I feel old, and feelings are not always wrong, This eheu fugaces mood came on me at the Conservative party conference in Manchester. I realised that it was 46 years since I first attended this gathering, before the present Prime Minister was born and when his predecessor was barely old enough for Father Christmas. The trouble is that she still believes in him.

There have been changes in the near half-century. In the old days, the conference hotel was dominated by knights of the shire, or the grander esquires of the suburbs. They were all at least 55 and identically attired. If it was not Savile Row and Lobb it was something similar and almost as expensive, with a hint of eau de cologne grand cru.

There was also another set of grandees, who chaired the conference itself. They came from the north and were called Sir Fred or Sir Herbert or Sir Alfred. They prefaced every remark in the same way: ‘Ah’m a bloont man and where Ah coom from, we say what we think.’ This usually consisted of views on penal policy which would have made Lord Chief Justice Goddard sound like a wimpish liberal. Over a drink, they were all delightful.

One Lady did reach the higher ranks: Dame Adelaide Doughty, a magnificent old girl who looked like the prow of one of Nelson’s three-deckers. The Sir Fred who introduced her referred to her as Dame Doughty: inaccurate but wholly appropriate.

There was one amusing difference between the representatives who attended the south coast conferences and the Blackpool ones. In Brighton and Bournemouth, the halls were filled with the respectable classes, who were hoping to catch a final few days of Indian summer: they do like to be beside the seaside. During the proceedings, they dutifully applauded every speech from the platform, though Michael Heseltine could be relied on to dispel any torpor. He was always able to find the party’s sensitive areas.

Blackpool was a harder sell to the gentler middle classes. There tended to be a lot more young men, who came to be opinionated while congregating in small hotels to argue for abolishing income tax and sending troops to Rhodesia to defend Ian Smith.

Today all is changed, utterly changed. Mrs Thatcher called for a classless society: her invention, John Major’s borrowing. Where the Tory party is concerned, classlessness prevails. Even in some of the grander hospitality receptions, there is hardly a pinstripe in sight, and only about half the males are wearing ties. These males appear to come from every colour and creed, and of course there are plenty of females. That said, casual dress is no guide to cash status. Some of these gatherings included highly successful hedgies or techies. If any of your leftie friends (we all have some) claim that the Tory party is stale, you can confidently assure them that they are talking balls.

Not everything has changed. Tories know how to find themselves athwart of a good drink. The house of Jeroboams supplies the hospitality suite, to general satisfaction. It is a growing and successful business which still behaves like an old-fashioned wine merchant. Its people love nothing more than finding small growers who produce good bottles at reasonable prices. The hospitality guests drank well. A Rosso di Montalcino, available at £25 a bottle, was excellent, as was a Soave for a shade under £15. It would be hard to match those prices at that quality.

Jeroboams cannot be held solely responsible for boosting the Tory party’s morale. But they certainly helped.