves with one thought: that postmodern society had eradicated solidarity. The young would never go out onto the streets to fight for the rights of the old, established workforce; the feral youth of the inner cities would never combine with the educated elite. There might even be an ‘age war’ between the baby boomers and the iPod generation. There would be strife, but it would never be coherent.
On 19 October 2010, the Paris bureau of Associated Press issued the following newswire: ‘Masked youths clad in black torched cars, smashed storefronts and threw up roadblocks Tuesday, clashing with riot police across France as protests over raising the retirement age to 62 took a radical turn.’
The age of capitalist realism was over. Things would now kick off in the most unlikely places, and involve people nobody ever expected to resist.
‘Trust Is Explosive’: Britain’s Youth Rebel Against Austerity
London. She walks into Soho’s Bar Italia looking like a postmodern Sally Bowles: black top, black skirt, black tights; bobbed black hair. Black cowl modelled on an outfit worn by Lady Gaga. Outsize black sunglasses. Blue glitter beneath the eyes. She says,
I was at a dinner party the night before the occupation and they said to me if you don’t come with us you will have to stay in the flat on your own and you won’t like it. You can tweet as much as you want. They kind of tricked me because we were on this march, and I was tweeting, and then suddenly we were in a room and that was the occupation.
This was on ‘Day X’, 24 November 2010, and the venue was University College London: just the kind of place a privately educated, Lib-Dem-voting twenty-one-year-old might go to get an English degree, in between drinking large amounts of gin and attending Paris Fashion Week:
The people who sat down at the media table turned out to be a working group: I knew most of them on Twitter but had never met them in person before. I think they recognized me from my Twitter picture because it’s, er, quite distinctive. Then, once we started tweeting, we got loads of messages of support and I started replying with this hashtag: #solidarity. I had no idea of, like, its historical meaning. I just thought: that’s a great word.
Had she heard of the Polish trade union Solidarity? Shakes her head. Nothing at all: only three weeks later somebody told her. Had she heard of the song ‘Solidarity Forever’? Ditto, but she can sing it now.
I had no politics. I still don’t subscribe to any. I’d probably say I was quite far left now—although I am not radical. I don’t read newspapers. I bought the Guardian once because there was a picture of me. I read blog posts. The books I read, apart from coursework, are mainly chick-lit.
Guy Debord? Toni Negri? Any of the books traditionally found strewn on the floors of student occupations? ‘I haven’t and I wouldn’t,’ says @littlemisswilde, whose real-life name is Jessica Riches.
I would rather read new stuff: the old ideas are nice to know; they’re context. But I would rather know what’s happening now. I can’t believe there are still people who read articles. If everybody had a Twitter feed you could just see the news as it happens. You don’t need 100 words of background.
If the political elite had understood the power of the militantly unread socialite with a Twitter feed, they might have salvaged something out of the clash they provoked with Britain’s youth. But they had no idea.
Millbank gets deconstructed
‘Millbank’ is journalistic shorthand for the unofficial nexus of power in British politics. The street, right by the River Thames, houses the political studios of the main TV networks, the party HQs, the offices of lobby firms and think tanks and, at the end of it, parliament.
But on the cold, clear afternoon of 10 November 2010, as around 200 students broke away from a student march to gather outside Conservative Party HQ at Millbank Tower, the word ‘Millbank’ was about to acquire another meaning. Because Millbank was where they lost control. The Coalition lost control of the political agenda; the NUS leadership lost control of the student movement; the police lost control of the streets.
Millbank was staffed by that narrow group of graduates who’d bought into the whole story of mainstream politics: the bad suit, the neat hair, the drug-free lifestyle led in hopes of one day becoming an MP. Now they found themselves besieged by their alter egos: girls dressed like Lady Gaga, boys wearing pixie boots and ironic medallions.
By 2 p.m. the cackle of circling media helicopters alerted the whole of central London that something was going on. Students had pushed their way into the forecourt of Millbank Tower. Police, in pitifully small numbers, found themselves squashed against its plate-glass windows. Now the protesters surged into the building using side entrances, fire-doors and eventually—after smashing the glass—the actual windows. Soon, a crowd of students were milling about on the roof. Others had already made it to the floor where the Conservative apparatchiks, locked inside, were watching it all on television.
Edward Woollard, an eighteen-year-old further education student, recklessly threw a fire extinguisher off the roof towards the police lines.1 In the forecourt the chant went up: ‘Stop throwing shit.’ The police, outnumbered, looked helpless.
Then things petered out. The students hung around a bit, lit fires with placards, painted some graffiti and then went home. But on their flame-lit faces you saw the look of people who had discovered the power of mayhem.
Millbank was one of those unforeseeable events that catalyze everything. The Liberal Democrats under Nick Clegg had ridden a wave of centre-left support in the May 2010 general election. The party’s MPs had signed a pre-election pledge not to raise university tuition fees; after gaining power as part of the Conservative-led coalition, they promptly signed up to support the tripling of fees, to £9,000 a year, and to abolish a small weekly grant for low-income school students.
The reaction among working-class school students went beyond outrage: they panicked. It was an impossible sum to comprehend. One told me: ‘My mum only earns £9,000 a year.’
Both the political and media classes anticipated that opposition to the fee increase would be led by the usual ‘student leader’ types, eager to join the Millbank set themselves. They thought Nick Clegg’s residual popularity with students—who, like @littlemisswilde, had voted massively for the Lib Dems in May 2010—would hold things together. They assumed, above all, that the youth were too engrossed in their iPhones and their Twitter feeds, too in thrall to postmodernist insouciance, to notice the freight train of economic doom coming at them.
Millbank shattered all these certainties. The mainstream media decided that, even if this student movement came to nothing, they had better start covering it as if it were part of something
