The Revolution Was Never Entirely Sober – Or Entirely Successful

I was listening to The News Quiz on Radio 4 when they asked: what are older people doing more of now that teenagers used to do in the 60s and 70s but no longer seem to?

On their own. In groups. And, apparently, with people they have never met before.

I thought the answer was protesting.

It seemed obvious. The teenagers of the 60s and 70s are today’s pensioners. Our generation marched against nuclear weapons, apartheid, Vietnam, Thatcher, the poll tax. If there was a banner to hold, our generation was underneath it. If there was a chant to learn, our generation was slightly off key but entirely convinced.

We knew the words to Blowing in the Wind and The Times They Are A-Changin by Bob Dylan. We could bellow Give Peace a Chance by John Lennon with more enthusiasm than pitch control. Some preferred the righteous snarl of The Clash. Others waved lighters to Joan Baez. Either way, the soundtrack came ready made.

And our generation still is at it. Go to almost any demonstration now, whether about climate, sewage in rivers, or the latest arrests linked to Palestine Action, and you will see a respectable showing of grey hair and sensible coats.

The difference is structural. At twenty, a night in the clink can derail a career. At seventy, with the mortgage paid and the pension guaranteed, it becomes a mildly inconvenient anecdote. There is a certain liberation in knowing that an employer cannot sack you because there is no employer. The worst they can do is confiscate your thermos.

But that was not the answer.

The answer was drinking.

Which, on reflection, is entirely consistent.

Because our generation did that with equal enthusiasm. Alone with a record player and something alarming in a bottle, Dylan crackling in the background. In groups in parks and pubs. And with complete strangers at festivals or after marches, bonded instantly by shared indignation, a borrowed guitar and a loosely supervised crate.

Young people today drink less. They are more health conscious, less inclined to wake up on unfamiliar upholstery wondering why there is a traffic cone in the kitchen. Sensible creatures.

Our generation, meanwhile, has not so much abandoned the habit as carried it forward.

Which raises an awkward possibility. Perhaps our generation protested, and still protests, because it has always been slightly marinated. Not incapacitated. Not incoherent. Just gently fuelled by a lifetime of mild indignation and moderate alcohol content. It would explain the stamina. It would explain the willingness to argue with strangers. And it would explain why a few hours in a police cell is less a deterrent than an interruption.

In youth our generation marched and then drank. In retirement it drinks and then marches. The order has shifted. The instinct remains.

The revolution, it seems, was never entirely sober.