Meet the Tory boys

There's a voice from the front of the coach: 'Shut up! There's a journalist from The Independent on board...' A roar of disapproval. 'Media! S***!' screams the man at the front. The coach slows down as it takes a turn. 'Stop the coach,' he shouts. 'Let's dump the Independent journalist outside

Tim and I are lost. Tim, a young chartered accountant, belongs to a group called CF (Conservative Future), the rebranded youth wing of the Tory party, and has been chosen to pick me up from the station so I can "hang out" at their annual weekend conference, which is held at Bath University. Tim is actually supposed to be doing a welcome speech, ("right now"), so is a touch fretful. He lights up, however, at the memory of last night's drinking session. The CF booked the Blue Rooms in Bath, and Jeremy Guscott (a rugby hero) showed up. "That was excellent."

Having parked the car, Tim suggests we go up and over the landscaped grounds. We cross a lawn, then have to stop. "Oh God," he says, "that's not a pond, is it?" We navigate the large water feature and hit upon some buildings that Tim suspects may be ours. He pushes the door. "Shit," he moans, "it's locked." I push the other door and it opens, but the corridors are ominously dark and quiet. "Maybe we should ring David [Pugh]," I say, the man who has helped set up my jaunt. "Don't have David's number," sighs Tim. It turns out I have his number, but David's directions only confuse Tim. Luckily, we bump into someone who's also here for the conference, and follow him gratefully.

Getting lost, going astray – it's something the Tories seem to have perfected. They never recovered from the loss of Maggie, and since the second half of John Major's term it's really been downhill. The CF was started five years ago by William Hague, in hopes of blasting the perception that everyone in the party was either wrinkly or thuggish (the Young Conservatives earned themselves quite a rep). But he and his baseball caps are long gone and, under Iain Duncan Smith, the statistics remain ominous. Of 320,000 party members, only 10,000 are under 30. With the Conservatives themselves awkwardly split between "modernisers" and "traditionalists", and struggling to raise their poll figures above 30 per cent, all eyes are focused once again on drumming up support among the young. Duncan Smith has now appointed a youth spokesman, Charles Hendry, who promises, "We can make it fashionable to be Conservative." It's a gamble; but also an opportunity for the CF to shine.

Their logo is being updated as we speak; meanwhile, their new poster shows a young man and woman in clubbing gear with the words "join us" inked on to their hands (the line "if you're up for it" hovers naughtily above). Anyone under 30 who joins the Tory party is automatically a member, but the CF is now aggressively trying to recruit students and young professionals "regardless of their political beliefs". The CF executive is full of boasts about its new standing in the party, as well as the country. Richard Stephenson (a slightly porkier version of Will Young, and the man who, along with David Pugh, has organised my visit) tells me he's the party's youngest ever vice-president of something or other (OK, if you're really interested, the National Conservative Convention). For the first time in seven years, too, the Tories have won two seats on the NUS executive. Success needs an audience, which is why I'm here, in my smart frock, trying not to look like a gate-crasher (at 32 I am, strictly speaking, beyond the pale). I'm effectively being cast as the rebranding expert. Is the CF really a new and improved product, or is it all just fancy packaging?

The day's schedule is punishing. An ungodly amount of time has been set aside for big-wig speeches, and I'm soon craving coffee and/or a knock-out blow to the head. Oliver Letwin MP is persuasive; MEP Jonathan Evans and new party chair Theresa May less so. The words "balance", "engagement" and "debate" drone through the air like dying bees.

In one of the breaks, The Independent's photographer tries to snap a rather interesting-looking group, and Richard appears, pulling a face, "Can you wait a second? None of the girlies are here." Earlier, I noticed three ultra glamorous young women, all sitting in the front row of the hall. They're not to be found. In fact, they're being photographed with someone else (even "girlies" can't be everywhere at once).

It occurs to me that I haven't seen any black faces, but there are four Asians. Nor are the rest all conventional Anglo-Saxon types. More to the point, there's not a single one wearing a tie. There are one or two Gareth-from-The-Office clones, a few Hugh Lauries, but mostly it's gelled Tintin haircuts and casual – even one or two instances of scruffy! – clothes.

More speeches follow, then a series of workshops – I start to go into one but Richard frowns and says, "There are no girls in there, let's try a different one." He muses on this. "It's weird, the thing everyone used to say about the Young Conservatives was that it was a marriage bureau. But not any more." Is he looking for a wife? "Oh, no, I don't have the time, especially for something that stressful."

