I asked a young woman from Nottingham if there would be money after the revolution. ‘Gradually, eventually it’ll die out, hopefully,’ she said. She’d just qualified, she told me, as a human-rights lawyer. So did she favour a maximum wage? The idea had never occurred to her. She frowned a bit. ‘Yeah. About £40,000.’ ‘OK,’ I said, ‘but then everyone earning more than that will emigrate.’ ‘Good,’ her boyfriend chipped in, ‘get the fuckers out.’ Which concluded our seminar on wage control...

The hard Left tend to dress carelessly and without any attention to style. Many are physically ill-favoured too. There were plenty of keen-eyed youngsters around, but I don’t recall a single stunner. Guts, limps, spots, humps, corns, boils, scars, tics: these are marks that distinguish the species.

You've got to love the Brits.

Ah, but it ends on an ominous note. Who officiates at this ceremony of the disaffected but erstwhile agent of Saddam, George Galloway.

He must realise his time in Parliament is up, but he hasn’t much reason to care. Win or lose against the Telegraph, he will emerge as a hero or a martyr. His financial future may be in doubt, but his popularity is secure. And as long as those sexed-up weapons in Iraq elude the busy search parties, his reputation will grow. A most unlikely phoenix has risen from the ashes of Baghdad.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.