THE POWER OF THE TORY CONFERENCE

On the eve of this year's, Richard Kelly says

the Conservatives' annual gathering is still misunderstood — especially by New Labour

TEN YEARS ago, I wrote a book which tried to rescue Tory conferences (this year's takes place in Bournemouth next week) — long regarded as sterile, syco- phantic affairs, infinitely less important than the annual conference of the Labour Party. My argument had two central points: the first was historically descriptive, while the second turned out to be surpris- ingly prescriptive in the case of the Tories' opponents. My first point was that whenever the Conservatives were seriously split — over tariffs in the early 1900s, India and rear- mament in the 1930s, Europe and immi- gration in the 1960s — the conference served to expose how much grass-root sup- port the competing factions enjoyed. This, in turn, had a critical effect upon how dif- ferences were settled and the eventual course of party policy. Balfour may have preferred the advice of his valet to that of a Tory conference — but he was a singu- larly unsuccessful Tory leader.

My second point was that, although con- ference motions were normally bland and card votes rare — most motions were car- ried overwhelmingly by a show of hands this did not mean that conference dele- gates were ineffective. I suggested that rank-and-file influence at the conference tended to occur in a subtle and oblique fashion — not through wordy, detailed motions and 'key' votes, but through the 'Every time she opens her mouth she puts somebody else's foot in it.' frank contributions of activitists and the sensitivity of listening ministers.

To those who attended the conference, its modus operandi was the transmission of 'mood' from floor to platform, under- pinned by a certain trust between mem- bership and leadership. The leadership was trusted to discern and broadly cater for any clear opinions which surfaced in the course of debate — the vague wording of motions allowing free-range discussion — while the membership was trusted to accept that the leadership must always have the final word on policy detail. The absence of card votes helped conceal the extent of party divisions, while the absence of specifically worded motions showed respect for the complexities of government.

This type of approach was complement- ed by an informal 'conference system', which involved a series of 'preliminary' (regional and sectional) Tory conferences held throughout the year, culminating in the main party conference in October. If the system worked well, then ideas would be floated — and arguments resolved— at the party's preliminary conferences, enabling ministers to unfurl to the main conference policies which commanded broad party support; ministers' ovations therefore stemmed not just from loyalty but relief that constituency views had been heeded. The October conference would then bequeath a united party, an enthused membership and a PR triumph — in stark contrast to the theatrical fractiousness of Labour's conference the previous week.

When the book came out, this 'model' of grass-roots influence was dismissed by left- ish reviewers. The sans ballot version of party democracy I described was judged no guarantee of influence for ordinary mem- bers: I agreed. But reviewers also argued that, as a type of party democracy, it was much inferior to the more explicit and mechanical version employed by the Labour Party. I disagreed — pointing, for example, to the less than obvious influence of Labour's conference over the Wilson and Callaghan governments. Events of the past ten years have not caused me to revise these opinions. Since the book was written, the Tories have won a further two general elections. These victories, however, did not make the Tory conference more quiescent. Instead, the party's electoral dominance only boost- ed the self-confidence of its activists, par- ticularly those committed enough to attend party conferences. Four successive election wins enforced their belief that their vested interests, and their gut instincts, were now those of the new average voter. As a result, they were even more inclined to give min- isters the benefit of their advice, which ministers — desperate to maintain party unity — found difficult to resist.

As always, much of this advice came at the party's preliminary conferences. Yet, by the late 1980s, there were clear signs that activists were willing to carry their concerns to the main conference as well, much to the consternation of party man- agers. A clear example of this came at the 1987 conference, when speakers from the floor attacked the government's plan to phase in the poll tax, demanding instead its immediate and wholesale introduction. As Nicholas Ridley later recorded in his memoirs, Mrs Thatcher turned to him on the platform and instructed his department to 'think again'. It did, and the policy was changed with fateful results — not least for Mrs Thatcher's premiership.

Two years later, the leadership suffered another embarrassment at the main con- ference, this time over Northern Ireland. During the Ulster debate, which the lead- ership had hoped would concentrate on security, activists expressed loud support for the idea of fielding official Conserva- tive candidates in Northern Ireland's par- liamentary elections: an integrationist measure clearly at odds with the govern- ment's consociational designs. The impact of these candidates at the 1992 general election was at best marginal. But the fact remains that they were only there because of a grass-roots revolt at a Tory confer- ence.

This upsurge of dissent owed much to the peculiar style of Mrs Thatches lead- ership. Her own memoirs have since revealed that, whenever she felt under siege from her colleagues, she relied upon the conference to affirm her own beliefs while showing Cabinet opponents the error of their ways. As such, the confer- ence played no small part in her mastery of the party. Yet it also produced some odd moments — such as when she was seen applauding those speakers who attacked her own Home Secretary's poli- cies in the law and order debate of 1981. Such anomalies were not lost on ordinary representatives. Sensing that the prime minister was 'one of us', they later showed no hesitation in attacking a range of gov- ernment policies while at the same time exonerating the party leader.

