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Party political conferences are not just fun, fun, fun…

Conference season. Two words to strike joy among B&B proprietors, and dread into the livers of lobbyists. For everyone else, the dwindling TV coverage and often vacuous debates means these annual gatherings of party loyalists, journalists and advocates are now eminently easy to ignore. But if not, here is WalesHome.org’s essential A-Z guide to frustrating fringes, sycophantic speeches and bad buffets.

Awkward squad: n. Compulsory for every political party, the Awkward Squad (or indeed Squads) make themselves known. Never ones to resist a debate or provoke a fight, both on and off conference floor, they’re there to argue. Awkward Squads have made it when they get a proper name. Then they’re a Faction. You can tell from the badges, usually.

Bar fly: n. Whatever time you left the bar, they were still there; whatever time you get to it the following night, they’re there before you… They’ll drink anything that’s still being served (warm Peroni, absinthe, snowballs) providing they can get the bar to stay open. Though they’re not generally the most persuasive advocates for such a course of action. Generally take five forms. (i) Apparatchiks to politicians, keen to curry favour for their masters, always eager to oblige. (ii) Politicians without apparatchiks – or ambition. (iii) Observers keen to demonstrate their virility with regular displays of wallet plumage. (iv) The penniless socialites, who are excellent tacticians at fleecing free drinks and food. Usually to be found clutching expenses forms and collecting receipts from tables or dregs from wine bottles. (v) Anyone seeking elected office within a political party, in which case they will be an amalgam of any of the other four types, with an emphasis on the size of the round being bought.

Candidate: n. Can take several forms. (i) The leadership candidate: Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but sometime soon… They are talking themselves up, even if nobody else is. Yet. (ii) The perpetual candidate: Usually the most optimistic conference goer with an unenviable belief that this will be their year… will be seen clapping at all speeches. Way too enthusiastically. (iii) The would-be candidate: In worst incarnations they are 17-30 years old, living their lives through the party, the would-be William Hagues of the future. Enjoying their only holiday this year (if you discount by-elections). See also zealots.

Democrats: a (arcane). Believe party conferences are there to engage the membership and that their political party is a democratic institution which relies on conferences to capture opinion and make decisions. Also sometimes known as “Delusionists”.

Entourage: coll. n. The size of a leader’s entourage says it all. The bigger the entourage, the more secure the leader. Unless most of the entourage is plotting against them, of course. Anything under five, and a leader is in trouble. Wandering around with just their best mate or press officer is a sign of imminent doom. Others outside leaders have entourages too, and again size matters. Electoral viability is made clear for a candidate for leadership who walks into a room surrounded by acolytes, even if some of them will follow absolutely anybody who returns their calls.

Fringe trougher: n. Rates their conference experience on the quality of the sandwich fillings and quantity of wine.  Often flits like a starling with a low attention span from one room to the next hoping for a better food experience or a glimpse of a politician they actually recognise.  They’ll go anywhere – bus users forum, foot care seminar, rant from rant merchants – just as long as the catering is pukka. Usually asks a question that only relates to themselves and has little purpose, even if totally off topic, but somehow feels the need to justify their feasting.  Also interested in whether they can have another glass of wine or what that strange orange sandwich filling is. See also Bar Fly, Observer, and Hangover.

Guard dog: n. The door police of a party conference. Give them a tabard and you unleash the Cerberus side of even the most mild mannered party activist. Suddenly old friends look on you with suspicion and check your passport three times before allowing you on to conference floor. There is no point playing for favours based on old ties: the temporary Gestapo will have none of it. The present is all that matters – and keeping any potential trouble maker out or under surveillance. Walter Wolfgang is the unfortunate logical endpoint of such behaviour.

Hangover: Can take several forms. (i) n. The most literal interpretation can be found in the coffee lounge, sitting alone smiling at everyone just in case they spoke to them the night before.  Look of sheepish guilt increases during duration of conference/conferences. Or, in more acute form, waking up either in your own/someone else’s bed with… You get the picture. See also Vice, Fringe Junkie and Bar Fly. (ii) a. Another variation is the hangover from previous conferences: the row which has been going on for a decade but never concluded. It is resumed in the bar on an annual basis, often tied in with a leadership election and divided loyalties.

