What did actually happen in 1968?

Having read a lot about the marches on May Day this week in Paris and other cities, I thought I would try and find out a little more about what actually happened on the streets during this time. I didn't actually realise that the marches and riots went on for one month.

Here's an nteresting account from rock music author Fred Vermorel, who was in Paris during the uprising and events of May and June 1968. Fred Vermorel in Paris, May 1968

The day before I left for Paris, in September 1967, I paid a final visit to the Tate Gallery. I lingered by the Pre-Raphaelites. When would I see them again? Then I went into a nearby cafe and sent Malcolm (McLaren) and Vivienne (Westwood) a farewell letter. I inserted a recent cutting from the Guardian. It concerned a murder case in which the only clue was 'three long blond hairs'.



On the night ferry over I tried to rehearse a spirit of exile by straying on the windswept deck. This fantasy was nearly spoiled by the remarkable coincidence that travelling on the same ferry was a woman who had worked at Hermann Baur's lingerie firm. She kept winking at me. But I turned my back and maintained my reverie until the Gare du Nord.
In Paris I booked into a Left Bank hotel, and set about registering at the Sorbonne. In order to do this I had to fulfil a number of bureaucratic obligations - standing in line and so on. I was also confronted with a number of problems to do with my eligibility for grant aid, and my dual (French-British) nationality.

I began terrorizing the French in a way I found very effective. I discovered that a show of Anglo-Saxon hooliganism so completely threw them that they would accede to almost anything. Thus I began storming in front of queues, bursting into offices, refusing to leave until my case had been heard - immediately! - pestered officials, reducing some to fury and others to tears, and generally carried on in the vein of Arthur Rimbaud.

Looking back; I suppose the apparition of this rather pretty young man, with an English accent, and a set of uncompromising demands, must have seemed quite sexy, and rather amusing - more of a frisson than your average day at the office.

I also think that at that point in '67 the French had not caught on to the anarcho principles circulating in my milieu in London, and had no defence against a solitary youth who knew his Bakunin and James Dean and wasn't taking any fucking shit from any fucking bastards.

I enrolled on my course, which was called French Civilization (a university university entrance course for foreigners). I listened to the debates on Radio Sorbonne and attended lectures. I explored the bookshops, and frequented the Cinematheque.

But the French students seemed dull, and so very nice. I wrote glumly in this vein to Malcolm.

To read the rest of the article take a look here...

If you have any personal stories about 1968, please log them up as comments...thanks