I lost my political party conference virginity on Tuesday. I have been watching them from afar for more than 40 years without ever being at one in person, breathing the same air as these people.
In not quite the same way, I had watched an awful lot of football on television before my grandad took me to my first match at the venerable age of seven. Oh my word, the greenness of the pitch under the lights; the sight, sound and smell of the crowd. I was transfixed before a ball had been kicked. There is no time like the first time.
This wasn’t quite like that, but it wasn’t far off. Joining the queue for security I felt wary, even a little frightened. I despair of people who profess no interest in politics, but equally I find the truly politically committed a bit of a worry. Activists feel like extremists to me, a bit too one-eyed and wild-eyed to sensibly engage with. A peculiar breed. Unfair I know. My bad.
I must stress that I would feel like this lining up to get into a Labour, Lib Dem, SNP, Green or whichever annual conference. But perhaps I was particularly jumpy here with the Conservatives – I do write for the Guardian, after all. A woman asked me if we were in the right queue. A trick, surely, to draw me out. I went to shrug but just nodded. Phew. I hadn’t blown my cover. But before I knew it we were chatting about the blustery weather. A couple of apple-cheeked youths in smart suits grinned at me. I started to suspect that this mob had no interest in beating me to death after all.
I shuffled in nevertheless, as a Jewish friend of mind would say, on shpilkes. My colleague, the BBC’s political editor, Chris Mason, walked past, or tried to. I collared him. I needed a friend. I told him I was somewhat disoriented. “The slightly odd thing,” he said, “is that all this kind of thing is my normal”.
Deputy chairman Lee Anderson came by, with a kind of celebrity glow about him, like a kid in an old Ready Brek advert. Grant Shapps, too. With so many of the assembled – journos, MPs, special advisers and lobbyists – staying in hotels within the ring of steel, it had the feel of a decidedly odd all-inclusive resort, or perhaps something like a Doctor Who convention with stars of the show, big and small, in attendance, bestowing favours.
It was the exhibition hall that really blew my mind. At some level I must have thought stands at all parties’ conferences would be expensive, sophisticated lobbying operations by the likes of Big Bad Oil plc adorned with slogans such as: The Black Stuff Is The Right Stuff. Or Peerless Private Equity Partners, You Don’t Understand It But You Know It Makes Sense. I couldn’t have been more wrong. The first stand I clapped eyes on was for the Cats Protection charity. Honestly, I thought I had wandered through the wrong door. Not far away was Guide Dogs. And a not particularly fancy jewellery shop.
As for Big Bad Oil, it wasn’t much in evidence, apart from a couple emphasising their green credentials. Most of the big corporates claimed to be about nothing other than doing the right thing for the environment. HyNet North West said it was all about Making Industrial Decarbonisation Happen; someone else said they were intent on Transforming the Humber into a Net Zero SuperPlace, which sounds like a jolly good idea.
But the oddest thing was the lengths to which nearly every stall felt they had to go to arrest the attention of delegates. I assumed there would be lots of standing around looking at graphs and charts and displays accompanied by knowledgable umms and ahhs and ruminative chin-stroking. Oh no, we are talking nothing more cerebral than toys, games and puzzles. Stuff like trying to get a little ball around a handheld maze. Leaderboards identified who had fared best. Shapps seemed to have performed solidly on many of them.
But is this the kind of feeble-minded fun that is required to get our politicos to focus on anything for more than a couple of minutes? It was like a country fair. There was everything shy of a coconut shy. Some stands took this stuff to 11 out of 10 on the Spinal Tap volume dial. Sainsbury’s, incredibly, had a Scalextric track for this gathering of the intelligentsia to play on. Sweet. Taking the biscuit though, was RenewableUK, with its highly sophisticated coffee offering. They took a picture of you, and somehow reproduced your image in chocolate powder on the froth. The queue was long. Interest in RenewableUK was plainly fervent.
I saw a well-known right-of-centre broadcaster, an old hand, and shared with him my bewilderment. He just shrugged and said, “You’ve got to remember, it’s mainly just about drinking and shagging.”
Around midday, I wandered over to the lobby of the Midland Hotel. It was packed and on the brink of something. I recognised this particular energy very well. It was what you get at the moment when revellers transition from recovery after the night before, to the thrilling realisation that it is time to get on the sauce all over again.
The Alcohol Change UK stall had useful leaflets with “Top tips for drinking less during party conference season”. But there didn’t seem to be many takers. I looked around for a Shagging Change UK stall offering similar advice about the other thing, but they weren’t there this year.
I have not had as much fun as this in ages – even without engaging in either of the attendees’ chief pursuits. Being rather feeble-minded, myself I enjoyed all the games and puzzles no end. I came away with my name on more than one leaderboard; several business cards; a matchbook of forget-me-not seeds from madeinbritain.org, and a tea towel depicting varieties of cheese from the National Farmers’ Union, which I mislaid at a display about tidal power.
Apart from that mishap, I have no regrets. I never even saw the inside of the main conference hall but who needs speeches when there is so much fun to be had elsewhere?
