Today saw the last day of the Tory party conference (AKA the Boden Coachella), and, as tradition dictates, the overlord gave a big speech to his underlings. David Cameron sauntered on stage this lunchtime to the sound of The Killers' straw-hat festival sing-along anthem "All These Things That I've Done" (cue a barrage of Twitterati journos and Politics students "hilariously" listing bad things that he's done). It was an appropriately middlebrow choice, rousing without being raucous, recent without being current.
What he really should have come onto though, is "Juicy" by Biggie or "Hustle On" by Giggs, because the speech was just one big paean to getting rich and letting other people die trying. I half expected him to shout out all the "people on the grind" at the end of it, he spoke about "putting that gold medal around the neck of Ellie Simmonds" like Biggie spoke about "putting five carats in my baby girl's ear". This was a speech of brazen pride, and Cameron borrowed so much of that pride from the Olympics that he seemed like a man still wandering around in his Games Maker T-shirt and shorts in mid-October. He was shouting out Brazil and China like a young mixtape rapper at the Source Awards, talking about how they were "on the rise".
Surprisingly, he also spent quite a lot of time hating on the Labour Party, painting them as a bunch of dilly-dallying, donkey jacket clad fuddie duddies who wipe their arses with red tape and salute a bust of Lenin before every local council meeting. Whereas he and his boys were stacking bands and uploading pictures of themselves with Azealia Banks and Mo Farah on Instagram, ayoooooooooo.
Just booked tickets to see Skyfall on David Cameron's forehead
— Rizzle Kicks (@RizzleKicks) October 9, 2012
Enough about that though, what did the audience think? Well, if you judge it by Twitter then they mostly complained about the size of DC's forehead, but if you judge it by the audience in the building, they fucking loved it. Of course being Tories they aren't capable of emitting a sense of enjoyment without seeming horribly smug. Don't believe me? Check out this display of chinless wonders who look like they'd burn a couple of Gs with no hesitation at all, if it weren't for the picture of The Queen on the notes.
The crowd looked upon their leader, their eyes glazed with the knowing affection of a parent whose precious child is currently smacking it in a recorder recital. Their eyes said that this was an investment that was paying off, that they were in power. From the nouveau neo-cons with failed attempts at Alex Turner hair, to the blue rinse brigade who probably approved legislation to ban The Beano on indecency grounds, they fucking lapped it up. Best of all was young Rik Mayall down front, a man who looks like he might buy your council house and move his least favourite dog in, just to spite you for shining his shoes wrong.
Oh look, it's all the achievers in this country. Look at these fine, well brought-up girls with their sensible haircuts and Gold medals. This summer, while the rest of us were drinking Desperados in parks and throwing chairs at Majorcan bartenders, these girls were out there making this country proud. That's why they get to sit three rows behind Eric Pickles at a 50-minute speech in Birmingham. Just try to imagine what that kind of glamour and importance might make you feel like. You can't, can you? Because you sold all the gold you had round your neck to Cash Converters and all the money you put aside for that mid-winter holiday in Britain's second city has been swallowed up by Wonga.com.
Ladies, take a look at this woman. Look at how happy she is, look at the lust in her eyes, look at the smug in that smile. While the rest of your husbands, fiancees and fuck buddies are zoning out to the Sidebar of Shame in their office, or whistling to Smooth FM on a building site somewhere, Samantha here's hubbie is HANDLING HIS SHIT. If your significant other wasn't such a waster, then you too could reach the inexorable vicarious powergasm that Ms Cameron is experiencing here.
They were even happier when MC Dave started slewing Ed Miliband and the loonies of the left like it was a Wiley diss track. That's what the fam really come here for: the disses. All party conferences are full of spectators who aren't truly happy until they start taking the piss out of each other. They're like the people who buy Eminem albums, tolerate some of the social commentary, but are only really interested in the fart jokes references and cussing. The audience today threw their heads back in the air and howled at the heavens as DC started a stilted routine in which he lectured an imaginary Ed Miliband on tax reform. They hadn't laughed this hard since Che Guevara was executed.
What is it with Tories and that weird, aristocratic man-child vibe so many of them have? This dude sat there flapping his flabby hands together like the spoilt, yet simple son of a Roman Emperor applauding the murder of a slave for his birthday present.
Of course there's no Tory smugger than a Young Tory, and this guy was head and shoulders above the rest of them. You've got to feel sorry for guys like this in a way; he's only due a crisis of ideological confidence in a few years time. All those refusals of crafty joints in the Trinity cloisters, all that shouting down of Marxists in the debating society, all those Rugby-scrum gropes are going to get to him eventually. He'll burn out, see the light, end up tripping on some bad acid at Burning Man and spend the rest of his days preaching about the dangers of eating too much protein. Enjoy it while it lasts, mate.
After what felt like four hour's worth of rehearsed gags and stiff upper lip platitudes, the speech came to an end. It was time for the talking to stop and for the arse licking to begin. The Debenhams Helen Of Troy herself came on stage to congratulate her brave warrior husband who had so courageously spoken without notes (for some reason this is how political orating is judged these days, like it was a memory test round on a bad game show). They stood on the stage for a bit like Hugh Grant and Martine McCutcheon at the end of Love Actually, blinking at the flashes and awkwardly shaking hands with their minions, who they'd heroically managed to convince were right to think everything they already thought about the world.
Follow Clive on Twitter: @thugclive