Parlement of Fooles

In the last issue I commented with suitable admiration on the robustness of a culture which in New York puts its poor, its dropouts and its misfits to use as a tourist attraction. Our nearest equivalent in England to the spectacle of Bowery bums which I was invited to examine in New York is the annual Labor Party Conference, held this year in all the magnificence of Regency Brighton. As might be expected, the Wilson administration is somewhat embarrassed by any close examination of the party structure which brought it to power, and which might yet sustain it there; neither tourists nor the British public are encouraged to attend, but the press can’t be kept out, and tradition insists that foreign observers be invited from all the embassies. It would be fascinating to know what they make of it all.

The jamboree starts with a party rally, or Demonstration, as it is called, at which everyone sings the “Red Flag” and pretends that such disagreements as may come to light in the course of the following days are really skin deep, when compared to the indissolubly fraternal feelings which unite the movement. Press coverage tends to overlook this meeting, as being the equivalent in British politics of your own drum majorettes and cheerleaders for party primaries, but I always go, if only for the pleasure of seeing the Prime Minister, pipe in hand, standing to attention and singing the “Red Flag.”

AW

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Auberon Waugh

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In the last issue I commented with suitable admiration on the robustness of a culture which in New York puts its poor, its dropouts and its misfits to use as a tourist attraction. Our nearest equivalent in England to the spectacle of Bowery bums which I was invited to examine in New York is the annual Labor Party Conference, held this year in all the magnificence of Regency Brighton. As might be expected, the Wilson administration is somewhat embarrassed by any close examination of the party structure which brought it to power, and which might yet sustain it there; neither tourists nor the British public are encouraged to attend, but the press can’t be kept out, and tradition insists that foreign observers be invited from all the embassies. It would be fascinating to know what they make of it all.

The jamboree starts with a party rally, or Demonstration, as it is called, at which everyone sings the “Red Flag” and pretends that such disagreements as may come to light in the course of the following days are really skin deep, when compared to the indissolubly fraternal feelings which unite the movement. Press coverage tends to overlook this meeting, as being the equivalent in British politics of your own drum majorettes and cheerleaders for party primaries, but I always go, if only for the pleasure of seeing the Prime Minister, pipe in hand, standing to attention and singing the “Red Flag.”