Four days in Brighton

Frank Johnson

These are condensed versions of four columns written by Frank Johnson, the parliamentary sketch-writer of the Daily Telegraph, at last week's Conservattve conference in Brighton. Because ofan industrial dispute, they were not seen by the bulk ofthe Telegraph's readership.

Tuesday This year's Conservative Party conference opened with one of those days of uncontrollable unity which is the traditional sign that the party is divided. Even the religious service starting the proceedings was affected. It contained contributions from an Anglican, a Free Churchman and a rabbi. This was carrying unity too far. One was prepared to listen to Mr James Prior and to Sir Keith Joseph without much wanting anyone to demand of them an explanation of their obvious differences with each other. But, as rabbi rubbed shoulder with gentile cleric, one yearned for a heckle along the lines of: 'What about the Divinity of Christ: Someone, however, had blundered. There was no Hindu priest, nor Sikh or Rastafarian. They did not even wheel on a small portable mosque. This, one is happy to report, completely ruined the later efforts of the party managers to so rig the debate on immigration that the party appeared moderate on the subject.

The Free Churchman delivered a message from St Paul, via the Ephesians, which was the best English we would hear all week. St Paul appeared to be something of a monetarist. 'Put on the whole armour of God,' the Saint told the conference. This was a clear warning against that flimsiest of man-made armours: incomes policy. 'Stand against the wiles of the devil,' St Paul added, in an obvious reference to Mr Heath.

The opening debate was about employment and industrial relations. The motion called on the Government to find solutions to the problem 'both short-term and long.' But neither the motion, nor the speech from Mr Prior ending the debate, said what those solutions should be — short, long or oblongterm. Instead Mr Prior offered a speech designed to be election campaign-term. 'This [Mr Callaghan's ability to get on with the unions] was Labour's secret weapon,' Mr Prior said. 'And it exploded in their faces. We should ram it down their throats.' With an exploded secret weapon rammed down his throat, the Prime Minister was now powerless against further Prior blows. 'The economic boomlet is running out of steam,' Mr Prior mocked, to show that he is not a man to be taken in by any old steamdriven economic boomlet.

Everything had been arranged in this debate to convince voters that the Tory Party was made up of ordinary people. Among the speakers brandished were: a West Indian gentleman; Mr Reg Prentice; and a mover of the motion who was a trade unionist named Fred. As a joint definition or ordinariness, this left something to be desired. Among other things, trade unionists called Fred are surely among the most unpopular groups in the country.

Wednesday Mr Heath arrived in the hall and advanced menacingly on the platform shortly after the economic debate started—neatly dressed as ever, facially impassive, arms thrust straight down his sides. It was as if he had stepped out of the window of a nearby branch of Burton's. He was warmly applauded and seated himself one place away from Mrs Thatcher. They gave each other a welcoming stare. Lord Carrington was a kind of peace-keeping zone between the two. Mrs Thatcher leant forward towards the rostrum and pretended to be engrossed in a lugubriously-delivered speech from Mr lain Mills, the candidate for Meriden. In the middle of his monotone about the need for incentives, he somewhat superfluously exclaimed: 'Forgive my passion!' But he felt strongly about these matters 'because they are facts in the ranks of many middlemanagers.'

Mrs Thatcher continued to be enthralled by the passionate Meriden m iddle manager. But, alas, this wonderful, fleeting moment, which she was snatching with him amid life's turbulence, could not go on forever. Any minute now he would have to go back to middle-managing and old Heath would barge in. So it happened.

Mr Heath was stupendously statesmanlike — indeed, rather more so than he ever was when actually employed as a statesman. He reminded the conference that when he last addressed it two years ago he had said that the country was at the end of the road. But in the next breath today he said that the country had been saved then by the IMF and North Sea oil. He did not seem to draw the conclusion that he must therefore be a lousy prophet. Instead, he said we were reaching the end of the road again. It seemed to be a sort of mobile road-ending.

This inconsistency apart, his bark for national unity was mightily impressive. He warned against 'dogma'. The speech had a vaguely 'coalition' tone about it. But it is difficult to say in what way. The speech could mean something or nothing. One would not want to be dogmatic.

It was well-received. So too was Sir Geoffrey Howe's reply to the debate. He praised Mr Heath's contribution and went on to advocate more or less the opposite.

The conference either did not notice this nuance or was not bothered about it. They Geoffrey a considerable ovation. gave Sir Mr Heath need not have worried about the conference being dogmatic. Sir Geoffrey's oratory, often so earthbound in the Corn, mons, took flight. He threw his arms about and was larky. He said that Mr Clive Jen kins, Mr Richard Burton and he had all come from the same Welsh town. Then the normally plummy-toned Sir Geoffrey showed that he could do voices. He instructed Mr Jenkins to 'look behind you, boyo' at the number of members of Mr Jenkins's union who are opting out of paying the Labour political levy. It was an authentic Pakistani accent. Sir Geoffrey, who once administered the Heath incomes policy, is now a born-again monetarist. It was good to see this most agreeable of politicians having a triumph at the conference.

