Will he, won’t he? It’s the only topic here at Labour’s conference in Bournemouth. Straw polls have been conducted, MPs approached and Cabinet ministers’ every utterance combed for coded references to the possibility of an imminent general election. The slightest twitch of Geoff Hoon’s eyebrow can excite feverish speculation. Based on such soundings, media boffins are claiming to know the party’s mind.

Except that political parties don’t have minds. Some members are in a bring-it-on mood while others are more cautious, and both groups are large. But nobody, so far as I know, has asked whether they differ in any other way as human groups. At breakfast yesterday, though, Danny Finkelstein was wondering aloud whether many in the go-for-it brigade are motivated by a secret fear that, given time, Gordon Brown is going to prove a disappointment.

Danny set me thinking. For my Times podcast I’d already randomly approached delegates and MPs with the “will he?/won’t he?” question. I cast my mind back over those I’d talked to. Apart from the timing of an election, how did each feel about Mr Brown himself?

A very clear pattern emerged. Those who said Mr Brown should bide his time were always admirers, confident of the future of the party and the country in his hands and sure he’s got plenty more up his sleeve with which to delight us. Those who wanted him to cash in his chips now were nervous – either about the future or about Mr Brown’s ability to handle it. As in the TV game-show question “Open the box or take the money?”, those shouting “Take the money!” loudest are those who fear there may be nothing much in the box. I noticed Peter Mandelson shouting “The money! The money!” on the radio on Tuesday morning.

The final decision, of course will be made by The Box himself: our new Prime Minister. Only one man really knows whether the cupboard marked “Gordon Brown” is bare.

Or does he?

And why can you take liquids into a Bournemouth International Conference Centre containing the Prime Minister and half the Cabinet, but not on to a Ryanair flight from Bournemouth international airport to the Costa Brava?

Ordinary Labour Party conference-goers are mostly principled people ready to take an interest in any noble crusade. The exhibition halls are sprinkled with brave little stands bedecked with banners, posters and badges, championing an exotic variety of causes, staffed by true believers whose intentions are good. One such is the Justice for Colombia stand, where Che Guevara mugs and pamphlets eulogising Hugo Chávez, of Venezuela, can also be obtained.

But Labour, and David Miliband, the new Foreign Secretary, should consult carefully before joining the “Bash Colombia” bandwagon, as some speakers have done this week. The cause is gaining fashionability.

I go often to Colombia – and into remote country, not just Bogotá. For most Colombians the oppressors in recent decades were the terrorists and drug barons, from whose destructive grip President Uribe, a centre-right democrat, has had solid success in delivering the country. That he is elected and popular with rich and poor, is not, I know, sufficient reason for supporting his Government: the Right has had its criminals and terrorists too, Uribe’s past has murky patches and his methods have been authoritarian.

But the iron fist is working. I’d urge Labour members to look critically at the groups Colombia has battled. Are conscience or ideology really at the centre of their power structures? Colombia is not South Africa. It is the majority who have been under attack.

Fighting Morpheus’s embrace during Gordon Brown’s Q & A yesterday, I amused myself adding to Ann Treneman’s list of words for which our Prime Minister had his own special pronunciation here in Born Mouth. Meh-becky for the South African President is understandable, and you can say York-shyer for Yorkshire if you want; but potensial bemused me.

Happily a question on education (educasian?) brought no further mention (mensian?) of marths, but Mr Brown’s varlews appeared again.

Up at 6.30 for The Andrew Marr Show, Sunday. No time for breakfast. Dash to studio. Dash back. Enter hotel. Enter breakfast room. Nice table by window. “Tea please.” Huge meal – full monty. Up to my room, third floor. Can’t find room 3301. Foreign chambermaid says “not existing”. The fool knows nothing. I show keycard. Wrong hotel. Profuse apology. Hasty exit.

Times Recommends

• Chelsea Flower Show has lost the plot
• The age of personal vitriolic abuse
• Obama: the new Great Redeemer