This year’s Tory party conference raises many troubling questions. What is the future of HS2, a high-speed-rail-project-cum-slow-burn-disaster? What to do about inflation? And above all: why do so many Tories still wear ties?

The tie, which has elsewhere largely fallen out of favour, is here in abundance. There are spotted ties and silk ties; floral ties and faded ties; a pheasant tie (its owner likes to eat them—pheasants, that is) and paisley ties. Some are worn on principle (“Got to keep up the high standards”). As midnight looms, a drunk Tory appears in a slightly askew bowtie. Conference, he slurs, is “good fun”. Behind him, a man in a stripy tie wobbles towards a flowerbed.

People who have not been to the Conservative Party’s annual conference might assume that the “conference” bit is what matters. For Tory members, though, this is all about the party. A conference does take place. In airless auditoriums people in lanyards give ill-attended speeches; in the nearby exhibition hall, people mill around the Alzheimer’s Society stall and the Tory merchandise one (the Thatcher waterbottles, apparently, are selling well).

But all that is a sideshow. The real action goes on in between sessions, as people in blue suits, blue shirts and brogues go to parties, drink white wine and use words such as “thus” in conversation. Above all, they express the love that dare not speak its name—Conservatism—without embarrassment. Even impending political apocalypse (the Tories are trailing by 17 points in the polls) cannot dampen their ardour; Liz Truss, the members’ choice to be party leader last summer, can still generate a crowd with an unironic speech about making “Britain grow again”.

En masse, Tory party members are a striking breed. The men (and almost all Tories here seem to be men) tend to have smart haircuts, polite smiles and look as if they are probably called Hugh. Tory females have the air of women who would know their way around a horse’s withers. Stand in the conference centre and the (relative) diversity of Tory cabinets starts to feel not just laudable, but more like a minor miracle.

Tories themselves bridle at the suggestion that they are not diverse. A young party member in a bow tie, pointing at a pink-cheeked friend, says that he is even from Scotland. Many are much less upper crust than they seem; it requires a lot of effort and aspiration to appear this out of touch. Then again, some really are just posh. In the queue for an event one woman looks irritated when they cannot find her name on the list. Look for me, she says, under “Lady” instead. ■