I love the labour movement. I love its history, its traditions, its brass bands and banners. I love its rousing songs, anthems and festivals. I love its slogans and rallying cries, inspired, as they are, by an abiding faith in the collective spirit and the seductive vision of the New Jerusalem. For all that tribalism
I see library footage on a news channel of Boris Johnson slinging insults at Jeremy Corbyn over the despatch box and feel a strange sudden sense of déjà vu. I know I have witnessed this performance before. The penny drops. It is winter, 2002. I and my fellow firefighters, on strike over low pay, are
Arrived in Remain-on-sea (also known as Brighton) for Labour party conference. As an old-fashioned trade unionist hailing from a working-class heartland who supports Brexit, opposes mass immigration and doesn’t believe someone with a penis can be a woman, I feel about as welcome as a hedgehog at a nudist colony. The conference centre and fringe