The Green Party conference in Brighton offered the usual assault on the senses, from the smell of sea salt and patchouli oil to delegates in garish green collecting literature by the armful. Inside the main hall, Zack Polanski promised to nationalise anything that moves and freeze everything else.
But the real story, as with any political conference, was on the fringe, where members and those seeking to influence them gathered. A day wandering that floor revealed seven of the maddest sights.
A blinking pig and a brewing civil war
Just out of sight of the main entrance stood a cage containing a life-sized fake pig, its ears twitching gently on some unseen mechanism, part of a protest against battery farming. It was unsettlingly lifelike - at one point it even blinked - enough to make two delegates do a visible double-take before realising it wasn't real.
Meanwhile, any truce in the culture war had been broken within minutes of the conference opening. At the Green Women's Declaration stand, things turned frosty when members of the LGBTQIAP+ Greens wandered past. One woman, unprompted and entirely unbothered by who might hear her, branded them "blokes in frocks". For a party that spent its main-stage speech promising to stand with "everyone under attack", the fringe floor apparently didn't get the memo on internal unity.
Gaza everywhere, Ukraine nowhere
Walk the length of the exhibition hall and you'd find stall after stall dedicated to Palestine - flags, badges, coffee, stickers, petitions, leaflets demanding the Government do something and then do more. Eagle-eyed attendees may struggle to find much on Ukraine. For a party happy to lecture the rest of us on standing up to aggression and defending the vulnerable, the silence on a European war still raging was striking.
The Brighton Centre is a proper theatre and conference venue, which meant it was outfitted with bar after bar. Sadly every single one was shuttered. Whether that's cost-cutting, scheduling, or a party simply too busy saving the planet to pour a pint, I couldn't say.
Free soap and a wealth tax nobody could price
Amid the serious policy stands, one group was simply handing out bars of soap. I never really learned why, it was just something they seemed to be doing. Around the rest of the venue, blazing feuds on rent freezes, wealth taxes and demands to nationalise half the economy raged. But in that idyllic corner, it was the most refreshing stall on the floor.
I lost count of the members who told me, with total conviction, that Britain needs a proper wealth tax. Ask what rate, though, and the conviction evaporated fast. Not one could give me a number. Mr Polanski's own conference pledge of a windfall tax on bank profits got a similar reception when I pressed delegates on detail - plenty of enthusiasm, precious little arithmetic.
Spare rooms that stayed empty
Perhaps the most telling conversation of the week came when several delegates told me they would personally house asylum seekers in their own homes. When I asked how many they currently had staying with them, the answer was invariably the same: none yet, but they meant to look into it. Admirable intentions, certainly. Rather less admirable follow-through.
