The morning after the night before. Many Labour delegates had already gone home or were recovering from late-night karaoke sessions: Things Can Only Get Better on repeat. Party like it’s 1997. The curious decision to bring the leader’s speech forward to Tuesday had all but killed off the Labour conference. Maybe that had been the plan all along. To keep things short and sweet. If so it worked a treat. The queue to enter the venue had been reduced to a mere trickle. Only the hardcore remained.
Not that Keir Starmer was bothered. He was still on cloud nine. Things could hardly have gone better. His own party had shown their best, their most competent face to the world just as the Tories had descended further into a kindergarten death squad. His speech had been well received and the morning round of media interviews had turned into a victory lap.
