Tories know how to find themselves a good drink

I feel old, and feelings are not always wrong, This eheu fugaces mood came on me at the Conservative party conference in Manchester. I realised that it was 46 years since I first attended this gathering, before the present Prime Minister was born and when his predecessor was barely old enough for Father Christmas. The trouble is that she still believes in him.

There have been changes in the near half-century. In the old days, the conference hotel was dominated by knights of the shire, or the grander esquires of the suburbs. They were all at least 55 and identically attired. If it was not Savile Row and Lobb it was something similar and almost as expensive, with a hint of eau de cologne grand cru.

There was also another set of grandees, who chaired the conference itself. They came from the north and were called Sir Fred or Sir Herbert or Sir Alfred.