As a man without a faithful atom in his body I am fascinated by the phenomenon of radicalisation; the alchemical process by which law-abiding, and often well-educated young Australians are transformed into passionate supporters of an international cadre whose beliefs send shivers down respectable spines. Unsurprisingly, those who embrace such an ideology keep their sympathies secret from their neighbours, their co-workers and even their own families, sometimes maintaining a façade of quiet respectability for years before acknowledging the values they’ve chosen to live by. Indeed, the internet has made it possible to progress a long way down that path without meeting a single fellow-traveller in the flesh. But eventually there is a tipping point; a moment when the desire to mingle with kindred spirits gives them the courage to leave their dusty laptops and dingy bedrooms and gather in some draughty hall or basement to listen to one or more of their leaders barking their dogma.

Attendance at these events is usually restricted to the faithful, but thanks to the low-life connections you can make as a Speccie columnist I was able to gain admission to one recently in Sydney. I was one of about 300 attendees, and when I arrived the tension was palpable. It was clearly the first time some had outed themselves so publicly and their nervous glances and lowered heads suggested they might be having second thoughts and were perhaps even worrying about being caught on CCTV. Others were less circumspect; slapping each other on the back and laughing raucously – reassured, no doubt, by the knowledge that however strongly their views might be opposed by the population at large, Australian law guarantees the right to express them with impunity. I recognised one of these men – a tubby, bearded, rough-looking fellow – as one of the movement’s most notorious and charismatic spokesmen. I had seen his fiery rhetoric on cable TV and YouTube, and knew it to have been instrumental in the recruitment of hundreds – perhaps thousands – of normally level-headed, clear-eyed young Australians. So it was no surprise when, after an expectant and respectful hush had fallen, he was summoned to the microphone to address us.

I won’t try to paraphrase the speech he made. Suffice to say that it was polemical, and profane, and pulled no punches, and by the end of it any doubts that anybody had come with had been comprehensively dispelled and every eye around me sparkled with conviction. The next speaker – an equally familiar but softer-spoken man in a suit and tie – was more measured and restrained in his delivery, but the message was essentially the same, and to illustrate it he quoted repeatedly from the same book which his bearded predecessor had brandished. It was about half way through his speech that I became conscious that it wasn’t just the people around me who were being seduced.

My natural scepticism and journalistic objectivity had all but evaporated and I had begun to share the sense of community, of being a part of something. I felt that I was being picked up by some powerful, irresistible tide and carried towards, well, I cannot really say. But now for the first time I began to understand the allure of this movement for certain people. It was a scary feeling, and I think I would have walked out at this point if it hadn’t been for the open bar. What? Yes, I said bar… Yes, a bar serving alcohol… What do you mean, ‘Why would there be a bar?’ Of course there was a bar… Well, where on earth did you think I was? Listening to some firebrand imams in the the ante room of a mosque in Auburn? No, no, no. I was in a room above a pub in Pyrmont, listening to Paul Murray and Mark Latham launch this magazine’s esteemed editor’s latest book. And a thoroughly deplorable evening it was, too.