Lady Thatcher's impact upon the con- ference has outlasted her leadership of the party. Indeed, she herself has tried to exploit it through her mischievously speechless appearances since 1990. It was suggested by Chris Patten that, out of dis- like for some of her successor's policies, she sought to provoke more general oppo- sition from party members assembled at the conference. In this, she has been abet- ted by a much less reticent Lord Tebbit, who seized the 1992 conference with an Holy smokes! Not the Peter Rabbit!' attack upon Maastricht — one which delighted huge sections of the audience and, by so doing, prompted certain Euro- doubtful MPs to become fully fledged Euro-rebels when Parliament resumed its own debate a few weeks later.

John Major's discomfort at that confer- ence may have alerted him to the utility of the party's conference system. Since 1992, he has made a point of attending most of the party's preliminary conferences to gauge its increasingly troubled mood. Dur- ing 1993, a string of these conferences made it plain that the party needed clearer policies concerning the 'moral climate' of society. It was largely in response to this message that the 'Back to Basics' project was unveiled at the main Tory conference that October. Most commentators assumed that, in party terms, this was a top-down' initiative. Yet Major was only echoing the sort of ideas made by count- less party members at successive party con- ferences that year. The applause he received for Back to Basics was warm and genuine. But it was applause for being receptive rather than inventive.

During the last two years, the confer- ence system has been notably effective in the field of crime and punishment. Unde- terred by the fate of Back to Basics, the Tories' preliminary conferences have been much detained by public disorder and the `need' for more prison sentences. This has put the party leadership in a difficult posi- tion, for most of the 'objective' evidence to emerge at this time — from various judi- cial experts and Home Office studies — implied that custodial sentencing had only a limited effect upon proven and putative offenders; even Lord Chief Justice Taylor was publicly sceptical. By this stage, how- ever, Major and his colleagues were aware that a fractious main conference was always possible and should at all costs be avoided. As a result, Michael Howard has unashamedly played to the gallery at both the 1994 and 1995 main conferences, promising more prison sentences and, if necessary, more prisons. This twist in law and order policy represents another clear example of Tory conferences affecting gov- ernment policy, despite the contrary advice of government officials. With the poll tax being an obvious precedent, this does not augur well for public administration.

Although the Tories' conference system has not been widely recognised outside the party, it may not have gone unnoticed in the upper echelons of the Labour Party. Under Tony Blair's leadership, Labour officials may well be developing Labour's own version — one which revolves around the series of 'policy forums' which now take place each year. Literature from Labour HQ states that the forums' debates should be conducted in a 'purely advisory' way, avoiding formalised voting and rely- ing upon senior party figures to 'sense the opinions' of most contributors. According to one official, this vote-free approach will `allow participants to have a more mature and considered policy debate' without the `factional conflict and political posturing' associated with the annual conference (such ideals would be instantly recognised by the Tories' conference organisers). The object, it seems, is to pre-empt any criti- cism which might be made of a Blair gov- ernment during the week of the party conference. As with the Tories' conference system, Labour's assorted forums will try to reduce intra-party differences by the autumn, allowing the main conference to be more of a back-slapping celebration than a place where tough, divisive deci- sions are made.

This development is rich in irony. It is ironic that Tory conferences, once dis- missed by Clement Attlee as 'little more than a charade', are now being emulated by the Labour leadership. It is ironic that, when seeking to marry party input to the demands of government, the much derid- ed Tory conference is now being recog- nised as the 'efficient' version, as opposed to the 'dignified' alternative offered by the traditional conference of the Labour Party.

But an even greater irony is that, at a time when the traditional Tory conference is being courted by Labour, it is being spurned by the Conservative Party itself. As the poll tax debate of 1987 and the Europe debate of 1992 both demonstrate, the Tories' preliminary conferences can no longer guarantee an absence of dissent at the Oktoberfest. The main conference now offers further proof that loyalty is no longer the Tories' secret weapon and that disloyalty is now their not so secret handi- cap. Speakers from the floor no longer seem content with subtle, coded criticism. There have been signs recently that con- stituency representatives at Tory confer- ences, egged on by dissident MPs and former leaders, are now acting like some of those at Labour conferences in the 1970s.

All this, of course, could be yet another aspect of Lady Thatcher's legacy, her brand of combative Toryism having rubbed off on the rest of the party. It is a brand which could yet make the party unelectable. Given the Lady's own elec- toral record, that would be the ultimate irony.

Richard Kelly teaches politics at the Manch- ester Grammar School. His book, Conser- vative Party Conferences: The Hidden System, was published by Manchester Uni- versity Press in 1989.

`It's another one of those huffing and puffing phone calls again.'