Loads of people flock into the workshop on handling the media, so I tag along. A man is telling the hushed throng that, "We don't have the luxury any more of thinking journalists are our enemy. They're our friends." Most reassuring. "Don't get angry with them, as we've always done [in the past]," he continues. "If you say something off the record, you can't be sure they'll respect it; they should respect it, but sometimes they don't. So if you're not sure, just don't say anything."

At long last, it's time to go to the bar – in fact, there's one last Q&A session, but I really can't face it and a bunch of members evidently feel the same way. I notice pamphlets for the CWF (Conservative Way Forward), a right-wing group which champions Norman Tebbit types. No one here, though, seems that way inclined. A number of them are openly gay. One man – already a little dishevelled from drink – declares that the MSP Tommy Sheridan is "a very sound man. We got drunk together. Bit of a communist. Well," he says, blinking into the middle-distance, "he is a communist, but sound, very sound."

Someone else asks the photographer, who's dressed like a typical crumpled snapper, what his politics are. "From the look of you, you're not going to be positive towards us." But this is said with a smile. None of this lot, it turns out, voted for Duncan Smith. They all plumped for Ken Clarke ("He should have got in, that was very dodgy").

They're resigned to having Duncan Smith as a leader, and don't want him to change his image to appeal to the young. "God," says Jamie Cutts, an astonishingly assured, niftily dressed student with his own website, currently lobbying for votes in the student elections, "it's so cheesy when they try to be trendy. Hague just looked such a... I mean, all that bandwagon-jumping. We don't want Duncan Smith to dye his hair black or have streamers coming from his behind. We'd rather he left the young people to us – that's our department."

They're not into big protestations of loyalty, though it's somewhat confusing when they mention the modernisers they prefer (they obviously think the latter are household names; I've never heard of them).

"Now Chris Heaton-Harris," says Cutts, "he's naturally trendy. He is loved here. He's speaking tonight and he'll probably come to the club tonight, and he'll be the last one there. Not because he's trying to get votes, but just because that's the way he is. And if someone like him, and Alan Duncan and John Bercow, were to attempt a coup at some point, well..."

Another man says that the Tories need the CF because Central Office is "falling apart – crumbling". He adds that he was relieved to hear Theresa May's speech, "because she'd make a good leader if Duncan Smith had to stand down". But surely he's only just got there. A world-weary shrug. "Well, he's got till the next election. But if we lose, they'll be a leadership contest and Theresa May's got speech power. Like Margaret Thatcher had. Not the same policies, of course – totally different policies – but speech power, that's what we need."

Ah, Margaret, I wondered when she'd come up. Someone asks if I'm going to the dinner do tonight, and I say I don't think I'm allowed. Cutts grins. "That's because they think everyone will get drunk and say Margaret Thatcher is God." His takes a firm line as far as Maggie-worship is concerned. He has a lot of "purple-rinse" canvassers in his group. He won't let them wear Save the Pound badges, "even though they want to. But that just puts ordinary people off."

Jamie has opinions on everything, from Blair ("without him, the Labour Party would be nothing"), to the failings of Central Office. "There was a woman running around today trying to make sure that one of the Asian blokes was in the photographs." He tuts. "That's crazy. There are loads of Asians in the party. It you just put one in, it looks like tokenism."

As they begin wandering off to dinner, one of the "Asians" comes and sits down next to me. This is Ali Korotana, an 18-year-old who's just about to go up to Oxford to read mathematics. Like most of the people I've spoken to, he wants to become an MP. He's the only one, however, who says he'd also like to be a PM, though first he'll become a merchant banker. "I have to. I don't want to be strapped for cash." He admits the CF can be intimidating, and says it's friendlier at the student wing of the TRG (Tory Reform Group). Ali's father dabbled in communism, as well as Islamic fundamentalism when he was a student in Pakistan, and Ali sees himself as very much on the left of the party, "I can't tell you how many times I've been called a communist." He accepts that his rise to power will not be easy. He's worked at Conservative Central Office and says they like to play Fantasy West Wing: "Everyone wants to be Rob Lowe, but I always have to be the intern."

Everyone's now leaving for the dinner do, to be held in the city centre, and I ask Richard if I can please, please, come along, just to see what it's like. He makes a face and says it's impossible. He's got no problem with openness, but it's a policy decision to have press access limited to daytime. "Look, I'm really embarrassed," he says. "I'm really sorry."

I know they're going to a club afterwards. Could I come along to that? He's torn, then says yes. It would just be a nice end to the evening, I say, it would be... He supplies the word. "Fun."

