LAST night did not start well. I tried – and failed – to gain access to the Unite reception but was told by the bloke on the door that, without an invite, it wasn’t going to happen.
I decided against the whole “do you know who I am?” routine. Carolyn and I were at a club years ago with a senior Labour figure and his wife (and no, I’m not going to narrow it down any further) who, when bar staff failed to serve him quickly enough, actually said, in all seriousness: “Do you know who I am?”
Later that night I told Carolyn that if I ever did that, she should divorce me immediately. “Don’t worry, I will,” she replied.
Anyway, back in Manchester 2008, it turns out I was on the guest list at the Unite do after all, but by the time I was told this I had huffed off to another reception. Had an early(ish) night, actually, which is a good thing to have on first night of conference (though I did consider going to the Gay night, but I’ve had enough Abba songs already this year, and I couldn’t be bothered going through security twice to get there and back).
And I never caught up with Dale or his 50 quid note.