Diary – 1 October 2015

Party conference season is the most pointless waste of money, time and liver quality ever devised. I attended these sweaty, drunken gatherings for ten years during my newspaper-editor days and achieved nothing constructive other than clarity over which is the best way to treat a monstrous hangover. (Answer: my late grandmother’s recipe of vine tomatoes on toast, laden with thick Marmite and gargantuan grinds from a pepper mill.) But they were fun, so long as I adhered to the golden rule: always leave the bar before 2 a.m., thus avoiding the moment when enough alcohol emboldens other delegates, and indeed one’s own staff, to tell you what they really think of you.

Politicians use their conferences to plot, scheme, shore up support and remind us all that they’re a bunch of self-interested charlatans. I recall dinner with newly appointed home secretary Jack Straw during the 1997 Brighton gathering, where I asked what he would do about Moors murderer Myra Hindley, whose parole was being considered.