Labouring the Point

The Labour Party conference is in town.

That means a ‘ring of steel’ preventing us using our own seafront. The helicopter has been hovering for the past two days and in the run-up police have been swooping on cars driving into the city. There was even a news report that everyone living within a mile of the conference centre was getting a visit from Mr Plod. Just to check they’re not Osama Bin Laden, or something.

Of course, the Labour Party aren’t paying for all this. Us local taxpayers are – and we get locked out of our own city as a thank you.

It’s claimed that they bring in money to the local economy, so shall I expect to see Harman and Brown shopping for quirky gifts in the North Laine? Maybe they’ll pop to BomBanes for a plate of sausages at a magic table? Or will they be spotted doing karaoke in Lucky Voice? Perhaps we’ll see Mandelsohn staggering out of the Bulldog, and Prescott balls-deep in some skank round the back of Kulture?

More likely, being the party of the working man, they’ll stay behind their security cordon for a few days, before being chauffeur-driven back to Whitehall.

Unsurprisingly, there’s not a huge number of protests planned. I would join one of them if there was. But what would we protest about?

Iraq? Over and forgotten about, despite a great number of the attendees being war criminals.

The NHS? Privatisation continues apace. They won’t listen.

Cuts to public services? Taxes for the rich and redistribution of wealth after Labour have overseen the widening of the rich-poor divide? How about a curb on bankers’ bonuses? Constant infringement of our civil liberties in the name of a vague threat? HA!

Not only would the protests go un-noticed, since we’d be kept safely behind barries under threat of anti-terror legislation, and this shower of shite will be kicked out of power in a few months anyway.

So, what’s the point?

A few years ago, I was walking back from Sainsbury’s, past St Peter’s Church. There were half a dozen police outside but I didn’t stop to watch. I found out later that it was Blair, in town for the conference and popping into a church service. I wish I’d known – I had half a dozen eggs in my bag that could’ve been flung his way.

Can you imagine the utter futility of egging Brown?!