Over this last conference season I had the task of arranging Total Politics’ presence at the Green, TUC, Liberal Democrat, Labour and the Conservative party conferences which also meant I was present at all five. Although I have a degree in politics and do admit to being a bit of an anorak I don’t align myself with any party (despite my green-of-centre views) and thus I have never been to a party conference. So as a somewhat neutral observer here is what I found at conference...stereotypes of our political parties, their delegates and their conferences are all still thriving.
My conference marathon started with the Green Party in London, it was a rather amateurish affair compared with the grandness I was later going to witness. However, there was something quite quaint and reassuring about the hemp, linen and sandal fest I found myself surrounded by. The exhibition stands acted as a safety blanket to some, who, rather than hang around after the various debates to confer further with their fellow delegates, sought instead to scurry back to its warmth and safety, plus it was where the tea and bickies lived.
Caroline Lucas, by comparison to her party members, seemed to glide among the hairy and unkempt delegates in her smart matching suits with the adoration and reverence a monarch might command. The Green party worships her as well as the new young prince that is Adrian Ramsay, all convinced this most worshipped duo will lead them to their greatest ever success, the first ever Green Member of Parliament. The whole conference was abuzz with the excitement of the oncoming battle.
The conference was more interesting than I had believed it would be and the delegates, although peculiar, each with their little quirks, were very friendly and welcoming.
I then moved onto Brighton and the Trades Union Congress.
Again the TUC lived up to its most blatant characterization; Northern and Cockney accents prevailed, along with the fumes of alcohol that wafted along every time the door was open- the local pubs and bars of Brighton seemed to be doing a roaring trade at eleven o’clock on a week day morning.
The delegates, although questionably sober, were the most friendly and genuine. They wanted to know about the magazine, who I was, my background and interest in politics. They openly displayed their feelings of contempt and disagreement with each other when it came to business, but as soon as time was called on the day’s meeting, they were down the pub buying each other a round until time was called there.
Being a little to left myself, I was expecting to fit right in at the Liberal Democrat conference so I was looking forward to attending this conference more than any of the others, especially as it was by the sea in Bournemouth. However, not even the first morning had passed when I developed a seething and passionate resentment of the Liberal Democrats, or at least those who attended their conference.
The conference was dull, delegates seemed scarce on the ground, and I witnessed first hand the inherent middle class prejudice of the party who champion themselves as the party of eradicating discrimination and promoting and valuing minorities. Counting the number of ethnic minorities on my fingers - no need for toes - I spent the entire conference having to explain to delegates, who gave me that patronising tilted head look, that of course I knew who Nick Clegg was (unlike most of the general public) and am in fact interested in politics. Apparently being young, female and having the added misfortune of being blonde automatically excludes you from having any interest and or knowledge of politics.
As soon as you walk into Manchester Central and the Labour Party conference, having just undergone airport-like security that would make Heathrow proud (I was actually searched several times), you know you have walked into the conference of the Government. You are instantly struck by the magnitude of the space that is the old Manchester Central station, with its high glass ceiling and massive clock.
Speaking to delegates it seemed I was attending two different conferences - one where the mood of impending doom and the knowledge that nothing could prevent the imminent thrashing from the British electorate meant that many delegates thought their time would be best spent playing a drink game version of Top Trumps and attempting to network and rub shoulders with the likes of Eddie Izzard in the incredibly over-priced bars in the conference hotels.
The diehard party faithful; on the other hand, were fired up for the fight of their political lives, the war cries ringing through fringe after fringe. It was incredibly easy to get carried away in the furore - actually cheering at Harman’s ‘Labour are made of stronger stuff’ and Blears’ ‘lets show the Tories the metal in our spines’ during a Labour local government fringe, before I realised I was not in fact a Labour supporter and that they actually stand very little chance of pulling off an election win.
However, once I had indeed regained my senses, I realised that although these speeches were incredibly well staged, the war cries of these ministers were designed to rally support for the Labour party, rather than for its leader. This seemed to explain this parallel universe that was the Labour Party conference - love and commitment to their party - just not their leader.
With the Conservative conference I could see the home straight, my last conference. This was definitely the busiest conference, delegates were crammed into the ICC in Birmingham; there was no escaping the crowds. The excitement and determination was palpable, the delegates know they have Labour running scared and the only thing that was dampening the mood was that the party bigwigs had ‘advised’ against popping the Champagne due to the economic crisis. However the economic crisis for the Conservatives, if anything, adds to their growing cause of exhilaration as it is another nail in the coffin for Labour and Gordon Brown.
The Conservative delegates themselves however, did not disappoint; lots of upper-class, white, tweed clad teenagers bounding around with bellybutton fluff for facial hair, old men in Savile Row suits grasping their canes for dear life, mocking the poor deluded socialist hoards that were the Trade Unions protesting outside.
So one thing I did learn, apart from to carry water everywhere, drink the free alcohol at the fringes - don’t buy drinks from the terrible the price hotel bars - is definitely that the political stereotypes that the parties try and play down as outdated, are actually still alive and well and thriving.