Neil Kinnock did a stand-up comedy routine and later admitted he had seen the Blairite light
Published 01 May 2000
The invitation read "Centenary Celebration" and suggested an evening of cheerful nostalgia. Unfortunately, the Labour Party centenary dinner held at the Dorchester, for all its glitz, was neither particularly cheerful nor nostalgic. Sentimentality for the past was not on the menu. Sipping champagne in the magnificently lit ballroom, the party glitterati sat surrounded by eight-foot television screens, all showing pictures of suffragettes and hungry striking workers - perhaps as a warning of what the party/country would return to without its current leadership. An ex-union man nudged me during the extravagant three-course meal and said: "I wish they'd stop showing those, they're putting me off my salmon mousse."
The entire evening was a final closing of the coffin lid on the characters and values of "old" Labour. The speakers muttered great names of the movement as if embarrassed at having to bring them up. It was like attending a tribute to astounding musicians of the past century where Duke Ellington and Jimi Hendrix were paid only cursory attention, so that the "achievements" of Britney Spears and Steps could be fully appreciated. And the music today sure ain't what it used to be.
Our host for the evening was the ex-leader of the new Labour band, Neil Kinnock. As he took the podium for his speech, Tony Banks's sister, Angie Beveridge, whispered hopefully: "Here we go, Neil'll get us crying." Napkins were held at the ready. Strangely, the normally heart- tugging Neil began a five-minute comedy routine. Clutching the microphone and pecking his head from side to side, he delivered a speech that was Pythonesque in style with dollops of Bernard Manning thrown in for good measure. It started something like this: "We were so poor, right, in our street, that when you spotted a dog with a tail, you knew it was a tourist!" This supposedly dealt with the issue of poverty in Britain. Recent talk of unhappiness among the Labour rank and file was dismissed later in his act with this anecdote: "Roy Jenkins asked for asparagus tips in a tiny Welsh village restaurant, right. After some minutes, the anxious waitress returned and said: 'I'm sorry Mr Jenkins, the manager said to tell you, we only have Benson and Hedges' . . . That to me is what the heartlands are about," he finished to surprised laughter. The rest of his time on stage was spent praising the "new", the "innovative" and the "modern". When we met later, I couldn't resist telling him that I was surprised to find him "such a Blairite", to which he laughed: "It's true, I have repented my sins, I have seen the light."
For weeks, it's been impossible to leave my desk for more than a few hours, as the plans for my wedding in June reach hysteria level. Until you've been through this hell, it's impossible to imagine the significance that tiny, inanimate objects suddenly gain. Cufflinks and corsages (until last week I had no idea what the latter was) are this week's obsession. Added to that is the political trauma of designing a seating plan that pleases everyone (and offends no one), the indecision over who NOT to invite and the cost of the flowers. Suddenly the beta blockers donated by a recently wed friend are looking very inviting indeed.
But the crowning glory of all this madness has been the Bridal Book. This is the 21st-century way to avoid receiving 120 toasters. A buttoned-up sales lady, using those two cure-all phrases, "time-saving" and "convenient", sold the concept to my fiance and I. It's very simple in theory. First, you go to the bridal department of any top store, in this case Peter Jones. (Harrods was considered a no-no.)
Then, you are given a book listing practically every item in the shop. You put a cross by those you want, and bingo! When wedding guests call the stores "brideline", they can quickly buy a desirable gift.
My fiance and I set aside half a morning last week, to browse through Peter Jones in Sloane Street, London. But, within an hour, panic at the array of useless items became overwhelming. Having chosen two pleasant duvet sets and some extra large bath towels, we were stumped as to what else we really needed. We own a small, one-bedroom flat in Willesden, not a palatial mansion in Knightsbridge, so where would six-foot, gold-plated vases look appropriate? A bridal book from Camden Market is more our style.
Somehow, the book has been completed. I have a horrible memory of putting a cross next to something called a napkin ring. And what is a lazy Susan? I can only hope that friends will be disgusted with the idea of buying by numbers and that they buy his and hers in-line skates from Camden instead; anything other than a gravy boat with a matching saucer.
The Shoalin Wheel of Life at the Dominion is a truly incredible manifestation of spiritual discipline, strength and courage. The theatrics of the revered Chinese monks have been directed for the first time by a westerner to produce an elaborate West End-style "show". Michael Bergese has brilliantly combined imaginative music and lighting with the story of the monks' battle to survive through the ages. Before going to the Dominion, I mentioned to a cynical Guardian columnist that I imagined an evening of inspirational skill, joy and peace awaiting me there. Being a Guardian writer, she naturally pooh-poohed the concept, declaring the event "a bizarre and tacky freak show".
As I sat in the noisy stalls, surrounded by fat men in jeans and children crunching popcorn and yawning, I realised she was right. But sadly it was we, the audience, who were the uninspired freaks on display.
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