They queued en masse for their rumpled paladin
For the first two days it was dead in there. Throughout speech after lethargic speech, the hall at the Tory party conference was devoid of energy, of spirit, of life. In windowless, somnolent gloom we sat, silent but for the occasional cough and creaking of chairs. It was like watching snooker, but without the snooker.
Every so often, members would notice the latest speaker had finished talking, heave themselves laboriously to their feet – and then, after a dutiful dribble of applause, flop back gratefully on to their seats. The ovations were so brief that Ruth Davidson, leader of the Scottish Tories, was the only speaker I saw who managed to leave the stage before the clapping stopped.
Yesterday, though, the hall at last had something to look forward to. The afternoon was devoted to speeches about Brexit – and, at the top of the bill, was the one minister capable of shaking this conference from its torpor: Boris Johnson.
Beforehand, the queue stretched out of the door, and round the exhibition stands. For the first time all week, every seat in the hall was full; scores more members stood in the wings. On many faces, though, I read a curious expression. They looked not so much expectant, as anxious.
They were desperate for the Foreign Secretary not just to relieve their boredom, but to make them feel good. Specifically, feel good about being Tory. Out shuffled their rumpled paladin. His opening words were unavoidably
sombre, addressing the horrors in Las Vegas and Manchester.
But then, after a gentle jab at George Osborne, the Borisisms began.
For a joker, Mr Johnson tells remarkably few jokes. His most popular one was about Jeremy Corbyn (“He says he still admires Bolivarian revolutionary socialism. I say he’s Caracas.”).
Mainly, though, he gets laughs through his use of long and obscure words: refulgent agglomerations of abstruse polysyllables: “Syncretic genius,” he burbled, to clucks of mirth. “Sunk in dubitation… gigantic cyclotron of talent… dingy anteroom of the EU… that superannuated space cadet from Islington...” That last phrase, of course, aimed at Mr Corbyn. At one point Mr Johnson described the Labour leader as “vole-trousered”. This was not, however, non-stop comedy knockabout. Above all else, the speech was a rallying cry, a call for optimism, for patriotic self-belief, for faith in the post-brexit future. It was time, Mr Johnson tried to tell us, “to let that lion roar”.
His manner, though, wasn’t quite as bullish. At times, he sounded impatient, even nervy. “C’mon, chaps!” he seemed to be pleading.
“Shake a leg! Look lively! Wake up!” It was as if the nation had slept in, and he was frantically trying to rouse it, while fearing it was already too late.