Influencer: a. Desperate to be perceived as busy and important, these creatures stalk around conferences with furrowed brows, seeking out those in need of a dose of “influence”. They spend their time in dark corners where they impart strategic thinking to their unsuspecting prey. Bizarrely, they are more audible from ten feet away than at five feet, when they develop a sudden urge to discuss banalities. Usually associated with would-be party leader candidates.  Often have their own political aspirations and may keep a blog or an overactive Twitter feed. Think Joker rather than Batman. See also manipulator.

Journalist: n. Can’t conference with them, can’t conference without them. Inquisitive, often friendly, but – like your best friend’s dog – has an agenda and can always come back and bite you.  Remember why they’re there: they need copy. They’re skilled at making a story out of absolutely nothing. So help if you dare. If you’re a manipulator, you’ll know the art. If you’re an influencer, you’re just vox pop fodder. You’ll always leave conference wondering why quite so many of them were needed.

Kids: a. Political parties are full of them, and they’re getting younger by the year. Enthusiastic at first, excited at sight of elected members, recounting tales of actually seeing the Carl Sargeant, imbued of an initial hunger to make friends and usually drunk by 10pm telling their life story to anyone who will listen. Real student activist territory, they usually end up attracting politicians that other politicians avoid. Kids are either rarely seen again; or they become a recurring epidemic – and eventually a candidate.

Lloyd George Moment: a. Tends to happen about three hours into a Liberal Democrat conference. Takes the form of a mystical invocation from the floor when a name from political antiquity is voiced once more, usually to make a point seem more “relevant”. Also known as Thatcher Syndrome, Bevan Disease, or the Tryweryn Strategem.

Manipulator: a. The adult form of influencer. Ears and eyes everywhere, will talk to you providing you’re influential but otherwise you’re invisible.   Every word, every glance, every nuance, counts. The royalty of political circles. Tend to be the conduit of much activity with journalists and, only selectively, candidates.

News: n. The usual soundtrack to a politico’s life, which is somehow suppressed and absent during party conferences. Major world figures could die, but if it doesn’t relate to the conference, then don’t expect people to mention it. We’re way too insularly interested in what their mates are tweeting or blogging. At Welsh conferences in North Wales, the situation is particularly challenging, especially if you want to see TV coverage of the conference but your hotel aerial points toward Granadaland. Also if up North getting hold of a copy of the Western Mail becomes a Herculean task. Auctioning such rare items in the coffee bar would be a good way to boost party coffers.

Observer: n. An outsider, a cuckoo in the nest or nests. Either someone who gets excited at the thought of doing all four conferences on consecutive weekends; or some middle manager from a public body who doesn’t even vote anyway and hates politicians. In Welsh context, both types will be decidedly less chirpy after their third weekend in Llandudno within a month. Those who bring stalls soon realise the inverse ratio rule that the longer a person spends with them, the less worthwhile it is having them at the stall. Stall-holders generally follow a daily pattern based on: day one = smiles; day two = Hangover; day three = gone, even if conference continuing.  Observers doing consecutive conferences follow the pattern:  conference one = optimistic;  conference two = comparing; conference three = jaded; conference four = suicidal.  Note also: Special Observer, who is an outsider who can afford a more expensive pass which gets them a chance to have a cup of tea with a UK Cabinet Minister or rising opposition star. Or with Dafydd Wigley.

Pedant: n. The type of people who hang around the Steering Committee table. Or are on Steering Committee. Experts in the Composite resolution,  skilled in the craft of the order and inter-relationships of amendments, masters of the mundane. Especially prevalent in Lib Dem Conferences.

Queen Bee: n. The party leader, who else? Their speech is the highlight of every conference, it’s why you’re there. Everything else is just a distraction. We hang on every word – then pull it apart just as quickly in the bar afterward.  But we wouldn’t change them for the world, would we…? If in doubt, just look at how quickly the conference empties once they’ve spoken. The highlight has Queen Been and gone.

