MY TRAINERS stare up at me defiantly. Somehow they never quite made it out of the suitcase. I never did go for that head-clearing, waist-shrinking run on the beach. From day one of the conference season I ignored my own “Timetable for Action”. I broke my pledge to “get an early night”. I did, on the other hand, frequently tuck away three cooked meals a day together with equally inadvisable quantities of alcohol. Thus, I emerge from my seaside sojourn fatter and wearier, but sadly not wiser.

On the train back to reality, I realise that I have already spent more than a year of my life and over half my birthdays at party conferences. It’s not quite enough on its own to turn me into a Grumpy Old Man. The story of the “Tories new conference star” has, however, done the trick. The 17-year-old Jessica Lever wowed Bournemouth yesterday. We knew she would — we had read it in the Sunday papers. As had surprised party officials, who knew nothing about her and had to hastily find her a speaking slot. Milton Friedman’s great niece had, we now learn, employed the services of a showbiz agent and a family friend, Jonathan Shalit, who once promoted another sweet sounding teenager, Charlotte Church.

Was it on his advice that Jessica spoke in perfect soundbites and wore her school uniform all week, complete with merit badges? Perhaps soon no one who wants to speak will go without their own Max Clifford in the background. We should not be too surprised, though. After all, debates are now replaced by mock TV talk shows. It’s little wonder that journalists believe that real stories can be found only when you have a notebook in one hand and a glass in the other. Sure, past conferences were often unrepresentative, with the media often presenting honest debate as acrimonious division and the public often engaging more with personalities than policies. Yet isn’t it an irony that the more these events are made for television, the less coverage they actually get on TV.

• The party not to miss each night this week was hosted by the hospitable Lord Hesketh. He invited Tory big-wigs to drink a glass or twelve with an exclusive band of political journalists, on what Lord H. calls “Whips’ Office terms” — that’s “off the record” to you and me. One hack inquired if he could come. Certainly not, came the answer from Lord H’s assistant — only political editors are invited. My colleague reacted calmly and maturely. He wrote “All Welcome” on an invitation card, photocopied it and distributed it around the press room.

  Lord H. took over this event from Lord Archer after he chose to party at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. I tried to gatecrash one Archer soirée long before I had acquired the requisite title of “editor”. Striding into Lord A’s suite, I grasped the great man by the hand and declared ingratiatingly: “Jeffrey, how good to see you”. “Yes, good to see you Nick,” he replied, pumping my hand up and down and walking as he walked me back out into the corridor. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’m having a party.” Even his put-downs had chutzpah.

• The late-night talk at the Tory conference was still dominated by Tony Blair’s extraordinary announcement last week about his dicky heart, and his intention of not retiring for many years.

  Last Thursday I was still in blissful ignorance about all this when I received a call from Downing Street asking me whether I would like to interview the Prime Minister that evening. The honest answer would have been: “Absolutely not. I have a hangover. I’m sitting on Brighton beach hoping that the sea air and large doses of caffeine will wake me for the day ahead”. Nonetheless, by 7.30pm I was waiting for the interview to begin in the Pillared Room in Number 10. The cameras were ready and the lights were on, but I was still in the dark. David Hill, the PM’s Director of Communications, then called myself, Sky News’s Adam Boulton and the BBC’s Andrew Marr into a side room. “I guess,” he said, “you’d like to know why you’re really here.” As he handed over a statement by the PM’s doctor, I miraculously felt my head clear — they should bottle adrenalin. Although what Harold Macmillan called “events” are still enough to get me high.

  Nick Robinson is political editor of ITV News
  
  nick.robinson@thetimes.co.uk
  
  Join the Debate at comment@thetimes.co.uk

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