Dear Readers,
Good evening. Welcome to what the media critic and writer Mic Wright calls the best newsletter you can get in your inbox, which is a very generous thing for him to say.
We have a number of exciting things to tell you about. Issue 9 is arriving in the first week of November, and there will be around 120 copies for retail sale. Issue 8 and Issue 7 sold out in less than three weeks, so make tracks to the webstore to be assured of your copy.
The headline news is that Fergus Butler-Gallie is back from Manchester, where he attended the Tory conference. We sent him up there with a very specific task in mind.
Music For The Jilted Generation
Not far from where the Haçienda used to be, there is a place called ‘Innside by Melia’ – which sounds like a perfume taken via suppository – but is actually a four-star hotel. It was there that Bright Blue, the 'independent think tank for liberal conservatism' were hosting their fringe event which I, passless, had managed to wander into. A couple of young men with the hollow look of a comedown shuffled past, and a weird dance remix of (Sittin' On) The Dock of the Bay echoed round the lobby. I watched Liam Fox stare wistfully into nothingness as the door of his lift closed. Going down. Picture the morning after a night out at the Haçienda, but reimagined for people who like talking about ‘Levelling Up’.
This was, however, just the hangover. The party spirit had been in abundance the night before: one delegate told me 'this is really the post-2019 election victory party'. Whether the historic, elderly Tory faithful have all died from, say, a mysterious and poorly managed illness in the meantime – I don’t know – but this was a party that seemed barely post-pubescent. It was like being surrounded by extras from The Midwich Cuckoos, but somehow with a more malignant feeling. The triangle between the conference hall, the Midland Hotel and the old Haçienda was awash with spotty faces and newly purchased Barbour jackets. Another attendee sloganned it thus: the new Tory conference was ‘Younger, Gayer, Northernerer’.
The bar at the Midland had been particularly heavy the night before, but it isn’t just booze and drugs: the place is absolutely sex-mad as well. A particularly vulgar joke was doing the rounds about the newly promoted Liz Truss’s ‘red box’. Apparently it was started by the politician with whom she had an affair. I’m not sure I saw any assignations occur first-hand, but the hotel bar where I managed a quick pint one night did have a big ‘sold out’ sign on the condom machine. As if on cue, the delegate in the urinal next to me started whistling Bert Kaempfert’s Swinging Safari.
It wasn’t only the young and the thrusting, there were some older faces to be found in the midst of the party too. The Stop Brexit Man was there, merrily embarrassing himself for the amusement of attendees. Piers Corbyn was there too, sandwiched between a man with no shoes on and a woman dressed in a badger outfit. Perhaps that was the real appeal of Conservative Party Conference for all those tweedy tweens: it’s the one place they feel normal.
My task had been to seek out Alex Wickham – the reported godfather of the Prime Minister’s child – to ask him how the instruction of the latest Johnson in the Faith was going. No such luck. Those at the centre of the Court of the Blue Tsar were being kept far from members. The PM himself was rushed from one press briefing to another, his communications with his membership being carefully managed via his social media channels instead. Cue Boris standing in a hotel bath, Boris buttering some toast: presumably it’ll be Boris holding a copy of today’s newspaper next. Carrie was nowhere to be seen; ‘probably busy running the country’, as one delegate observed.
The 24 Hour Tory Party People didn’t seem to care. One conscientious backbencher I spoke to lamented the lack of ability to speak about serious issues, while another party member told me he wasn’t really going to any events, fringe or otherwise, because they were ‘boring as fuck’. I did manage one serious conversation, with Peter Hitchens, who had been speaking at just such a fringe event about how the Tory Party was ‘doomed’. We talked at length about the causes of the First World War. It was the closest I got to a discussion of contemporary political issues all conference.
The Briton’s Protection is a pub that stands on the edge of the old Peter’s Fields, where the Peterloo Massacre was perpetrated by mounted Yeomanry: predecessors of today’s police. The pub was named ironically, and the sign features an officer vigorously protecting the general public by trampling them underfoot. Outside, the Greater Manchester Police had stationed two mounted officers, presumably to show they remain the Briton’s Protection. Impeccable messaging as per usual. The Home Secretary was talking while I was there, a speech focusing on middle-class drug users: always good to know your audience eh? Again, attendance at even this keynote talk was sparse. I gather a group of young Tories had got into a fight at a party the night before over access to the bottles of free champagne on offer. Perhaps they were still licking their wounds. Or they were maybe licking each other.