I get driven into the city with everyone else. Ali has decided to accompany me to dinner – he's already had an article published about him in The Times and has obviously decided he's on to a winner with me, ("The guy at The Times screwed me over. He implied I was really arrogant, but they say there's no such thing as bad publicity.") He's not into drinking, either, and is horrified by the amount of boozing that goes on in the CF ("you know, one person got so drunk last night he was in bed till midday. This conference costs £60. People should take politics seriously."). He and I plan a tee-total evening. Richard says we can go into town on their coach, and meet them at the Assembly Rooms later on.

And so, hours later, we arrive. The evening still seems to be going strong – boos and cheers explode into the lobby every time someone opens the doors. One wit, on his way to the loos, roars, "I'm going for a slash." Then, in mock horror, adds, "That's so non-inclusive. I mean I'm going to the bathroom."

Someone pops their head round the door. Apparently, Heaton-Harris is speaking. "I can see why they didn't want you in there," he chuckles, then disappears. Ali shifts uncomfortably. "You'd never get someone like Heseltine coming to this." I see a man I talked to earlier, who used to be a member of the Young Conservatives. How does this compare with the old days? He shrugs. "It's pretty much the same really."

Finally, chairs start scraping against the floor, and an official tells us to get into the coach. The inebriated bodies pile in, and off we go. Several start singing about the CF president, Hannah Parker, who after two years has decided to move on (it goes, "ding dong, the wicked witch is dead"). The two behind me, obviously discussing the evening's speeches, mutter that "you can't kill nostalgia". The all-male choir moves on to "Rule Britannia", and then some strange verses involving the words "Scargill", "pit" and "shit".

Ali looks over at me and rolls his eyes. Then a voice from the front shouts, "Shut up. Shut up!" The coach goes quiet. "Apparently, there's a journalist from The Independent on the coach." An extra layer of quiet. "She couldn't get into the dinner, so she thought she'd try her luck at the club." A roar of disapproval from the back. And then Jamie Cutts appears in the aisle. "Just shut up," he says. "She's fine." A hiss from someone else: "You're giving her a story."

As tactics go, this doesn't entirely work. "Media! Shit!" screams the man at the front. The coach slows down as it takes a turn. "Stop the bus!" he shouts. "Let's dump the Independent journalist outside!" The people at the back love that and more whooping follows. Jamie leans over and says, "Don't worry, you're fine."

I'm not entirely happy about the turn the night has taken. At the same time, I don't fancy walking back to Bath, so I keep quiet. More songs. The chorus this time is "Margaret Thatcher walks on water", to the tune of "London's Burning". Next they sing, "No Surrender, No Surrender to the IRA".

Finally, we arrive at the university. "Everyone stay in their seats," cries a by-now familiar voice, "and let the Independent journalist get off first."

No one, as it turns out, listens to him and, once off the coach, I am surrounded by sympathetic faces. One man (the oldest in the group, at 29) says this has been "an ugly lurch backwards of 10 years – it's disgraceful". Someone else says, "I belong to the TRG, those people are nothing to do with me." Most anxious of all is a boy who comes up and says, "I've just heard you're half-Irish. I'm really sorry about the IRA stuff." Then he says, "please don't write about this", only to be reprimanded by his friend. "Never beg a journalist. Anyway, they always lie."

Not everyone is apologetic. "We should have been told you were on the bus," says one. "People don't like to be kept in the dark." Another says that communists probably sing songs about hanging Labour people when they get drunk (he is pretty far gone, so I don't quibble with his logic).

Then there's the PhD student (studying Philosophy and Time in Leeds) who says the guys were only having a laugh and that I should have a drink: "That's the only thing to do, get wasted."

Everyone makes their way to an upstairs room where music is playing. At least six people offer to buy me a drink. Others keep looking in my direction, with frowns or giggles. The few females in the group have reappeared and a gaggle of boys and girls, including Jamie and Ali, start dancing to S Club 7's "Reach for the Stars". They look sweet, they really do.

I bump into Richard – the day's genial spin-doctor. He is calmly stricken. He says I will get him into so much trouble if I write about this. "This evening's off the record, right?" We both know the answer to that. He wanted this event to be a "bit" open. Well, there's no such thing. The Tory party is divided into "modernisers" and "traditionalists". Surprise, surprise, so is the CF.

I sit with the bouncers while waiting for my taxi. A CF member wanders out, and mutters something about the football. I tell him England drew with Portugal, and he says (in a drunken blither) that as an Englishman, who once ruled the waves, it is a dreadful thing not to be able to "vanquish" a country like that. When he's gone, the bouncer says pointedly, "I thought that was a bit pompous what he was saying – England rules." He makes a face. "I'm Welsh."

He thinks for a moment. "Are you a Tory?" I shake my head and he smiles and taps his nose. "Good. Me neither."