A Blackpool Conference Notebook
The Labour Conference was, by and large, highly successful. True, the papers were able to make screaming headlines out of various commitments to nationalisation; and the leftward drift of the party; and Mr Bernard Levin, returning from the month-long holiday which prevented him, deeply committed Liberal that he is, from attending the conference of his darlings at Southport. Nonetheless, one of the oldest anci truest generalisations of British politics is that, above all else, a party must be united before it can win an election. And, at Blackpool the Labour Party was united, largely because of the early decision on the part of all its powerful elements not to rock Harold Wilson's boat — in this respect at least they were kinder to their Leader than was his dog, Paddy.
Unpleasant face
None of which is to say that it was altogether an agreeable conference, nor that the Labour Party does not still have an unpleasant face which shows itself from time to time. On Thursday morning there was — organised by various left wingers, and, so far as one could see, masterminded by Clive Jenkins of ASTMS — a demonstration against the low pay received by the barmaids in the main Winter Gardens bar. Broadly, the demo had two objectives — to persuade (a curious word in the light of subsequent events) customers to boycott the bar between midday and one o'clock; and further to persuade the Labour Party to decline to pay their bill at the Winter Gardens until the exploitation of bar workers had ended. I heard about this boycott at 9.30. (My colleague David Wood, of the Times knew nothing until the boycott had started: asked to support bar-workers he said he had been doing so all his life.) I read the document produced by the demonstrators, and entered the bar in a somewhat divided frame of mind. Having once been a bar worker myself, I was disposed to sympathy and, though I am temperamentally inclined against all demonstrations, I felt this one might have real justification.
"Comrades!"
Then, suddenly, a tall, balding gentleman of somewhat piratical air banged on a table with a gavel or some such instrument and harangued us, beginning with the shout, "Comrades!" (I felt not at all like a comrade of his.) He didn't actually ask those customers then in the bar to join the demo — he told us we should. Various cowards shuffled away as a succession of male and female demonstrators came round to ask the remaining customers (a) what were their names and (b) why they were not joining the demo, writing down each detail as it was delivered.
While this exercise in the incipient creation of a police state was going on a rowdy mob had gathered at one exit to the bar and began to chant "scabs," "vermin," and such other delectable words 'and phrases in the pickets' vocabulary. A few people remained in the bar. Television cameramen circulated, the odious chants from the door were kept up, and the harridans of the left continually circulated, repeating their demand for our names and reasons. The barworkers were, I need hardly say, embarrassed. (We later discovered that they had not been consulted about the matter,
but that some shop steward type had spoken to the organising committee " on their behalf.") George ffitch bought a round of drinks for the barworkers, and observed with regret that few journalists who are inclined to denounce intimidation in industrial relations were present. Eventually. it was time to go to lunch, and I sought to leave the bar by my regular exit. I was jostled. I smiled, gently. I was confronted by a screaming mob of demonstrators, shouting even more abusive and vulgar epithets. I said: "So this is the new Fascism." "You," shouted one man, "are the old Fascism," and then hit me. 1, being a person of essentially non-violent disposition, patted him on the head. 1 noted that my accusation had not been denied, smiled again in a propitiatory way, and observed that, while I was prepared to discuss the merits of individual peaceful demonstrations in good social causes with anybody, and possibly even join in one, I was not prepared to be bullied. The mob shouted and screamed again. (I rather suspected, by the way, that they had made free use of the resources of the bar before the boycott began). "Vermin," they screamed — as well as other words too nasty for the delicate susceptibilities of Spectator readers. I continued to try to be pleasant. Suddenly a more controlled individual emerged. "Comrades," he shouted, "if you go on like this he'll just get copy." "Thank you," said I, " I've got plenty." At the thought, however, of a bad press, silence descended on the agitators. I departed in peace to an agreeable lunch with Tom Skeffington-Lodge and Lord Longford — an altogether different manifestation of left-wing politics.
Attacking poverty
For some reason which I cannot understand, the Labour Party never got round to debating poverty as such (Barbara Castle herself lamented the absence of a comprehensive debate on poverty, and she was speaking for the NEC).
Of course, present at Blackpool were representatives of the Child Poverty Action Group, probably the most effective of the social agitation groups of the last ten years. Before the 1970 general election CPAG suggested that the Labour Party record on poverty was not all that ministerial spokesmen cracked it up to be; and Labour politicians were furious. In, however, the mood of unity and forgiveness in which this Blackpool conference was bathed, the CPAG found itself invited by the former Viscount Stansgate to join a coalition with Labour and the trade unionists. Mr Benn (as he now is) was a litt!e late: over fifty constituency parties had already put down resolutions inspired by the CPAG.
Wilson's conference
I have always thought that the Labour PartY imposes an excessive burden on their leader by compelling him to make two speeches during conference — while a still fresh and fit Tory leader needs speak only at the final; adorning rally on Saturday morning. Harolo Wilson's first speech — on Tuesday — was, dull: he gave the Labour programme in detail —too much of it — but the delivery was lacklustre, and few of the jokes went home. It Was, different on Wednesday, when the master 01 conference oratory was in sweetest voice, playing up the gallery, demonstrating his powers, never fluffing a line. A curious thing. however, was that at the (always excellent) ITN party on Wednesday night Wilson continued in good form, without that dreadfu, disfigurement of his eye with a stye which always marks the end of a period of strain for him. Last year, at the same party, when he had fought off extremism on the Comlnoa Market, he looked genuinely ill, despite hi,s victory. This year he had a commanding an°, easy ride. Despite his rather bad-tempereo (and justifiably so) radio statements and complaints about Roy Jenkins's hand-wring' ing statements about central appeal in the economics debate, it was very much Wilson's conference. The Jenkinsites and the Labour, Marketeers were abashed and silent. I mYsel' thought that Jenkins deserved some credit fo,r getting up to face a Labour conference au° make a speech to it for the first time since lief resigned the Deputy Leadership: but one 0 his admirers said, "It was all right. But it was a year too late." Roy Jenkins looks a lost leader; Wilson a found one. One doesn't necessarily expect a great deal of Labour support for observing the niceties of titles of nobility. But Labour peers and nee* resses are nonetheless among the victims of a particularly virulent piece of current barbarism, most notably as propagated by the BBC'
Title misdeeds
The other morning Nye Bevan's widoj'w was interviewed by BBC radio on the occasion of the publication of the second volume of Michael Foot's biography of her husband. sir was introduced, not as Lady Lee, but as LauY Jennie Lee. More recently the BBC described Lord Shinwell as Lord Manny Shinwell (a,s, though he were Lord Peter Wimsey) all Amalia, Lady Fleming, as Lady Amalia Flo-fling. Not to be left out, Swinton Conservative Journal described Lady Elles as Lady Diall,a Elles, and both the Daily Mail and the DailY Express, writing about a forthcoming TV series, described Winston Churchill's mother as. Lady Jennie Churchill, when she was, or course, Lady Randolph. (Actually, that als° happened on the publicity posters for Young Winston, though not in the actual screen credits.) No doubt Princess Richard of Gloucester will soon be described as Princess Britt, ocrhrilsntgiarnidnaomre wis.hatever her Scandinavian
Cato
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