Behold The Saviour, with more beeswax than a Regency dresser
MOST of all it was slick, a triumph of emotive schmaltz with soundbites and dramatic pauses and the occasional hammy bark of intent.
Tony Blair at his most thespy would have been pressed to match Jeremy Corbyn’s artifice yesterday. He had learned body movements and arm gestures, touching his heart one second, lowering his knees the next like a skier bobbling over moguls.
Not all the choreography worked. He slightly muffed his peroration because he was trying to remember his dance moves. But Mr Corbyn is now very much a product of mainstream political sales techniques. The man once sold as Mr Authentic now has more layers of beeswax than a Regency dresser.
He was given a long, whooping ovation before he had said a word. From the middle of the Liverpool hall there arose chants of ‘ooh, Jeremy Corbyn’ and the football stadium swaying of scarves. Some of us used to mock the Thatcher-era Tory party for ending its Nuremburgstyle rallies with patriotic choruses. Corbyn worship goes further. The Saviour himself stood there, savouring the acclaim, and he started applauding himself.
When they finally took their seats, Mr Corbyn – who had casually swallowed this cult worship very much as though it was only to be expected – began with an attack on journalists.
We impertinent inkies were told that Labour was ‘ready to take charge’ (with its message of ‘hope’ and ‘harmony’) and that our media ‘lies and smears’ would not be tolerated. The Leveson Terrors would be revived to punish our wickedness.
After that he was into some stuff about the poet Shelley and the Peterloo massacre and how Labour must no longer be thought of as a party of abuse. He would fight‘ poverty nine quality n disc rim nation ’. The phrase flew off his tongue
like a Homeric epithet, all merged into one.
He went whispery – look at me, sensitive and sainted – when he started talking about Jewish people but he would later be markedly less congenial when it came to foreign policy on Israel. His promise to recognise Palestine the moment he was in 10 Downing Street won the day’s most immediate jolt of ecstatic applause.
On Russia and the Salisbury poison attack, we heard just 32 words. They did finally include an admission that Putin was probably responsible for the attack but Mr Corbyn rapidly moved on to more congenial matters.
More than once he moved from feather-light whispers to a tone of voice much more inflammatory, shouting at Theresa May to get the hell out of No 10 and to let him in. Seconds after meekly mewing about his anti-Semitism problem, he lashed out at the ‘Tory hypocrites!’ who supported the nationalist government in Turkey. These changes of volume were startling.
TOhis side sat John McDonnell, glowering. Also nearby was Emily Thornberry, pink as a ripe strawberry. Eager to be seen agreeing with her Leader, Emily was quick out of the traps and managed to start at least two of the standing ovations which peppered the speech. Politburo members need to do such things to keep the keys to their dachas.
The conference hall listened, rapt, hands held at the ready to clap with frenzy. They crouched at the swami’s feet. Occasionally they shouted ‘shame!’ or ‘disgrace!’ when Jeremy described the latest Tory wickedness. It was only a surprise that no one fell down in the aisles, as can happen at Toronto-blessing evangelical church services.
Mr Corbyn indulged them. Toyed with them. One moment he was all toothily aw-shucks with a joke about Brexit. Next we had Corbyn the well-travelled internationalist, or Corbyn the doting family man – a moment of pure goo as he thanked his kith and kin for their support, and spoke in husky Spanish to his wife, saying: ‘te eres mi fuerza y mi apoyo. Gracias, Laurita.’ (You are my strength and support. Thank you, little Laura.)
Hardcore socialism packaged as ruthlessly as the most capitalist soap powder.