THE CONFERENCES: A POSTSCRIPT

Kate Hatch was sent to meet men, Simon Sebag Montefiore met Mongolians -

two last impressions of the conference season

Kate Hatch writes: THE EDITOR asked me to go to the Conservative conference to be 'chatted up'. I am no feminist, but even I would have preferred him to send me to add the final word on the single currencey. Still, I suppose it meant that I was considered an expert on something of interest to Tories.

The conference coincided with National Wonderbra week. I am a firm supporter of both movements, so I decided it was time to grace Bournemouth with my presence. The nearest I had got to a conference before was when the Labour Party once met while I was performing in 'Alto 'Allo on Blackpool pier. That particular theatri- cal experience had left an indelible impres- sion after I had exited stage left instead of stage right one night, and slammed into a wall — which looked like a door — and knocked myself out, stage front: tumultuous applause, followed by P45.

With my Wonderbra in place, I made my way to Accreditation to get my pass. I was not prepared for security and there was a tense moment when it seemed as though I would be denied entry. The metal detectors went berserk, watches and coins were thrown down, but that didn't do the trick and strange hands began urgently pawing my person. Tiring of this, I explained that it was my underwired bra and not a bomb that was causing the trou- ble. Alan Clark, who was standing behind me, smiled wryly and discreetly looked away — although in the event I was not asked to remove the offending item. When later I was introduced to Mr Clark at a BBC party he made no reference to our Bloomin' foot's gone dead again.' earlier encounter. This left me deflated: he's supposed to have an eye for pretty girls. His restraint was rather discouraging.

I set off in search of Dr Gabriel (Gay to his friends) Jaffe who, I was told, is 'big in Bournemouth'. Dr Jaffe is not only a long- serving Tory councillor and responsible for the building of the place where the confer- ence is held, but also the author of Promis- cuity, the Sixties' bestseller about the pill. I was keen to get his views on whether, as the Labour Spokeswoman on Women, Janet Anderson, claimed last week, there would be more promiscuity under Labour.

I soon realised I would need someone who knew their way around the conference maze, and finally found the media room where Simon Hoggart of the Guardian— whom the editor of The Spectator had asked to show me around a typical Tory conference — greeted me with, 'So, I'm to introduce you to some regular randies.' Simon marched me up what was to become a familiar hill towards the Highcliffe Hotel where a lot of the parties are held. As we shivered in the rain waiting to get through yet more security, I reflected on The Spec- tator editor's departing words, 'You'll love Bournemouth, Kate, because it's just like the French Riviera.' You should never believe the press.

I dripped into the Bryanston suite in my little black dress, and was delighted to be greeted by the elusive Miss Wyatt, who was chatting to one of Kenneth Clarke's prede- cessors. The ex-Chancellor acknowledged my presence and promptly trod on my foot. I went off in search of champagne to dull the pain, only to be accosted by a prospec- tive candidate with a line about how I ought to be locked up for being so beauti- ful (I assume he is the replacement for the Sherwood man who was recently jailed for forging M & S receipts). I was just begin- ning to relax when the ex-Chancellor dart- ed out of nowhere and made a beeline for my foot again. The warm glow induced by the Sheriff of Nottingham's flattery was flooded out with pain. He's a smallish man that E.C., but when he comes down on you it hurts like hell. Next came Tom King, who was charming for what I felt was my quota of his precious time before handing me over to a likely- looking lad. The boy who I gathered was some sort of assistant — tried to lure me to his hotel by promis- ing a luxurious pool. I told him I would telephone him on the morrow and didn't. (When I later passed him in a hotel lobby he glared icily through me before strutting off, which I thought was unnecessarily unpleasant. He can't have thought I was going to fall for the line about the pool; this was autumn in Bournemouth, not the French Riviera. Anyway, unless I'm mistak- en, assistants don't get put in hotels with pools.) Later on, at Lord Hesketh's champagne and oyster party, I was talking to Michael Howard about law and order, when I spot- ted Charles Moore slipping a bottle of whisky into his jacket pocket. This seemed a bit odd until I saw William Waldegrave emerge from some do the following night with a bottle in hand and realised the whisky wasn't pilfered but a 'Boys' Own' going home present. Which is fair enough because you are expected to consume vast quantities of champagne at cast parties and everyone knows whisky's a palliative. Happily my friend, Laura Sandys, arrived with a large packet of, to me, more palat- able, Resolve which you take the morning after. But then Laura's been to confer- ences before.

