COMRADES! Yes, I just thought you’d like to know that “comrades” is back in fashion as a greeting at this year’s Labour Party conference. As is the colour red. My goodness, but the Brighton Centre’s main hall is red. “It’s like a womb,” said a steward to me, which is not the kind of comment I expect from a male Labour Party worker but there it is. Perhaps that is what wall-to-wall red does to you. Bizarrely, on television it looks pink but in reality we are talking bordello crimson.

The Labour Party conference was opened by the double act of Ian McCartney and John Prescott. What a combo! If they were not in politics, they surely would be doing stand-up in Clacton-on-Sea. They are like some sort of fast-food meal deal: buy one, get one free, with extra chippiness too.

Ian, or Eeeee, as his wild Scottish accent would have it, is Mr Prescott’s mini-me. I know, it sounds unbelievable, as one John Prescott is enough but these things happen in politics. Both are cheerleader types who specialise in word murder. Every speech is like a Quentin Tarantino bloodbath, with verbs getting a particular mauling. (Please don’t send me those letters saying I am being anti-working class: comrades, I am only the messenger.)

Eeeee has much to learn from his mentor. For while Eeeee told delegates that they had much to celebrate — his words running together like colours in the wash — John Prescott bellowed it from the rafters. And he did more than shout. His whole body was involved. This was a “twist and shout” event. He turned this way and that, he did knee bends, he threw his arms up. It made me suspect that he has been going to aerobics-for- seniors classes.

Mr Prescott is outraged that there is not more celebrating of the Labour election victory. “Let’s be bold! Let’s be radical!” he shouted. Everyone loved that. For who in the modern-day Labour Party would dare to be meek and tame. Mr Prescott shouted: “Let’s shake hands and congratulate one another!” That was wonderful, too, until everyone realised that Mr Prescott had quit talking. You could almost see a giant thought bubble emerging over the hall which said: “You cannot be serious.”

But he was. “Turn left or your right and shake hands and congratulate each other!” he cried. They sat, frozen in their chairs, suffused with that feeling of embarrassment that exists only in Britain when random human contact is required.

“Come on! Come on!” shouted JP, who was beginning to look a bit like some sort of crazed evangelical preacher. And why not, for he had just hijacked the “peace” bit of the church service.

“Go on! Go on!” He turned to the top table. There, in a row, sat Tony Blair, Tessa Jowell and Gordon Brown. Poor Tessa was piggy in the middle and began turning to left and right at the same time. Mr Blair and Mr Brown, political giants that they are, realised that they had to do this horrible thing.

Mr Blair put on his “aw shucks” face while Mr Brown added the smear of a smile to his thunderous countenance. Tessa did the wise thing and got the hell out of Dodge, backing away from the table. The two men grasped each other’s hand for, oh, at least a second. I don’t believe they spoke.

And then it was over, to the huge relief of the comrades who love to be bold as long as it doesn’t involve eye contact.

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