“It is not murder, however, of which you have convicted me. The judge has stated that much only this morning in his resume of the case, and Grinnell has repeatedly asserted that we were being tried not for murder, but for anarchy, so the condemnation is—that I am an anarchist!”
– Louis Lingg addressing the court.
For most people in Britain, if they are even aware of it’s existence, the International Workers’ Day is some of the background noise of the Mayday weekend, Beltane, Calan Mai, and the smattering of English rites ancient and modern that form a boozey opener to the good weather. Since 1978 a bank holiday, thanks gov. You can nurse your hangover for another day, go for a walk up the moors with the fella, or take the kids to Rhyl for the weekend.
For significantly less – those who pick up the discarded Metro on the way into town and other “in touch” types who vote and the like – it’s a liberal celebration of everything the workers have done, something like Mother’s day. It is little more than a day to pat itself on the back for overcoming itself and (eventually) giving all them workers the weekends the deserve. Good on you, have a day off, you’ve met your KPIs this week, don’t be late on Tues. It is a history revised. Sanitised. Repackaged. Repurposed. It is entirely disconnected from struggle. It is a holiday. They did the same thing to pride. Maybe, at best, they’ll scroll the annual BBC round up of some of the more spicy actions around the world, everyone loves a bit of riot porn, thank heavens we’re not so uncouth!
For the handful of statist-communists of various flavours, ie “The Reds” it means a march and a flag wave, with their section of the working class while giving looks at the other groups that actually don’t understand what Marx said like they do. Active resistance and labour organising has long been exchanged for a bit of a mooch with the union lads, some samba band keeping the energy up, and droning speeches by forgettable politicians looking for nice additions to their show reel. Their hollow rhetoric stirs deep in those who have sunk their political energy in a kneecapped union movement that does little more than exchange concessions with state and capital. It is a pantomime of acceptable “resistance”. Don’t worry comrade, we’ve filling in the correct council paperwork, the stewards have their bibs, did we get the placards printed? Glorious. Trots and Stalinists can reassure themselves they are still a part of a movement and – more odiously – convince angry youth of the same and soak away their most capable years.
If you step off that parade route, if you ignore the stewards, if you step even a hair out of the remit of the acceptable face of labour rights, if you struggle even an iota against the outlets of capitalist that trim the parade route in any meaningful way, breach the official permissions granted, if you for moment pose a threat or more likely mild annoyance for local elite… the police will facilitate your right to protest by smashing your face in.
The party politicians of the “left” are a mix bag sure, but the higher up they go, the more removed they are from what care they once had. Long before most people know their names, their interest in the liberty of our class has been reduced to a sound bite, some guff about how their ‘da used to have a proper job, how their landlord was an arse in their student days, a regional accent maintained to reassure you, “I’m one of you”. The working class don’t mean shit to them, much less the struggle against economic authority and the crushing boot heel of the bosses. Well, unless in poverty you’ve turned to the forms of crime which affects the middle class, or worse, you mess up the pretty high streets with their tents or sit on benches outside shops looking like…that, don’t you know we’re running for prettiest town this year?
Oh, they’ll sing The International, shuffle some money into a benevolent scheme, and tell you they are with you. Then sit in the service of an infrastructure that sends the police to shift your squatting arse, chuck a families entire belongings in the back of the van, coz you still owe Brighthouse a tonne even tho they ain’t existed for five years, and evict your gran cause she couldn’t make the rent that’s doubled in two years. They are rank hypocrites. Yeah, even your favourite one. There isn’t a one who will challenge the legal dictates of the system they are so keen to lead. They actively work against any radical dream of freedom in favour of a more viable accommodation with the bosses and chiefs of state, who one day, they hope to be.
For the perishingly few Anarchists of Britain (or at least this one) it is a bittersweet day each and every time. Even if you’re lucky and “something” is actually going down this year, it’s a reminder that none of this is enough. The legacy, the current reality, and the forecast for the future weigh heavy. Even in moments of joy, there is a melancholy puncture, like the liminal moments before the drunken euphoria crumbles. We’re haunted by a memory of better anarchists before us, and a future that seems keenly suicidal. Almost every rebellion, revolution, uprising, and insurgency mirrored by some moderate, reformist, or liberal counter point with endless more clout, clout they use to convince kids and grans to hand themselves over to the rozzas without struggle and tactical voting in the next election, the most important one of your life of course.
It’s hard to watch, it’s hard to be part of it. We have a thousand pretty words to say on May Day, I’m sure a dozen statements will be posted, maybe there will be a few black flags in the sea of blood, maybe someone will do SOMETHING this year. Up and down the UK at any number of events, both liberal and radical, Anarchists will be gathering on the edges and later come together for a variety of talks and gigs. We look fondly around the world at movements less corrupted, less pacified and dream of a better future, one where May Day is a day returned to the workers’ struggle and no longer just another day off.
Lets be honest we’re struggling. Ineffectual networks that exist for a couple of years, pop up, be angry, burn out. The “traditional” organisations that talk a big game but are overwhelmingly populated with paper members, locked behind bureaucratic barriers they have inherited, and struggling for a voice. The vibrant anarchists growing up now inherit movement on life support, a movement that unable to deal with it’s failures has near consumed itself.
The first steps of addressing this is owning this. We are in times of great pain are upon us and we are failing. Look around you, Take a good hard look at the networks you are in. From carded organisations to casual affinities. Mark Mayday 2026 as a day you decided to repurpose yourself into a more effective organiser, activist, and anarchist. To this end, and thinking purely about this weekend, I have some recommendations for myself and also for you, fellow rebel.
First, “Remember The Haymarket” yes, but not only. I want to drag up forgotten rebellions, revolutionaries, fellow workers, militants, renegades and working class heroes. It’s vital we spend time discovering the people and moments, not simple as intellectual curiosities but as lessons. How can I improve what I am already doing?
Second, we need more local networks. I say “find your people” a lot and I can’t honestly say I take my own advice enough. We’ve all got to start cooking and that starts with making connections new and re-establishing the old. Time to hit some folk up.
Third, do some minor act of rebellion and autonomy. Don’t wait for something greater. I used to do more of this, but somewhere along the line not so much. These actions are not for some lofty ideas of social change but are for self and community. The more we actually go and exist for a moment and stop pissing away the days in despair and memory, the more we fuel the culture of resistance within us. Little acts of rebellion, it’s the most revolutionary thing you can do sometimes.
Finally, plot. International Workers’ Day 2027 is only 365 days away.
The night is young and it can be full of the most beautiful moments of freedom is you want it to be. The May Day weekend is here and taking back our memory, making this day means something again, beyond the hireath, starts with finding the strength within yourself and the decision in the leg work on the immediate level. Remember that YOU are an anarchist, and that is something fucking beautiful and powerful. Remind them of the existential threat that is your existance and start taking International Workers Day back.
Whatever it is that you do, do something.
Stay Dangerous.
Peter Ó’Máille
P.S. It’s Somerset Anarchist Bookfair at Rockaway Park on Saturday, and if that’s your ends, that’d be a pretty good place to spend part of your weekend eh ;p