Ever since scoring his crwn first triumph with a big speech to the conference a few years ago, Mr Heseltine, the Shadow Secretary for the Environment, has lived for his annual moment. He does not much force himself on the attentions of the Commons in the intervening twelve months. He seems content to be the Yearly Man. Probably he did not study British Constitution to 'A' Level and therefore does not know that it is the Tory MPs who choose the leader, not the conference.

Each year the jealous party hierarchy seems to try to put him on at a time awkward for many conference attenders and television viewers. Last year they staged a brilliant coup by getting him faded out in favour of Play School. This time I watched him on television from an informal position in my bed at the Old Ship hotel, having had rather a detailed lunch. Sure enough, ten minutes into his speech they faded him out in favour of the much less entertaining Open University — a sort of pretentious 'Play School' and a disseminator of even more unconvincing information than Mr Heseltines annual speech. One leapt out of bed, threw off one's pyjamas and hurried along the promenade to the conference hall, pausing only — this being the conference of the anti-permissive party — to put on one's trousers. One arrived to find Mr Heseltine engulfed in his own peroration. A huge audience was enthralled. He bellowed at them from beneath that blond mane which causes him so often to be mistaken from behind for Mrs Sally Oppenheim. He was thundering along the lines of: one nation, one Reich, one Heseltine. Then he sat down. Ovation! Whereupon the Yearly Man subsided for another twelve months. Next year those envious party managers will probably resort to holding the conference at Blackpool and telling him that it is at Brighton.

Thursday Various idealistic and decent Young Con servatives were more or less kicked to death by the rest of the conference for advocating a fairer electoral system. But it was not all good news today. Between the adjournment of the conference the previous evening and the resumption this morning, disloyalty had come like a Heath in the night. The former leader had taken to the television screens in support of the Piline Minister on pay. Thus, although he was no longer in the hall, Mr Heath's monstrous presence dominated the morning's economic debate. He was the spectre at the Ancient Mariner's wedding, though not h. eying one's library to hand in Brighton one Is unable to check the accuracy of the Coleridgean allusion. So perhaps it would be more correct to say that he was the albatross on the wall. Anyway, he was the Spanner down the trousers of party unity, all right, that's for sure. But this time he had clearly gone too far. The conference draws t the line at going on the box and saying h the Labour Government is all right: They demonstrated their disapproval by giving a standing ovation to a speech by Sir Keith Joseph, a man scarcely a single word qf Whose speeches they have ever understood. Sir Keith is, however, no Heseltine. They tend to listen to him with awe rather than affection. How could he have got all those books into the average-sized head, they wonder.

With Mr Heseltine the problem is the °PPosite: how could that handsome, large head contain so little evidence of books? But, although they may not have been able to grasp the details of Sir Keith's message about capitalism, the conference knew it was not: vote Labour. The motion which he suPPorted on 'free enterprise and industry' was carried with acclamation. Indeed at this unity-crazed conference it was difficult for a Shadow Minister to make a motion towards the Gents without it being carried with acclamation.

Friday After her big speech ending the conference, the leader received a long standing ovation and could be said finally to have 'arrived' as leader of the party. The long standing ovation and final 'arrival' as leader of the Party constitute an annual event. After one such occasion, during the years of the Heath Occupation, it was observed that that man had had more arrivals than Dame Nellie Melba had farewells. The 'media's' repetitive coverage of the occasion is on a par with the inevitable report of that smell motorboat which takes turkey and pudding across a treacherous sea on Christmas Day to the remotest Scottish' lighthouse; or of the West Indian young ladies who kiss policemen at the Notting Hill carnival each year shortly before the equally traditional mass arrests of West Indian young men. But, as an elaborate hors d'oeuvre before she spoke, we had Mr Norman St JohnStevas replying to a debate on education in the best and most intentionally funny Speech of the week. The mood of the debate had been right-wing.After a noisy conference debut by Professor Max Beloff of a Black Paper-ish hue, Dr Rhodes Boyson jumped up and led a standing ovation. Mr St John Stevas joined in with a crouching ovation. Finally, he rose, made his jokes, and carefully jumbled the motion and the amendment into a left-right mix which was carried unanimously. He achieved this by using such rightie code-phrases as 'the need for discipline in our schools' — even though, as a mother in a Noel Coward play says on hearing that her son had taken up boxing, Norman is so terribly un that sort of thing.

Mrs Thatcher arrived to scenes of neardementia. Young Conservatives had pinned to the balconies banners bearing such devices as 'Love Maggie', though it would have been even more fun had Old Con servatives pinned to the balconies various Young Conservatives. Her speech pointed up the left-right conflict which dominates our time: that between her left-wing speechwriters and her right-wing speechwriters. The righties seemed to have done reasonably well. The speech was more or less against incomes policy.

At the end, a suitably deranged audience gave her a Blue Teddy Bear. Being mute and easily locked up in a dark attic, she will prefer him to the other Blue Teddy. There was a happy ending, then, to what, for the professional observer, had been a good week in the still-marvellous town of Brighton. Balmy weather! Barmy speakers! Mrs Thatcher fighting off an attempt to murder her by controversial Ted Vicious! What more could a reporter ask?