Fleetstreet legend and Mirror columnist, Paul Routledge, sends gentle tales from his West Yorkshire allotment, Mrs R’s pantry and the Old White Bear. This week, Paul is glad he’s not at reporting from the toffs conference like he has in the past, preferring the gentler pace of the Isle of Bute…
Time was when I would have been at the Tory Party conference today, slumming it with the toffs.
I can do it. I’ve watched grandees preening themselves at the rostrum, and listened to men on the make in fringe meetings.
I’ve drunk warm white wine at receptions and watched as greedy pigs from the shires devour freebie sausage rolls.
I’ve even elbowed my way into an event where Ken Clarke, one of the few sane, non-Brexit Tories, was speaking. He can fill any hall the conference has to offer.
I’ve people-watched as the delegates (which they hate being called: they’re “representatives”) shimmy by in glass-tower hotels, braying to each other into the small hours.
All of this I have done in the name of duty as a political correspondent. But I’ve had enough of being polite to the massed ranks of Truss supporters, thank you. Give me a lettuce, any day.
In any case, because of the civil strife in the party, the newspapers are only sending war correspondents this year.
Instead of Birmingham, the heart of England, I’ve been in Rothesay on the Isle of Bute, off Scotland’s west coast, for my annual meet-up with Charlie Whelan, Gordon Brown’s one-time spin doctor.
This tiny island, only three miles wide, was once the Scots Blackpool, a popular destination “doon the watter” for working class Glaswegians.
It’s the birthplace of Lena Zavaroni, and Prince William is known up ‘ere not (for obvious reasons) as Wales but as the Duke of Rothesay. Not many people know that, and even fewer wish to know it.
Rothesay has seen better days since it was the Costa Proletaria of the Clyde, but it has an historic moated castle, great views and a fine esplanade.
There are traditional Scots bars with live music in the evenings. And the food is good, if you like cullen skink.
The real treat, however, is Wemyss Bay railway station, where you catch the ferry, regarded by architectural guru Sir Simon Jenkins as Britain’s finest. He’s right. It’s a gem.
