Every year one of the main political parties holds its conference in Brighton. This autumn it’s the turn of the Labour party. Regardless of political affiliation, these events are an unparalleled opportunity to observe men of all ranks, from ministers to media hounds, wearing suits and striding purposefully along the promenade.

And I know that in the minds of every last one of them lurks that spectre, the cameraman’s hunger and the politician’s dread, of Neil Kinnock’s upset with the sea on that cold September afternoon of 1983. This might explain why, ever since then, you don’t see any of them any closer to the waves than the cafés on the lower path.