“When I set out to write the book about eight years ago, I think some of my friends said, “Oh god, a Marx, really?’” The latest biography by cultural historian and writer Rachel Holmes has salvaged the life of Eleanor Marx, daughter of Karl Marx and socialist-feminist activist, from oblivion, drawing her into a political climate, which is becoming progressively attuned to her early ideas.

“Quite unintentionally, I found myself writing on a very popular and topical subject,” she tells me. Holmes’ biography on Eleanor Marx has been published amidst a global groundswell of interest in Marxist ideas — particularly amongst people under the age of fifty. But why is this? “Marxism survives because it’s not a dry economic philosophy,” she tell me. “It’s an idea that’s full of all the ideas of human contradiction and culture.”

Eleanor Marx, or “Tussy” to Karl, gave life to the esoteric theories espoused by her father. She played a crucial role in the industrial struggle in late Nineteenth Century Britain, leading dock workers on strike and organizing the activity of their embryonic unions, as well as fighting for women’s rights and manifesting “the personal is political”. Holmes tells me how Eleanor would probably think the notion that you could separate the two rather strange. “I think it’s always useful to have a slogan,” she says. “But for Eleanor Marx there was no distinction between the personal and the political. The question of equality and of social democracy was about how you lived and brought up the family.” Even for the daughter of a revolutionary, these ideas seem forward-thinking in a Britain which had no electoral democracy, where neither working-class men nor women could vote, and where women were disbarred from higher education and serious political work.

On the day that we speak, Holmes is speaking at the Ruskin College, which was founded in 1899 (a year after Marx’s death) with the aim of providing university-standard education to working-class communities and trade unions, as well as host to the first National Women’s Liberation Conference in 1970 — both causes for which Eleanor herself fought unrelentingly. But given Eleanor Marx spent a great deal of her life campaigning for the eight-hour day, and we’re now in an age of “zero hour” contracts and modern slavery, I wonder how far she would approve of society in its current state. “There is much that she would be very heartened by,” Holmes tells me. “She would be fascinated by your student journalism and the fact that your newspaper is online as she was fascinated by new technology, and she would be delighted by the greater opportunity for self-fulfillment for women. But having said that, there are many things that would be familiar to Eleanor Marx.”

On gender equality, Holmes, who co-edited Fifty Shades of Feminism last year, says how she thinks things in Britain have slid back for women in the last forty years. She also believes that without leadership and organisation, this will continue. “It isn’t just an inevitable march forward of progress. We have fewer women in parliament than we did ten, fourteen years ago and fewer women in local governments.”

Holmes goes on to tell me how if Eleanor Marx were around today, she would rally behind Emma Watson’s call for men to take up the fight for gender equality. “Eleanor Marx, time and time again, said that men and women must stand together. Men are as constrained by patriarchy as women are. Yes, they get a lot more of the benefits, but patriarchy is deeply disfiguring for masculinity as well as femininity.” Holmes tells me of a history in Britain of men, both working-class men but also writers, playwrights, and politicians, who were active self-identifying feminists — a history, she feels, that was lost in WWI. “There are a few lone voices now, but somehow I don’t see that active participation in the same way.” Although perhaps this is changing, with a new generation of feminists ridding the term of lingering toxic connotations and bringing men back into the conversation.

Although Holmes builds up this dazzling visage of a fiery young woman, who stood out from other identikit reformers in acting upon every injustice around her, her personal life was clouded by dark family secrets and a foible, that happened to be a very “rotten bloke”. However, as Holmes puts it, this “makes her more human and like us”.

Until now, Eleanor Marx has been as famous for her untimely end as for her political activism. “For me, it’s her work that stands, and the importance of her pamphlet The Woman Question, and the impact she had on the new trade union movement. She is no more overshadowed by her personal life than the greatness of Winston Churchill is overshadowed by the fact that he was an alcoholic and had manic depression.” Perhaps it’s this idea, as Holmes lays out, that we tend to think of women as more three-dimensional, so bring all of their personal baggage into the writing of histories. “But you can read a whole history book on Trotsky,” Holmes tells me, “and only find out that he had a dog.”

Next year, Holmes plans to emulate Eleanor Marx’s agitation tour across America, visiting the same towns and trade union organisations that she went to, and “making a comparison between the economic and social conditions then and now.”

In honouring her as an international figure, an activist in her own right and not just the ghostwriter of her father, Holmes has given Eleanor Marx the end she deserves, and us a source of inspiration and leadership for the future.

This summer, three friends and I said goodbye to the comforts of Wi-Fi, hot showers and The Missing Bean, and set off for Mumbai in search of an adventure.

We wanted to get off the beaten track, pop the Oxford bubble and see what India is really all about. With these typical ‘gap yah’ aspirations in mind, we decided not to book any transport, accommodation or a proper route, but to wait and see where the journey took us. Below, I have compiled some of our stupid mistakes and accidental successes; the places and activities in South India that are excluded from The Lonely Planet for a good reason, as well as some amazing hidden gems that we stumbled upon.

One of our absolute best experiences in India was renting a rice barge in Kerala. This is how Oxford punting would be in heaven; you sit with your feet up like a fat cat, eating delicious freshly-caught fish while floating past villages and coconut trees in the tropical backwaters.

Goa is also a great place for backpackers on a budget, but if you’re in search of golden beaches and crystal waters, you’ll be disappointed. Palolem, the most famous beach, feels like swimming in murky lake water, and we found a dead chicken in the sea. That said, the views and bays were stunningly picturesque; lined with palm trees, traditional fishing boats, and beachside bars. Being the generic students we are, we couldn’t resist renting a motorbike for just £2 a day, and spent an entire day zooming around the crazy Indian roads, taking selfies, and narrowly dodging cows! When I took to the handlebars, however, I skidded round a corner, crashed into the ditch, and we had to be taken to a local hospital by some friendly Indian holiday-makers.

