We may need to have a rethink. Over the last few days it seemed to have become apparent that Keir Starmer wasn’t very good at the politics of being a politician. Taking the free suits and glasses. Being slow to realise this could make him look hypocritical. Sitting back while different factions within the Labour party elite kick lumps out of one another. Making a mess of the winter fuel allowance. Unsure whether he was making cuts or means-testing benefits. Unable to move on from days of bad media. Generally looking a tad on the dim side.
Now not so much. Come the start of Labour’s party conference in Liverpool, Keir was a man on a mission. Willing to learn from his mistakes. Ready to do whatever needed to be done. And what needed to be done was … nothing. It’s usual for the prime minister to make himself available for TV interviews on the Sunday politics shows during conference. A rite of passage.
This time Starmer just said no. Couldn’t be arsed. He’d done them all a month or so ago and enough was enough. Nothing left to say. This turned out to be an inspired move. Why not treat yourself to a lie-in rather than go head to head with some nosey journalist who wasn’t really interested in your sacred missions and only wanted a few gotcha moments over your freebiephilia?
So it was left to others to fill the dead air. To take the hit. First up was the education secretary, Bridget Phillipson, on Sky. Where the only topic was freebies. Après Keir, le deluge.
“So,” said Trevor Phillips. “Tell us all about how you got someone else to pay for a couple of 40th birthday parties. More to the point, I’d like you to explain why you didn’t invite me. Dozens of other people I know were there and I was left sobbing at the door.”
“They weren’t parties,” Phillipson replied, somewhat tetchily. “They were receptions.”
“That’s odd. They looked very much like parties on the invitation.”
“Well, they were bloody hard work for me.”
“Here’s how it works from now on. You have no engagements whatsoever for two weeks on either side of your birthday. Only that way do you look above reproach. And if you do have a bash, you make me guest of honour.”
“I’d like to move on from this now,” said Bridget.
“I bet you would. But no dice. You’re on the make, aren’t you?”
The Soviet-era show trials continued over on the BBC where Angela Rayner found herself prosecuted by Laura Kuenssberg.
Kuenssberg pointed the spotlight directly into the deputy prime minister’s eyes. “Admit it,” Laura barked. “You’re guilty. Banged to rights.”
“I’m innocent,” Angie whispered. A tear leaking from one eye.
“No, you’re not.” Laura tightened the thumbscrews. “Keir’s at it. Bridget’s at it. You’re all at it. How come you’ve all got such wealthy friends? That’s immoral.”
“But I declared it. If anything, I’ve been too transparent.”
“Don’t try that shit on me. If anything, declaring it makes the offence even worse. Like you’re hiding in plain sight. At least Boris Johnson tried to cover things up. You’re just taking the piss.”
“Boris took £24,000 from the Bamfords to pay for his wedding and no one batted an eyelid, Aaagh.” There was a crack as the first finger broke.
“Don’t even try to pretend there’s an equivalence. You took a free Biro from a Help the Aged stand. And now you’re trying to kill all pensioners. What kind of person does that make you?”
“But we’re going to build more homes … ”
“I’m sorry. That’s all we’ve got time for.”
This wasn’t how it was meant to be. Last year there was a genuine buzz during Labour’s conference in Liverpool. Big ideas. Big promises. The excitement of a party on the verge of winning power for the first time in 14 years.
Twelve months on and the mood is decidedly more downbeat. And not just because the party finds itself wrong-footed by any number of idiotic own goals. I mean, it’s not that hard. When people come offering shiny, expensive things, you just say no. It doesn’t matter if it’s technically within the rules. When you’ve promised to do things differently to the Tories, then you take your snout out the trough.
The malaise goes deeper than this. There’s a state of near-paralysis within the party. Big changes are promised. But no one knows exactly where they are coming from or how they are going to be paid for? We’re in a half-life of becoming. Everyone waiting for someone else to do something. An imminence bordering on immanence.
Even the celebrations in the main hall feel semi-detached. You can tell that the delegates are keen to enjoy their success. They want to make the most of their remarkable success in the July election. Hell, landslides don’t come around that often and they should be fun. But none of the cabinet ministers can quite allow themselves to join in. This is to be a joy that must be contained. One that comes with plenty of caveats.
Pat McFadden couldn’t be cheerful if he tried. The current doom and gloom is his idea of nirvana. Rayner is usually the last person standing at a rave, but even she couldn’t quite allow herself to enjoy the moment. Maybe she’s still feeling duffed up by the focus on her holiday arrangements. Trying not to blame Keir. Or maybe she’s finding being in government harder than she expected. Had hoped the honeymoon period would be longer. Is having to learn to be serious. Whatever, she seemed almost disconnected. There and not there.
Other ministers came and went. Darren Jones and Lucy Powell had nothing to say and came and went in a heartbeat. David Lammy was the most animated of the bunch – starting a call and response – “Britain is back” – but even he was underpowered. Everyone was just desperate to be elsewhere. By 3.30 in the afternoon all activity in the main hall was over for the day. It was like no one wanted to be here. The organisers desperate for everyone to be somewhere else. Conference at its most meta. An illusion of activity.