When I finally made it back to my hotel that first night I was reminded of my Blackpool days. These English Riviera resorts all smell like yesterday's school lunch: reconstituted meat and potatoes, boiled cabbage and smelly feet — a thor- oughly rancid affair. The next morning, I opened my curtains to find blue sky, sun- shine and a sea like glass. All this, and I was going to hear William Hague speak at a lunch.

The aroma in the lobby reminded me I didn't want breakfast anyway and I dashed off to 'conference' (no one has explained why you don't put the definite article in front of that word but, take it from me, you don't). My walker, Mr Hoggart, com- mented that my suit was the same fuchsia as seen on Mrs Major the previous day and suggested that I accompany him to her book-signing. Both Norma and her history of Chequers were noticeable by their absence at the bookstall — she had obvi- ously done a roaring trade and packed up for the day — so Simon unloaded me onto Jeremy Paxman. When I returned all bright-eyed and beaming to tell him that Paxman had suggested the Times party later, all the boys in the pressroom groaned disgustedly and Simon, the Divine One, explained that all women fall for Pax- man. This took the wind out of my sails and I went off to lunch.

Arriving back at the Highcliffe, I was swept into a marquee for the Meat-Pack- ers' Association, which didn't seem right. A nice-looking man asked me what I did apart from conferences and I told him I was looking for someone to publish my first novel, Flesh.

`We were destined to meet,' he exclaimed, and I craned my neck in search of the quickest escape route.

`I'm Gay Jaffe,' he explained.

`Doctor Promiscuity?' I ventured.

`The very same,' he confirmed and I sighed with relief. Not a lusty meat-packer after all. Which just goes to show, you shouldn't panic unduly: things aren't always as bad as they seem.

Simon Sebag Montefiore writes: THE LAST word on the political confer- ences rightfully belongs to the Mongols. The vision of the Mongols in Blackpool or Bournemouth is an exquisite study in the fiercely incongruous. They're as absurd as the Vandals in Skegness or the Visigoths in Cromer. That is why their observations are so much more refreshing than those of our traditional political pundits.

Sharavjamtsiin Batbayar, a member of the 'State Great Hural' — their parlia- ment — is one of the Mongolian delega- tion to come to Britain for the conference season. While awed by our hallowed democracy, the Mongolians are not impressed by the standard of our leaders compared to their own. Mr Batbayar stood out amongst the other representatives when I first spotted him in Blackpool — a flash of turquoise against a sea of delegational greyness. He wears traditional Mongol dress: a luscious, belted silk robe with yellow trimmings called a 'de-el'. His short hair, worn flat, is greying black, his intelligent but dour face is as harsh in expression as one would expect from a noble descendant of the horsemen of the Genghizid hordes. He concealed a cine-camera inside his de-el so that he could show our politicians' speech- es to his colleagues back home.

Mr Batbayar does not speak English, so our conversation, which we conducted crushed in the seething conference hall, was interpreted by a Cambridge scholar who had long sideburns, a magnificent ponytail and a Homburg hat like a Hasidic rebbe. Our chat, which started pacifically and became stormier, began like this: `Do you support Mr Blair or Mr Major?' `I might be called a Mongolian Blairite.' `Do Mongolians admire Mr Blair?'

`Why, yes. We want him to win.'

`What chance does Mr Major have when even the burghers of Ulan Bator would vote Labour?'

`Quite,' agreed the Mongolian, 'Mongo- lians think Mr Major is adequate but weak. Blair is better.'

Batbayar's Blairism is not surprising, since he is a member of the ruling Social Democrat coalition that decisively defeat- ed the ex-communists in July's parliamen- tary elections — the second since the fall of communism. Until 1991, Mongolia was celebrated as 'the world's second commu- nist nation'. The Mongolian Revolution was in 1921, and Mongolia became a Peo- ple's Republic and Soviet satellite in 1924. It is still very much a nation of nomadic herdsmen.

`Do you regard Blair as a great leader?' `Well,' here I noticed a creeping disdain, `he is simply the leader of Labour.'

Thinking of Blair's dictatorial reputa- tion, I asked if he bore any resemblance to Marshal Choibalsan, the vicious Mongo- lian version of Stalin and Kim Il-Sung, who died in 1952. Perhaps I could add Choibal- san to Blair's Apostolic Succession of Bambi-Stalin-Kim-Il-Sung? `No, Marshal Choibalsan is old communist. Blair, young Social Democrat.' Like Old Labour, New Labour.

