It’s my party do, and I’ll cry if I want to
SOMETIMES it is indeed true that if you want something done, ask a busy person. On Thursday, a picture of Scots Liberal Democrat MP Jo Swinson popped up on Twitter, showing her in the Commons chamber with her baby, Gabriel. It was history, the first time an infant had been present during a debate. Yes, yes, terrific, I thought, but, being the shallow sort, I also wondered about the brand of baby carrier. It looked so comfy.
I tweeted her to ask, not really expecting an answer, but moments later she replied, with added info about the carrier Gabriel would be moving on to next. Impressive. No wonder the General Election fight in East Dunbartonshire between Ms Swinson and the SNP’S John Nicolson, another smart operator, had been such a battle royale.
Given her efficiency, one imagines Ms Swinson’s bag is already packed for the Libdem conference which starts today in Brighton and kicks off the party conference season proper. You see the trick I pulled there? Luring you in with a human interest tale only to then execute a handbrake turn into the dullest subject since paint drying times?
It is widely held that, like everything else, party conferences ain’t what they used to be. Shorter, not as well attended or covered by the media, devoid of the dramas of old when policy could be turned on its head, party conferences have begun to look like package holidays for political anoraks.
Yet as I grew to appreciate in my time covering these get-togethers, they can be very different experiences depending on the party. The Libdems, for example, were the friendliest, most laid-back bunch. Complete irrelevance does take the pressure off a party. Never that fussed about logical consistency or appearance in general (delegates really did wear socks with sandals), a couple of days with the Libdems was a walk in the park.
Tory conferences were the jolliest, wildest, occasions. Even if every fibre of your being disagrees with the Conservatives, it has to be said that they know how to enjoy themselves.
In contrast, Labour conferences were, by and large, pains in the rump. These were the days of Tory rule, just after Tony Blair had arrived on the scene and the party was being knocked into New Labour, everybody-singing-from-thesame-hymn-sheet, these including the big boys and girls from the NYT, USA Today, and the Post), and fabulous goodie-bags (“You cannot hope to bribe or twist …”), complete with mad jumbles of items, from mugs to packets of macaroni cheese.
The delegates, especially if they hear a Scots accent, are near universally welcoming. I say near universally because it was touch and go one year when the Republicans came to New York. Entering the press area when the lights were down, I hurried to a seat. After the lights went up an angry crowd gathered at the foot of the press benches and began shouting and pointing in my direction. Bit unfriendly, I thought. I’ve travelled thousands of miles to be called an idiot, when I could get that at home for free. Then the giant screen in Madison Square Garden flashed up an image of Michael Moore, documentary director and scourge of the Republicans, who was sitting right behind me, baiting the crowd back by making the shape of an L on his forehead and shouting “Losers!” Happy days.
As we know from Theresa May’s speech last year, party conferences can still throw up their moments of drama, and are worth having for those at least. My only regret was that when I covered party conferences the beat did not include SNP get-togethers, so the delights of those, and their locations, remain a mystery. Still, a girl can dream of an invitation.