Rarely can a columnist solve a national riddle but this morning I am that lucky man. Here's the riddle. Most of the media corps massed in Manchester on Tuesday, and most Labour delegates, reported seeing Gordon Brown make “the speech of his life”. And most of the rest of Britain reported hearing the same old pap that politicians always spout: totally forgettable.

Were we listening to the same speech? How are sincere but conflicting reports to be reconciled? Easily; I was there. It was a ghastly, shallow, dishonest speech: a fusillade of pieties, an avalanche of platitudes, a blizzard of truisms. At its cheesy best it just about rose to the level of adequacy. That's what the nation heard.

But we politicos also heard far and away the most accomplished speech Gordon Brown has ever made. And that too is true. In 20 years we've never heard him speak so well. He used to be abysmal: leaden, bombastic, dead. On Tuesday he seemed almost human. As Dr Johnson said of a dog walking on its hind legs: “It is not done well, but you are surprised to find it done at all.”

Local talent

Funny how deep local loyalty goes. Watching a dreary conference debate on the economy, as Alistair Darling readied himself to speak, I heard the Chair say she could fit in just one more speaker from the floor - “Yes, that young man waving a scarf.” Then I saw his name on the screen, “Colin Swindell, Derbyshire

Dales prospective parliamentary candidate”, and this slight, rather nervous-looking chap who looked about 23, in neat suit and tie, walked up to the rostrum.

Mr Swindell lives in Elton, the nearest village to our house. I've spoken to him only once, but I know he's especially well-liked and had made a big impression when he tried (and failed) to get on to the district council. I had voted for an excellent Tory, who won, and I'd do the same again.

But in the Labour conference hall my tribalism fell away. A local son! I felt a rush of pleasure that Mr Swindell had been called and watched like an anxious relative, wishing him well. He gathered confidence the moment he spoke: an intelligent, enthusiastic speech in good plain English with no jargon, and, unusually, a Labour voice speaking sincerely for rural people. He was easily the best floor speaker in that debate.

He should go far. Labour Party bosses could please both him and me by finding him a winnable seat - somewhere else. He deserves it.

Rank and gross

The conference season has its longueurs, and to fill them I've been dipping into a set of volumes just published by the Folio Society called Eyewitness to History: a selection by Robert Fox of eyewitness reports of big news stories, from the Ancients to the present day. These are not the measured tones of historians but breathless accounts from people who saw it happen - often hardly knowing what it all meant.

Then this week I read the Times report of a new study by Dr Glyn Redworth and published by the OUP: The She-Apostle: The Extraordinary Life and Death of Luisa de Carvajal. Luisa was a Spanish noblewoman who, before she died in 1614, sent friends and relations reports of contemporary London while she was working there. They tell of bad food, rowdiness, noise and drinking (“on Fridays it gets worse”) and of juvenile crime and barbaric punishment. So I turned back to the first volume of my Eyewitness series and to William of Malmesbury's summary of accounts of the Battle of Hastings in 1066. “The courageous leaders mutually prepared for battle, each according to his national custom,” he says, explaining that the Normans prayed all night, confessing their sins.

But how about us? “The English passed the night drinking and singing...” Let's face it, in the eyes of visitors, we've always been pretty gross.

Foreign body

After a week in Manchester when David Miliband made at least eight speeches, I've reached the disturbing conclusion that he may be from an alien planet. Why? Because he possesses a weird power: he looks normal; he seems to say normal things; but (just as with weather forecasts) the moment he's spoken, what he has said goes straight out of your head. I believe Mr Miliband's communications may be coated with a cosmic mystery-substance, enabling them to slither out of human brains the moment he inserts them, leaving behind only a residue of reasonableness but not a single hostage to fortune.

So rare a talent must not be squandered. If Miliband's leadership ambitions fail, perhaps he might become an autocutie, and do the weather report?

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