MRS. CRACKENTHORPE

S incere congratulations to those who made it to Labour Conference – in light of the unrelenting hell of our locomotive system, Mrs C travelled by her favoured mode of transort: horse-drawn carriage. Your prize is three days of hob-nobbing in the city Charles Dickens commended as “open-handed and munificent”. No end of earthly delights awaits. And, sadly, karaoke. L abour chiefs have been scrambling to keep up with the current pro-monarchy mood. Keith’s youthful flirtation with republicanism (and his assertion just two years ago that he would “downsize it”) is very much a thing of the past. Instead, Conference will begin with a tribute to Her late Majesty and the hall will be asked to sing the national anthem. After this Damascene conversion to full-throated Royalism, the Dear Leader must have been devastated to open his guide and see a republican fringe event on the first page. M rs C hears that, of all Labour’s directly elected metro mayors, only Steve Rotheram – representing Liverpool – gets a coveted speaking slot. With no invites for her favourite centre-lefty heart-throbs Sadiq Khan and Andy Burnham, both frequently cited as future leadership contenders, one cheeky party source asks: “Is somebody a bit insecure?” P auvre David Evans. First party staffers used screen grabs of Labour’s general sec looking all frownyfaced in meetings as WhatsApp stickers. Now, rumours abound that Evans could soon be replaced as general secretary. Elections director Morgan McSweeney – who ran Keith’s leadership campaign – is being tipped for the job. M rs C would suggest that the shadow cabinet member who likes to ask her team to update her on “one thing you have done this week to help me become prime minister” should probably refrain from doing so on public transport. As a political approach, it’s only slightly less kooky than starting every morning meeting during a deputy leadership bid describing your dreams from the night before. A s she prepares to gee up the horses and set off for Tory Conference in Brum, Mrs C has a hearfelt plea – do send your most titilating Tory goss to the usual address: Mrscrackenthorpe@protonmail.com