Rememberer: a. Can take two forms, unrelated. (i) The person you meet at conference - who you only ever meet at conference - with whom you resume the conversation from last year as if it were five minutes ago, and for whom
the only thing that ever changes between you is the title of one or both of your jobs. They have a total recall of everything you have ever said to them. You can just about remember their name. (ii) More dangerous are those whose role in life it is to recall the indiscretions of others, and remind them of them when they meet. Has an uncanny ability for total recall, even when complainants have been paid off.  Someone who knows what everyone else did last night, even if they weren’t actually there, but somehow has the photos ready for Facebook to prove it. Can often provide useful data if controlled by a manipulator. See also Vice.

Speechifying: v. The only one everyone wants to hear is Queen Bee, but let’s just remember that a conference is there for speechifying from all quarters. Hours and hours of words, words, words. Most of it will be so immemorable that even candidate posse members will have forgotten the substance and the well-honed phrase within a week. Some speechifying will stick in the memory though, albeit for all the wrong reasons. Especially anyone who tries a “comedic” routine that doesn’t work, or mispronounces, or kills a cracking script written by another simply by having the personality and delivery of a whelk. Occasionally there is joy when a speechifyer departs from the Just a Minute rules and goes freestyle. And one last tip, speechifyers, the timing lights are there to help you…

Transport “chat”: a. The ice-breaker on day one. Let’s all discuss how we got there. It’s like arriving at University and discussing A-Level results. An endless banality involving trains, planes and automobiles. Who had the worst nightmare journey from Cardiff Central to Brighton, Bournemouth, or Bangor? Occasionally the tales are spiced by the wags who tried and failed to avoid people in the same carriage. Anyone who persists in this line of communication into day two is automatically classified as a transport bore: someone who wants to compare travel routes and always has a cross country short cut that’s better than yours…. despite you not having a boat.

Undead: a. Always there, no matter what.  Devoid of interest, enthusiasm or hope.  Just committed.  Think Last of the Summer Wine rather than Question Time. Compo not Clegg. They overdid it last year and had to be taken away in an ambulance. Nobody has heard from them since. But here they are, back again… A zealot without the zeal.

Vice: n. Sex and drugs and rock and roll. Well, some of them anyway. It’s what some people conference for, especially if there’s unfinished business from their last trip to the seaside. Don’t believe every rumour you hear – only half are true. But even the most improbable suggestions of naughtiness has a certain momentary believability in the context of conferences. Best say no more.

Wonder-performer: a. The highest form of tribute payable to a member of party staff who can sort anything. Their performance may be organic rather than orgasmic, but it can achieve the latter in a delegate or Observer who is so annoyed they are contemplating going straight home without even the transport chat. It takes many years of practice to achieve the gold standard of wonder-performance. Many staffers never make it past bronze, being unable to delegate or perform more than six activities at once. The worst rank is the ”boy wonder” who thinks they have it all under control two days before conference starts, only to fall apart totally once the civic dignitary is on stage giving the words of welcome. The worst example ever was the “boy wonder” who’d forgotten to prepare delegate badges but did have them on a print out, and had some scissors which attendees were welcome to use…

X-Ray: n. At UK Conferences, heightened security is standard. At Welsh Conferences it is an optional extra. Here only the seniority of a visiting keynote speaker will have an impact on the level of security necessary, with X-Ray scanning machines and sniffer dogs reserved for Prime Ministers alone. On such days, even recognisable AMs and MPs have to queue for hours while Guard-dogs in tabards rifle through their cases. The curious phenomenon tends to last as long as the royal visit. Once the dignitary has departed, security levels are recoded. By day three, Carlos the Jackal could get in without anyone caring.

Yesteryear: a. A specific breed of stalwart from an unwinnable constituency who will proudly tell you they have been to every party conference for about 40 years, and has the collection of passes to prove it. They have a particular affection for Iain Macleod/Richard Crossman/Jeremy Thorpe/Gwynfor Evans (delete as appropriate), and don’t think the current lot are up to much. Key phrase: “Things aren’t what they used to be…. Mutter mutter…” Often wearing tweed. See also zealots.

Zealots: a. Absolutely no point engaging with this form of hybrid creature, which is somewhere between yesteryear and candidate. Nothing that any speechifyer has said is wrong and their party is the only true path to salvation. Often swivel-eyed. Prone to reporting unbelievers to a Guard dog or an influencer (they are not allowed anywhere near manipulators).