I’ve spent three days at Tory conference. Now I know what death feels like. 

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M. Deacon  
Parliamentary Sketchwriter

Members enjoying Conservative party conference in Birmingham Credit: Darren Quinton/Birmingham Mail/BPM MEDIA 

 

We WILL make Brexit a success! That was what Andrew RT Davis, leader of the Welsh Conservatives, was supposed to tell party conference in Birmingham. Unfortunately, however, he misread his autocue – and instead shouted, with full-throated gusto, “We WILL make breakfast a success!”

I’m not going to make fun of him, though. I’m grateful to him. It was the most interesting thing a politician said onstage all day.

 

Honestly. What a rotten conference this has been for speeches. The sheer, screaming boredom of it. It’s all so lifeless. So crushingly half-hearted. The same robotic phrases, recited over and over again: “a country that works for everyone”, “Brexit means Brexit and we’re going to make a success of it”, “no one left behind”, “as far as their talents will take them”. The drowsy dribbles of applause, each starting with a lone pair of hands (clap… clap…), acting as a Pavlovian prompt for the rest of the hall to join listlessly in.
None of the speakers can tell a story. None of them can tell a joke, beyond the obligatory “How about that Jeremy Corbyn? He’s a bit Left-wing, am I right?!” No one has anything to say about themselves or their convictions or what they’ve learned about life and the world. No one, apart from Boris Johnson, has a turn of phrase or a distinctive rhetorical style. It’s all just sterile, torpid, faceless, mirthless, generic, committee-approved, insincere managerial blah. We might as well be attending the annual awards ceremony for the doorstop industry.

 

 

And these people are running the country. Somehow, they’ve reached the pinnacle of political life without learning how to write a speech – or even how to read one. How is this possible? Can no one give them training? It’s like watching children in a school play. Either they mumble self-consciously into their chin (Karen Bradley, the Culture Secretary) or loudly over-enunciate (Liz Truss, the Lord Chancellor, who MAKES EV RY SIN GLE SYLL A BLE SOUND LIKE AN IN DIV ID U AL WORD).
On and on they drone. Time drips by. I can feel my soul seeping out of me, gram by gram. My body sagging. My bones turning to rubber. I daydream about walking out, but I’m not sure I’d have the strength.
Still, at least I’m getting paid to sit here. Think of the party members. They’ve paid up to £520 each for this. They don’t get to vote on policy, or to express their opinions. They’re paying through the nose for the privilege of clapping. From time to time they get to their feet for a standing ovation. I don’t think they’re actually impressed. They’ve just got pins and needles.

Today’s main event, if that’s not too strong a word, was the speech by Amber Rudd, the Home Secretary. She proved to be among the least incompetent speakers; not actively interesting, perhaps, but she did give it something vaguely approaching oomph. At times she was almost admirably shameless. My favourite moment was when she rubbished Labour’s immigration impact fund, and then proudly declared she would be copying the policy but giving it a slightly different name.
Tomorrow’s big speech is by Theresa May. If I were her, I’d be tempted to announce World War Three. Just to check whether anyone’s awake.

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