The Blackpool conference went to some lengths to portray Blair as a blossoming world leader. Indeed, apart from messages from foreign leaders, his speech men- tioned Burma and Israel. Then last week, he flew off to meet Nelson Mandela. `Do you think Blair has the leadership qualities of, say, Genghis Khan?'

The mention of the titanic, blood- stained Great Khan caused Mr Batbayar to laugh contemptuously. I expected him to retort angrily that Blair was an admirable humanitarian compared to Genghis, but instead the Mongolian was offended. `Mr Blair is very, very tiny compared to Genghis Khan. He claims to be like Genghis?' demanded the Mongolian, obvi- ously reconsidering his support.

`Ummm, by implication,' I suggested, fanning Tartar flames.

`Genghis Khan conquered the whole world, from Mongolia to Europe. This Blair is merely leader of a party, one of many parties, not even leader of Britain! I respect Blair but . . . Genghis Khan, indeed!'

Batbayar was enthusiastic about the democratic qualities of Genghis Khan. I asked because history's greatest Mongo- lian has recently become as current to con- temporary Mongolian politics as, say, Churchill or Thatcher are to ours. Just as both Blair and Major desperately declare themselves to be Thatcher's heirs, Mongo- lian leaders regularly tell one another, 'I knew Genghis Khan and you, young man, are no Genghis Khan.' Hence Genghis Khan's views on our party conferences are utterly relevant.

You might have expected the commu- nists to make the ruthless Genghis a hero. Stalin, for example, modelled himself on Russia's equivalent monster, Ivan the Ter- rible — hence Eisenstein's film. But Stalin forced Mongolian communists to vilify Genghis because he invaded Russia. He was therefore denounced as 'a nationalist, not an internationalist'. This was unfair on Genghis; given the brutal breadth of his travels, he was in fact one of history's supreme internationalists.

I suppose we'll have to get another one for Channel Five.' Today Genghis has become, ironically, the symbol of Mongolian democracy, so much so that all the democratic parties strove to use him in their party political broadcasts (Genghis look-alikes are doing as well in Mongolia as Princess Diana look- alikes here). Mr Batbayar's coalition used a television advertisement showing a Genghis-Iook-alike actor coming out of his `yurt' dressed in armour with his sword clanking. He says, Genghis Khan, would vote liberal social democrat.' A sort of Demon Eyes in reverse, like recruiting Henry VIII for the Labour Party.

My comparison between Genghis and Blair had troubled the Mongolian delega- tion. To calm them, I asked Mr Batbayar if he was here to learn about British democ- racy. 'Of course. Our democracy is just six years old. That's why we listen carefully to the conferences. Our favourite discussion was Barbara Castle on pensions. We sup- port Labour social policies,' he answered.

It is a shocking symptom of British decline when a Mongolian feels he can lec- ture us on our own pensions. The conversa- tion Continued: Was Margaret Thatcher more Genghizid than Blair?'

`We used to admire her as a great demo- crat, but now Mongolians realise Thatcher was exceedingly heartless on social issues.'

`Where do Mongolians stand on Federal Europe?'

`We have a clear position — Britain has a duty to join Europe.'

`Genghis would have supported a united Europe?'

`Indeed. If he had not died, he would surely have united all of Europe and Asia.'

`How do you Mongols sees the royal family's problems?'

`This would not have happened in the Genghizid dynasty. His wives knew their place. These troubling things happen here, but should not have a bad influence on the people.'

British politics is now governed by spin doctors. I wonder if Mongolian politics suf- fer from this curse?'

`Spin doctors?'

I struggled to explain this newfangled title.

`Ah, yes,' said Mr Batbayar, `I see. They are not needed in our State Great Hural. It's better without such mischief.'

`Did Genghis have spin doctors?'

Ilmmm. He possessed advisers to inform him about events in every distant corner of his empire. When he had the information, he alone would decide. No one told him what to do. Who'd dare "spin" Genghis Khan?'

`So while Blair needs spinning, the Great Mogul did not?'

`Indeed, spin doctors are a sign that the leader does not know his mind. A great leader does not need spin doctors. Look, Blair is no Genghis — any Mongolian could tell you that!'

The author writes for the Sunday Times.