Transport in India is as much part of the adventure as the destination itself, and we got used to leaping on and off moving trains, with tickets and bags of food often being left behind in the panic. Travelling overnight from Mysore to Bangalore for 30p, on the cheapest train possible, was one of the worst but most amazing parts of our trip. I’ll never forget trying to sleep on a bench with my face pressed against my friend’s trainers, three snoring men dangling off the luggage rack above me, and a smell of sewage so strong I felt like I was drinking it.

Finally, you can’t travel to South India without trying the street food. At first I was worried about getting ‘Delhi-belly’, but sticking to touristy restaurants means you miss out on some of the most delicious meals in India, and despite regularly eating from dirty street stalls, we all remained healthy! Gobi manchuri (spicy deep-fried cauliflower) was one of my favourites, along with dosas (thick pancakes filled with spicy curry) and bhel puri (spicy puffed rice and chopped vegetables, served in a newspaper cone). Generally, as long as the food is freshly cooked and steaming it seems to be safe, and a glass of sweet milky tea from a chai-wallah is the perfect way to finish a meal.

India is wild, loud and beautiful, which is precisely what we were seeking when we set off.

With soaking wet hair, twisted straps on my dungarees, and smeared mascara, I head to my morning class. Clutching a fountain pen, and any traces of dignity that I did not lose over the last 12 hours or so, I realise that I am still drunk.

This may not be an unfamiliar image to you: head down and strides long as you try to convince passers-by that your eyeballs are not still slowly crying vodka.

Sadly it is not unfamiliar to me, either.

However, though evidently I drink in excess, it is infrequent that alcohol causes me to do abnormal things. That is, abnormal on the drunk spectrum, where stealing a stranger’s bucket hat, or closing a DJ’s laptop count as ordinary.

But sometimes alcohol likes to surprise you. To pat you on the back and remind you that yes, you really are psychotic. And that’s why I stop, as I’m walking in the street. Because as I pass the Rad Cam and check my Facebook notifications I see a comment in a group, a group consisting
of the nine guys and three other girls I live with.

2.30am. “What is this buzzing and knocking, anyone know?” A comment below: “Bex”. Various other housemates profess the fear of murder — pillage — as the Bexistentialist slammed her hand down on all the rooms’ buzzers before flying through the house, visiting each of the other rooms, knocking and flinging open each door without entering. My stomach sinks. Is this true? So many questions flood my mind, framed by one singular statement: I am a twat.

Later, with chocolate in my hair, my Sorry-For-Being-A-Twat-Cornflake-Cakes are baked. I post in the group that they should help themselves. But with desperate action, comes fear. Nine guys. Nine boxing/ footballing/DJing/sarcasm-slinging men. And I’ve baked cakes. After waking them up in the middle of the night. Have I ever been more stupid?

Later, as I brainstorm ideas for my column, one of the nine appears in my doorway. A ninth who usurps both my resting bitch face, and sarcasm. I remember him in his boxers, in the early hours, with one eye open, grunting about what the fuck was going on.

But now he’s in my doorway. “Those cakes were fantastic. Thank you very much”. On ‘much’ he has already gone slightly pink in the face? Did I imagine it? Is this but a dream? Sincerity. In a house where talk of wanking, pooing and fucking never leaves the air… Sincerity.

Never drinking again? Maybe I should drink more.

The other day I met a Judger. I was at a house party where vodka flowed, music rocked, and hot guys kept on popping up like you-know-whats when Jennifer Lawrence walks into a room. Someone had the great idea to turn a bedroom into a nightclub, so that’s where the cool kids charged, me leading the brigade. As soon as the hipsters got removed from music controls, Rihanna’s sexy beats filled the space. After a while of intense dancing with that night’s love of my life — can anyone dance differently when ‘S&M’ is on? — I whispered an invitation. Naturally, it was accepted (and I wouldn’t tell you if it wasn’t because megalomania). And at that point she pulled me aside and delivered the blow.

“What are you doing? Isn’t that a bit slutty?” Now, as an openly promiscuous lady I’m not surprised by this stuff when it comes from narrow-minded people I don’t care about. Normally I would give her a superior look and get on with my fun. Or I would say something involving “independence”, “feminism”, and “I will beat you with a riding crop”. In my world view, people should have as much or as little sex as they want and it’s nobody’s damn business. If you have consent and condoms, do as you please. But I liked this girl, and she was someone whose good opinion I cared about.

Instantly, I started to re-evaluate the evening. Yes, he’s hot and smart and funny and oh boy doesn’t his ass look good in those jeans. Yes, he’s smiling at me in this sexy, sexy way and I want to see him naked right now and I want him to do things to me that I can’t talk about, even in a public sex column. But what about people? I suddenly realised that if we leave together, we’d be noticed by the entire party. What about reputation? Respect? Gossip? Oh god I hate gossip. No, I want no gossip. Better stay here, sip my wine and let Her see that I am a decent member of society who’s definitely not going to be orgasming tonight.

The existential crisis lasted a full five minutes. I began to doubt my entire life and started considering a convent. What saved me was his worried look and my reverence for my own libido. Do I want him? Yes. Will I lose all respect for myself if I listen to a judgemental bitch instead of my own instincts? Hell yes.

So I left with the man and didn’t regret a thing. Her good opinion no longer matters, because she’s lost mine.