Social drinking

On Sunday, about seventy of us from Lancaster set off to join the other discontents in Manchester at the march and protest at the Conservative Party Conference. The police, not known for the accuracy of their assessments of the magnitude of left-wing protests, said that there were fifty thousand people there.

People were there from all over the country: our coach got stuck between one from Northallerton and another from Glasgow. There was a man in a dress, waving a placard which said "Frocking Not Fracking"; a cardboard box with windows, which was a prop made by Gorton Against the Bedroom Tax; a group of black-clad hunt saboteurs calling for a cull of David Cameron.

We turned a corner and found ourselves on the crest of a small hill, and looked down to see the street full of people and banners as far as the eye could see, in front and behind. It made me feel un-alone, that millions of others also want a modern, civilised, compassionate society. In the words of one placard, "The welfare of all is the highest good." If the day had a dominant theme, it would have been the resistance to the Americanised privatisation of the NHS--which is already established in the areas where private firms can hide themselves most effectively.

The march took well over two hours to file into Whitworth Park. The first speaker I heard was a psychiatrist, undermining the ragged-trousered stereotype of the left with his clothes and accent. But I judged it was time to go out on the socialist lash.

In the Lass O'Gowrie, the pub looked like an outpost of the demo, with placards and posters stacked everywhere. I had to repeat, questioningly, the unpleasant surprise of the price of my pint. I met a woman from London whose union had chartered a train for them. "It's brilliant," I said. "We've taken over Manchester and I want to enjoy this." "Oh yes," she said, "a couple of pints afterwards is essential." She described another beer there as "fucking excellent", but the toilets stank and the beer cost £3.65 a pint.

In a crowded cheap pub I asked if I could squeeze onto a table with a late-middleaged couple. "I've been on that rally against the Tories." "Oh, our favourite people," they said. I straightened myself up. "Right, why do you..." "No, no, we're joking." "Oh, it's changed a lot Manchester now," she signalled, and I knew what was coming next.

How has resentment at financial inequality and the unfair allocation of resources become more frequently expressed in racial rather than economic terms in popular talk? I feel ambivalent in such debates: I resent the separatism of what I experience in day-to-day life, of the Muslim families who share my street; but the continued crafting of the UK--by all major parties--into a privatised, corporate disciplined misery for anyone but the rich, is of far greater concern.

On the train back an overweight punky couple were coming back from an afternoon's slutting down Canal St. They were amiably and loudly drunk, past the point of giving a shit about what anyone thought of them. One of them started lighting up a fag. A tall young man in narrow red jeans, big round glasses and with a quiff, was chewing gum ostentatiously and checking who was looking at him. He was becoming jealous that the gay duo were the cynosure of the carriage. When the latter got off at Bolton, Rich Kid came and sat in one of their seats in front of me. "Huh!" he said, turning round to me, hedging his bets as to which side the carriage was on in regard to them.

At Preston, our connecting train was delayed by an hour, so I wandered across to the Vic and Station, where beer was a more Lancastrian £2.40. An American man was hosting a round of the quiz; couples were lobbing a tennis ball to one another from cardboard cups. A man who organised a theatre festival I performed in a couple of time was in there. He's an obvious Tory, so we tactily agreed to ignore the subject of the demo, especially seeing as he bought me a drink.

Back at home the new lodgers were still up. I looked at Tess, and wondered why I don't fancy her, with her curly voluminous hair, shapely tits pushing against a red cotton top. To my relief, they'd also been out drinking. I was chatting, with no ulterior motive at all, about the former occupant of their room owing me £360, and they offered to pay next month's rent early.

Oh dear. My favourite contemporary poet, who turns me a bit silly, is appearing at our Literature Festival. I'm not linking to him from here: he's clueless about the internet but I don't want to hover around him any closer than I already do. Instead, here is part of my section about my favourite books, films and music on my dating site profile.