You pick up all sorts of things at Labour Party Conference – free pamphlets, books, hundreds of unsolicited leaflets. Amongst the collection of papers we accumulated, we were surprised on returning to find that we’d mistakenly picked up the private Conference Diaries of two much celebrated figures.
In the interests of transparency and the New Politics we thought we’d share them with you.
First up, members’ favourite Comrade George Galloway, who made a historic return to Labour Party Conference:
“I arrived in Brighton early on Saturday planning to collect a pass and enter the Conference secure zone to greet my friends and well-wishers.
On arrival I was shocked to discover my application to attend had been rejected. Clearly the baleful influence of the greatest criminal in history, Tony Blair, still lingers across the Labour Party.
There seemed an outrageous irony, that I George Galloway, such a stalwart supporter of entryism, was myself being denied entry!
I suspect they must simply have been scared of letting me in, knowing that if delegates were reminded of my charisma, there would be over-whelming pressure to re-admit me to the party.
Not likely to be deterred by those Blairite bureaucrats acting as conference stewards, I attempted to sneak my way into the secure zone like Castro into the Cuban mountains.
Unfortunately, due to my difficulty concealing my distinguished good looks, I was stopped by one of the Israeli-backed G4S Security Guards and denied entry. Well, they said they were G4S but I detected the malevolent hand of Mossad.
As I was turned away I saw that rancid traitor to his faith Sadiq Khan scuttle past smirking – at the prospect of me, a loyal Labour supporter, being turned away. I can’t wait to run against the weasely toad for Mayor of London.
On top of all these setbacks, I soon discovered my attempts were fruitless anyway, owing to the fact that I had the unfortunate luck to be born a man.
Yes in a typical Blairite burst of discrimination, the first day of Conference had been designated a ‘Labour Women’s Conference’. I suspect it’ll be a typical man-hating rally for crazed feminazis, many selected through those bourgeois ‘all women shortlists’, to make up tales of arranged marriages.
I was not to be downcast by this persecution however and later headed to the Labour Animal Welfare Society’s annual Karaoke to cheer myself up. Although even if I do say so myself, I sang a particularly tuneful rendition of What’s new pussycat?
Delegates were clearly moved as I saw several in tears. One also said I sounded like a cat crying – which pleased me as I’ve always been fond of cats.
Later I attempted to address the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament fringe, but once again the ‘volunteer’ stewards (i.e. paid Blairite bodyguards and new Labour stooges) refused me entry.
Luckily I had organised my own fringe on the pier about Iran’s right to develop nuclear weapons. It got some excellent coverage on Press TV. Hezbollah comrades skyped in.
Finally, I went to picket the the Labour Friends of “Israel” reception, but as it was in the secure zone I was once again disgracefully denied entry by the Zionist lick-spittles.
Luckily there was a synagogue just around the corner so I picketed that instead.
As the events of the day had tired even my strength; courage and indefatigability, I decided to head back to my villa on the Algarve – content in the knowledge that the Labour Party will soon see their terrible mistake in expelling me.”
We’ve also obtained the diary of another controversial figure making a return to Conference, the Right-Honourable Baron Mandelson of Foy in the county of Herefordshire and Hartlepool in the county of Durham, aka Mandy aka the Sith Dark Lord and Prince of Darkness.
“With Labour Party members recently and inexplicably having voted for Jeremy Corbyn, I thought my presence at Labour Party Conference to help smooth things over and unite people, would be more welcome than ever.
I flew back to the Motherland from JFK airport where I happened to bump into my old friend Gordon Brown. Gordon did not respond when I hailed him cheerfully, but I suppose he didn’t hear me. After all it was a rather large lift.
Arriving into my private airport in London, I took one of these new Uber taxicabs to the conference centre. On my way there I was surprised to see many Ds, Es and non-voters in their drinking establishments watching some attractive butch men wrestle on the old idiot box. Apparently the Rugby World Cup has been popular viewing whilst people wait for Andrew Neil’s live coverage of conference to start.
There seemed to be a few more As and Bs at conference than usual, but then a trot is in charge now so that was to be expected. I found myself slightly torn I have to say, while I do enjoy our new Leader’s taste for tweed, elbow patches and socks and sandals; I am not sure how I feel about the calls for a nationalised health service – it all feels a bit 1980s to me.
Also ‘straight talking, honest politics’ seems a bit fatuous. If Jeremy had had the sense to let me take charge of the re-brand I’d have used something rather more meaningful like ‘Forward not back’ or ‘New Labour, New Britain’.
I had expected I would be the glittering star of the fringe circuit but I’d actually received rather few invites. Perhaps because organisers struggled to fit my full title into the Conference programme. People also seemed to have taken pity on people like Diane Abbott and that dreadful oik Tom Watson and offered them a few speaking slots.
I did however address a meeting on Europe, with the head of the CBI, and that dear boy Chuka, to dispense a few pearls of wisdom on how to make the EU accessible to the hoi polloi.
As I left, there was the inevitable media scrum, worthy of the Rugger World Cup that target voters are so enjoying. Journalists clamored to know my views on whether Jeremy Corbyn could ever be as successful as I.
I was happy to oblige with a few comments, using my usual tact and digression as I relayed my thoughts on the Corbyn catastrophe; but was a little alarmed when a little spectacled Northern working-class chap rushed towards me, with what seemed to be a sweet little pensioner trailing behind.
I soon realised the Northern fellow was Michael Crick of Channel 4 and his companion was our new Shadow Chancellor, my old friend John McDonnell, or Maccy D as I call him. Would you believe Michael Crick tried to get us to hug on camera.
One is all for party unity, but one has to draw the line somewhere and I hardly wanted John’s hands – surely inky from reading all those poorly-printed LRC leaflets – ruining my 20,000 Armarni suit, so I declined. I’m sure that’s me added to the purge list.
A few people asked me for ‘selfies’ on their camera telephones to tweet. (Personally I am a fighter and not a twitter so I don’t understand this, but I’m always happy to oblige.) I also noticed some passers-by putting two fingers up at me. I was momentarily confused before realising of course these must be Churchillian V for Victory signs in tribute to all those elections I won for Labour.
I caught up with my old friend and fellow Eurocrat Lord Kinnock on the beach to sample some local fish ‘n chips. I’m afraid he made one of his cheap jibes about guacamole dip. So I pushed him into the sea.
I spotted Lenny Mac at the Labour Students disco on the final night and we enjoyed dancing to the Professor Brian Cox number “Things can only get better”. (Which they did – well until Gordon when they got worse…)
As the song ended we were surrounded by youthful NOLSies and some not so youthful, who all seemed to be chanting ‘Tony! Tony!’ which I assume was in homage to the guiding spirit of the Conference, the dearly departed Tony Benn.
Apart from Jezza that is, whom I suspect was chanting for Blair – those well-judged Guardian columns just kept on coming didn’t they.”