At a Conservative Party conference in Blackpool, I saw the light

In his latest reflection about places and pathways, Will Gore recalls an illuminating visit to the seaside – crotchless knickers and all

Blackpool (Getty)

Political party conferences are not for the faint of heart. If this year’s remote alternatives lacked any sense of dynamism – for participants and onlookers alike – then at least they saved a few attendees’ livers from undue punishment.

It may be, of course, that in the years since Twitter emerged to tell tales in real time, party conferences have been dulled by the fear of exposure: the heaviest carousing may be a thing of the past. But the cringing networking and the Machiavellian positioning can surely be no less rampant.

In the early to mid-2000s, I went to five or six party conferences over three or four years. Each time there were the same minor bugbears: the bureaucratic security; the outrageous price-hikes at every hotel in town; the smug way everyone talked about being “at conference”, as if it were a place in itself.