DIARY
SION SIMON Blackpool n Sunday, I came on a Virgin hell- train that was two hours late for insuffer- ably banal reasons. The previous one had caught fire, with smoke in evidence and extinguishers brandished. That was a legiti- mate, value-for-money excuse for a vehicle to be delayed. We on the 14.35 had to suf- fer the indignity of the same old 'failed train in front, trains backed up behind it from Hemel Hempstead to Euston', and `we have inexplicably lost all power to the train', and 'unfortunately, we will also be affected by the engineering works at Hemel Hempstead', and 'we apologise for the cur- rent delay at Crewe which is caused by a passenger injury resulting from vandalism. Is there a doctor, nurse or first-aider on board?' With half the Cabinet and half the fourth estate on the train, this was poor PR. Faux pas, mon cher Branson, faux pas.
Six hours after leaving London, I arrived at my present location, which must remain undisclosed. I had intended it to be the subject of some wryly disparaging remarks in this column, until Nick Robinson of BBC Radio Five Live informed me that the late Peter Jenkins, having once published such comments himself while staying here, found his bags packed and stacked in reception that very day. I am afraid I do not have the stomach for such risks. A sinister, sprawling Lubyanka this place may be, but already it begins to feel like home.
The Labour hierarchy is staying at the Stakis (formerly the Pembroke). In com- plaining about the conference week prices (£190 per night for a Blackpool rabbit hutch; £7 for a five-minute phone call; £7.50 for a film, and so on), the party's chief policy wonk, Matthew Taylor, stum- bled across a hitherto hidden aspect of cor- porate life. He had noticed that, while guests are permitted to sample three min- utes of any on-demand video free, this amenity is not offered in the case of the porn channel. Mr Taylor's point was how fascinating must be the process, and the language used, by which the management would come to such a decision. Does some- body send a memo to somebody pointing out that three minutes of free porn seems to sate many guests' appetites, thereby dulling demand for the full £7.50 product? Is there a series of recommendations; did they consider reducing the three minutes to something unfeasibly short, like 30 sec- onds? But then what if the eager punter's free half-minute happens to coincide with a talking bit — that's hardly likely to make him bite, is it? Perhaps in such circum- stances the unlucky traveller could appeal to the guest services manager and get another 30 seconds buckshee? No, no. This is all getting a bit out of hand. Best not to give any free previews of the porn.
The same kind of procedures must have been used when Rizla began to manufac- ture extra-large cigarette papers, of a kind sold in great quantities but rarely (never in my experience) used by consumers of 'roll- up' cigarettes. No doubt there is a whole sheaf of internal correspondence at Rizla Corp. Inc. about how extra-large papers would make an interesting, higher-margin line extension, broadening the company's offering to the smoker who might prefer a larger cigarette. Just think of the hours such a person would save that were previ- ously spent sticking lots of little Rizlas together. Marvellous.
Asad and unusual absence from this year's Labour conference is the Spectator contributor and media starlet Derek Drap- er. I almost wrote in the Daily Telegraph earlier in the week that Derek was staying away in response to the stem entreaties of his former mentor, Peter Mandelson. I was going to suggest that if the Trade Secretary Apparently, he can now also be reached on the Internet.' continues to sell so much of his stock in young Derek, there is a risk that the Drap- er share price might fall so low that he would have nothing to lose by defiantly relaunching himself — a now utterly unse- cured cannon — on the political scene. In the nick of time, though, I learned that Derek is in the throes of a family crisis, and it is for that reason that he is not playing his usual vigorous part in the life of the nation this week. The thoughts of all in Blackpool are with him.
On my second night in the Fylde, I dined at its most excellent fish-and-chip restaurant, the Cottage, with, among oth- ers, Irwin Stelzer. I seized the opportunity to ask him how it is that the learned essays he writes in this magazine are ten times longer than anyone else is allowed to con- tribute. How does he get away with it? How does he squeeze that extra thousand words from The Spectator's steely editor and pro- duction editor? At first he seemed baffled, claiming that 5,000 words is what you need to develop an idea, and that length, like most things, is a matter for negotiation, so naturally he always opens with a high bid. Eventually, though, we all agreed that there is a more likely explanation: because Irwin is Rupert Murdoch's best friend and confi- dant, everyone is terrified of him and does not dare mention that his articles are too long. There was a consensus that from Irwin's point of view this was a perfectly satisfactory state of affairs.
Aever, the big moment of the week was the Blair speech. Spin doctors tried to portray it as 'ideological', 'argumentative' and an attack upon the Left and the trade unions. The PM reinforced his 'tough' mes- sage about economics on the Today pro- gramme the following morning. But what struck me most about the royal oration was how measured it was. It is a function of the kind of consensual politics Blair preaches that it is now impossible to make an old- fashioned, rabble-rousing speech. Not just impossible for him — though the messianic imagery of yesteryear was not in evidence this week — but also for those we used to call his opponents. Paddy Ashdown could not run to more than a few jokes and some equally amusing threats last week. And it is hard to see on what ground William Hague can really lay into Blair in Bournemouth. Michael Portillo is making television pro- grammes urging the Tories to seize the political centre. It will never be as thrilling as when we used to smash the Tories and bash the bosses, but this year, for the first time, I feel that even Labour is getting used to grown-up politics.
Previous page
