My Day at the Conservative Party Conference

A cloud hung over Manchester last weekend — because of the British weather but also because of the Conservative Party Conference. With Keir Starmer comfortably up in the opinion polls, and a country suffering amid inflation, crime and institutional dysfunction, there wasn’t much to celebrate.

Arriving, with the hope that my press pass would shield me from protestors, I made a beeline for Pret to stock up on essential caffeine. I would be listening to a lot of talks for the next few hours and needed all the energy I could get — and excuses to nip out to the loo.

Attendees in the Manchester Central Convention Complex skewed male and old, but there were a lot of young, suited Tory hopefuls too. Their round features and messy fringes positively seethed with “safe seat energy”.

But how many safe seats were the Tories going to have? The poor kids were born too late.

The first panel I attended was a Policy Network seminar on the youth vote. Three millennial think tankers were debating how to get young people voting Tory. Ideas included YIMBYism, tax cuts and student debt forgiveness. A Gen X MP sat with the glazed expression of a man who was already thinking about his lunch.

“What about the Red Wall?” asked an audience member.

What about the Red Wall?

Liz Truss’ speech was a big highlight of the day. Mrs Truss was bursting with enthusiasm for economic growth — and defiant belief that her government had had its legs cut out from underneath it by cynics and pessimists. Perhaps. But perhaps it was the best thing that had ever happened to her. Now, she could bask in affection from the Tory faithful — a sort of martyr of the Conservative age, who had never had a chance to really, truly fail.

Elsewhere, James Cleverly was talking to an empty room. It was like a Samuel Beckett play. The Foreign Secretary was rambling on about Argentina to a forest of unoccupied chairs. At one point, a cat sidled into the room, looked around and wandered out again.

I watched — transfixed. Was this really happening? Did Argentina even exist? Was this the end of history?

It was time for lunch.

The main theme of the conference was determining exactly whose fault it was that the Conservatives had failed. Danny Rees-Anderson was delivering a speech about a “Blob” of civil servants and NGOs that had been thwarting reform. Mr Rees-Anderson has been in Parliament since 2010, and in-and-out of government. What has he been doing to get rid of this “Blob”?

“It was him!”

Wait. Who? Mr Rees-Anderson whipped something out of his blazer. A glove puppet was on his hand, which bore a curious resemblance to Tony Blair.

“I wanted to govern,” he cried, “But he wouldn’t let me. HE WOULDN’T LET ME.”

Outside, journalists had gathered round Lewis Goodall of The News Agents. Goodall was sitting back in a chair, at such a louche angle that he looked in danger of falling on his head. “It was the kind of thing you expect to hear at a UKIP rally,” he sneered, gesticulating with his hands as if trying to ward off thousands of mosquitos, “Radical, unreal, conspiratorial stuff.” It turned out he was talking about a Conservative MP saying that maybe, perhaps, possibly immigration could be a bit lower and that maybe, possibly, potentially we could help British people to have more kids.

That night was a party — a glorious chance for Conservative MPs to prove that they had heard of Robbie Williams songs and were not afraid to sing them, and for ageing Conservative grandees to have a little chat with bright-eyed Tory strivers. The toilets echoed with musical snorts. The vibe was very much Berlin, 1945.

“I think I just saw Priti Patel,” gasped a young female think tanker, “She’s so iconic.”

What did that even mean?

I had to smoke. I don’t even smoke and I needed a cigarette. It must have been that damned Institute of Economic Affairs seminar that put me up to it. I stumbled from the room and tried to find the exit but ended up in a maze of corridors, trailing off to nowhere in particular. I pushed a door open and found James Cleverly, still speaking to an empty room. The cat was dozing at his feet.

On I went. Eventually, I found a door ahead of me. Pushing it open, I walked into a wood-lined room with leather armchairs and a giant TV. A man was sitting on an armchair, with his feet up on a pooufe.

“Welcome to the man-cave.”

He turned back to the TV.

“Call me Dave.”

I sat next to him. Notting Hill was on the television.

“How do you think it’s going?” I asked.

“Well, Hugh Grant is about to see if Julie Roberts wants to be more than friends.”

We sat in silence.

“Have some cheese,” he said, nodding towards a plate, “Alex James makes it.”

I tried a piece. It was very good.

“You don’t wish you were out there?”

He thinks about it.

“You know, Tony has his institute. It has more than 800 employees. It has offices all over the world. And me? I’m co-chair of Pew Bertarelli Ocean Ambassadors. Pew Bertarelli Ocean Ambassadors. What the hell did I do wrong?”

“What did you do right?”

He munches cheese in silence.

“The Big Society!”

“What was that?”

“I dunno. Blond was meant to work it out. Compassionate conservatism!”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m compassionate,” he says, “And I’m Conservative.”

On the screen, Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts are getting married.

“I let gay people do that,” he says, “I did. David Cameron. By God, they can’t take that one away from me.”