Madeline Grant

Hadush Kebatu’s Magical Mystery Tour of North London was the subject of this afternoon’s debate in the Commons. In a scandal which may as well have been permanently accompanied by the Benny Hill theme tune, the police and prison service conspired accidentally to release the Ethiopian schoolgirl-botherer onto the streets of Chelmsford on Friday, followed by a two-day tour of the capital’s parks. I wonder what trip Mr Kebatu has planned next? A wander around Windsor? Inevitably this raised questions in Parliament. Kebatu isn’t alone: both Channel migrant numbers and accidental releases of the mad, bad and dangerous have risen precipitously under Labour.

Have you ever wondered what a less competent Rachel Reeves would be like? If you’re a small business owner, the London Stock Exchange or Sir Keir Starmer, it’s presumably the sort of thing that keeps you up at night. Yet it isn't just a thing of nightmares – this concept exists in the flesh in the form of Reeves’s sister Ellie. The younger Reeves makes the Chancellor look like Bismarck. The younger Reeves makes the Chancellor look like Bismarck She has recently been awarded the role of Solicitor General, which makes her sound like a very senior cottager. Although, frankly, having George Michael, John Gielgud or the bloke who played Old Man Steptoe would have been an improvement at the dispatch box.

When John Profumo had to resign due to scandalous behaviour, he famously went to clean lavatories. Angela Rayner, by contrast, has been up to goodness knows what. Perhaps she’s been clothes shopping, appearing as she did today in the house, for the first time in ages, wearing an identical suit to Rachel Reeves.  As the disgraced former deputy prime minister rose to speak, Labour MPs let out an almighty yell of approval. The last person to give Angela Rayner a cheer like that was probably her mortgage lender. A vast number of MPs had turned up to give their support – including what looked like half the cabinet’s big guns, if you can call them that.

Samworth Brothers are the biggest producers of pork pies in Britain. Or so they claim. I suspect they will find at the end of this financial year that they have very stiff competition from a new producer in the field, Sir Keir Rodney Starmer. Except it isn’t just porkies that Sir Keir indulges in. Today we saw the full gamut of his honesty allergy: evasion, obfuscation, straw-manning and gaslighting were all deployed as he wriggled and squealed like it was Melton Mowbray market day. The specific topic which gave us this show of Sir Keir at his worst was China. While he’s been busy in Egypt, being batted off by Donald Trump and watching Adolescence for the fifty-thousandth time, yet another scandal has been quietly enfolding his listing and useless government.

Yvette Cooper managed to say ‘let me be clear’ twice, in a couple of minutes during her interview with Nick Robinson on the Today Programme this morning. For seasoned Labour-watchers, the phrase ‘let me be clear’ was one inherited from the grand panjandrum of political deceit – Tony Blair himself – and is almost always an indicator that the person saying is it about to be as unclear as possible. They might as well walk around with the phrase ‘I’m lying’ written on their foreheads in red paint, so obvious an indicator of incoming deceit it is. If these are the grown ups, then send in the clowns The Foreign Secretary was on the radio in part to try and explain away Labour’s growing China problem.

Prior to Kemi Badenoch’s arrival the Conservative party played us recordings of her voice piped over dramatic lift muzak. Conference seasons are always bizarre – gatherings as they are of remarkable sub-species of people who look at British politics and think ‘wow, that’s exciting’ rather than ‘oh God, what now’ (and I include myself in this category). It isn’t showbusiness for ugly people, it’s trainspotting for maniacs. Yet by the standards of conference weirdness, the soundtrack aside, Mrs Badenoch was, well, quite normal.  As she arrived on stage in person she seemed genuinely surprised by the warmth of the welcome.

Robert Jenrick has been walking a tightrope. Over the course of the Conservative party conference he has been having to navigate the tricky situation of playing both the prince over the water and the loyal lieutenant to Kemi Badenoch. Mr Jenrick so far has played his cards very well. He is successfully channelling both Bonnie Prince Charlie and Blondin, the man who pushed a wheelbarrow over Niagara Falls. Or even David Miliband meets Stan Laurel. Today was his most difficult performance yet. Be too bland and he’d join the legions of Tories who might have been king – destined to join the Rab Butler-Jeremy Hunt memorial club.

What is the purpose of Mel Stride? I don’t ask this to be personal I just genuinely don’t know. In some ways it’s a problem for all shadow chancellors: the Treasury is the most practical of departments, the opposition can only theorise about it. The economy ought to be the only trump card the Tories have left. They’re essentially in a game of strip-poker wearing only their socks and with one ace left – namely, the fact that the economy is going to tank even more when people learn the true extent of Rachel Reeves’s incompetence at the Budget. Meanwhile Reform’s spending plans might as well have been typed up in Babylonic cuneiform. They bear as much relation to reality as a Beckett play transcribed by a baboon.

The voice of Keir Starmer echoed round the Conservative party’s conference hall. ‘Free of charge digital ID’ chanted the disembodied Dalek. If people had come hoping to escape the Grand Adenoid then hard luck. Kemi Badenoch’s welcome address to the Tory faithful began with a dystopian video compilation of some of the Labour government’s ‘greatest hits’ since entering office; channel crossings up, gangs distinctly un-smashed. A useful reminder that, whatever D:Ream might have promised us, things can always get worse.  The feeling at this conference is like a family gathered round a bedside awaiting an imminent demise.

‘Patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel’. So wrote Dr Johnson. Sadly for the good Doctor he was an avowed Tory and so, according to the rules of Labour conference, a de facto evil and probably racist monster. Alas, if only the Labour party had heeded the great moralist’s words, we might have avoided the clatteringly embarrassing display that was the Prime Minister’s speech today. As delegates arrived they were handed British, Welsh and Scottish flags. Even a few St George’s flags were fluttering – look away now, Emily Thornberry! Alas, no Northern Irish ones; presumably Lord Hermer thinks they’re against international law. No. 10 had been briefing the press that Starmer was going to make a big open appeal to ordinary British patriots.

In German they have a concept whose equivalent is sorely needed in discussion of British politics: ‘anti-talent’. It means exactly what it sounds like – the opposite of talent, something any given person is uniquely ill-suited to doing.  The Chancellor criticised ‘the nagging voices of decline’, which, when you’re standing a matter of inches away from Sir Keir Starmer, is either very brave or very stupid Labour has an innate ability to recognise and reward anti-talent, by putting the very people least suited to run departments in charge of them. While Yvette Cooper is in charge of charming our foreign allies, Rachel Reeves, who is increasingly becoming the Florence Foster Jenkins of gilt yields, runs the Treasury.

Day one of the Labour conference – oh frabjous day! The annual gathering of people who hate each other just a little bit more than they hate themselves was underway. You really do wonder where they find some of these characters.  Sir Keir arrives in Liverpool as the least popular PM in history. Worse than Liz Truss or Boris Johnson at their nadirs, worse than Lloyd George when he did all his lady diddling, worse than Neville Chamberlain. I bet the ghost of Lord North is absolutely over the moon. Mr Starmer is a road traffic black spot of a PM.

‘The Global Progress Action Summit’ is exactly the sort of event Keir Starmer loves. It’s a sort of Blairite seance, where all the ghouls of a dead liberal order are summoned and live again to spend 24 hours doing their favourite thing: bloviating. It’s a pretty cast-iron rule that an organisation with two words for physical movement in its title will in fact be an impotent talking shop. It was to this appalling gathering that Sir Keir – a man who famously prefers Davos to Westminster – had trotted to announce the introduction of ID cards. This little piggy had gone wee wee wee all the way to his spiritual home; a soulless conference centre, to unveil a policy he’d long been gagging for.