Outside Manchester Piccadilly station, there is a statue to those blinded by gas on the Western Front. The seven bronze-cast men shuffle along from doom, guided by the one figure at the front who still has the use of an eye. The problem is, up close, this tragic procession actually looks like a jaunty conga line. Sometimes, these things just write themselves.
You can follow Fergus on Twitter here.
Freedom Fizz
Thank you to Emily Hewertson, a young Tory activist, for providing a different take on the conference in this article for the Daily Mail, which speaks of ‘bacchanalian scenes even Pan would blush at.’ Later on, Emily relays that ‘the night was so wild, an array of well-known young MPs were spotted having a post-night out party at Macdonalds at 4.45am.’ Have a read and let us know what you make of her dispatch.
The Hackney Rationalist
Who are these clandestine tribes keeping the boys in blue ten points ahead in the polls? In Issue 8, we identified six groupings of secret Tories, and got Martin Groch to draw a bonza illustration to go alongside it. Anyway, we’ve loaded it up on Instagram right here, where you can drink it in its entirety.
Wing And A Prayer
Over the last fortnight the inbox has been trilling with superb pitches, and we’re still very much open for submissions for Issue 10, which will be a Christmas special with minimal festive content but lashings of good cheer. So, if you’d like to be in the magazine, please reply to this email, and it will be read by the whole editorial team. And a very important note: first-time writers are especially welcome.
Money Trees
The shimmering summit is coming into view: we now have 711 print subscribers, up from 684 last Friday. At this rate of growth, we will hit the four-figure target by the end of the year, and there’s really no time like now to sign up, as we have ordered only 1,000 copies of Issue 9, which means there’ll be just over a hundred on retail sale after they’ve been distributed to the stockists. Our upcoming issue is the widest and broadest magazine we’ve done, led by two pieces of astounding reportage: subscribe today to reserve your copy.
Buona Serata
The last two months have been pretty frantic, as the newsletter has gone weekly, one and a half print issues have been commissioned, written and edited, all as we have looked for a new member of the editorial team. It was genuinely touching to have so many superb candidates apply to work with us, but we could only pick one.
Kieran Morris joins as the deputy editor, and will be working six days a month with the team. An extremely talented journalist, he is the youngest person to ever write for the Guardian Long Read, and you can read his deep dive into the life and death of the chef Homaro Cantu here.
We’re very lucky to have Kieran, and are very happy to be back up to full capacity as we strive to become Britain’s best new (newish?) magazine.
In Case You Missed It
Nowadays, in London and beyond, espresso martinis are a pretty naff drink, but for New Yorkers, they’ve become the latest cocktail craze. But the city’s bartenders have had enough.
Jonathan Nunn writes with his customary wit about Englishness, class and food.
‘Animal-human transgression is the fantastical norm in the dreamworld of myth, and operates still as a powerful symbol of the desire to reach beyond the confines of the possible or the acceptable.’ Yes, you do really want to read this essay by Amia Srinivasan on bestiality.
Here’s the solitary Facebook post of the alleged Zodiac killer.
Whatever happened to the clown-slash-mascot Ronald Macdonald? Amelia Tait investigates.
And Finally
Most people would find two hours of Alan Yentob a bit much, but his interview special with Tom Stoppard really is one of the best documentaries of the year, especially as the playwright makes a number of cutting remarks to the BBC impresario as he looks back on his charmed life. Stoppard, who still smokes at the age of 84, shows his private library of dreams (Ulysses and Pride and Prejudice first editions) and goes through his dazzling list of plays with an array of talking heads butting into to pay homage to his genius (though watching it you do think ‘Sir David Hare’ cannot be a real person, he must be the creation of a Daily Telegraph sketchwriter). Anyway, we can pick up that thread another time. It’s a wonderful program about a wonderful artist who also seems to be a pretty wonderful person, and that’s selling it short.
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Next week, we’re starting a new series, in which Henry Jeffreys, wine writer, will advise impecunious connoisseurs on how to start a cellar. It’s a very funny first outing and contains genuinely useful advice, too.
There are a couple of very exciting collaborations to announce soon, and there’s another slice of staff news to come next Friday. In the meantime, enjoy the weekend.
All the best,
TF
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