Working on the exhibition at Labour’s Bournemouth conference I find myself once again on the other side of the fence from my former colleagues.

Watching them run around the centre on Monday like a flock of headless free range chickens I had to laugh. Most of those saying hello were keen to tell me how they would all “feel better tomorrow” or how much “less stressful” things would be “after Gordon’s speech”.

I struggle with this. How many people does it take to feel under pressure? Natural enough were Mr Brown to have a bout of butterflies and I understand why close lieutenants worry about their role in a major political set piece. That the atmosphere of anxiety cascades to those who check the tickets is a measure of how people in politics get things out of proportion.

After all, what is there to worry about? Prime Ministers and Party Leaders can usually be relied upon to a) turn up b) have a speech written c) remember to put their trousers on and d) not to fall over drunk  (at least not in Mr Brown’s case).

The atmosphere at a major political event infects all of those who are involved. I’ve never been to a Leader’s speech that wasn’t an exciting occasion – not so much because of what was being said, but because you never really know if THIS is going to be THE conference speech that gets remembered. The great thrill is being part of history as it is made.

This is why they all get so frantic. The small cogs in a big machine delude themselves that by checking the tickets they are shaping history. They also fear something will go wrong for which they will have to carry the blame.

So everyone becomes a control freak because it is the accidents and the insanities that people remember from Party Conferences. Neil Kinnock falling into the sea, David Steel telling the Liberals to “prepare for Government”, or the Tories having Iain Duncan Smith as their leader. Meanwhile everyone else plays this year’s great conference game: “will he, won’t he, should he, would you” – the same game will certainly be played next week when the Conservatives gather in Blackpool.

You can’t control everything, though. I spotted two acquaintances of mine, both grown women old enough to know better, in an over-excited state of giggling blondness. The cause – turning a corner and looking up to find they had bumped inadvertently into the blessed Gordon.  “What did you think of his speech”, I asked, “I don’t know we were collecting give a ways – we got a cuddly goldfish, an aircraft carrier fridge magnet, a Tobacco Workers Association lighter and a game of Top Trumps Politicos – you want Ian Paisley in your hand.”

In the old days Labour conferences were dull affairs after dark. These days the politics might be dull (because dull is the new interesting) but after eight the conference island behind the ring of steel looks more like Friar Street on a Friday night, just older and with longer skirts, than a gathering of Labour’s great and good. Hoards of reasonably well-heeled politicos scrum down to get into freebie receptions offering wine of questionable quality and dubious deep-fried finger food. “What is this queue for? I’ve been in it for 10 minutes” someone asks. In truth Bournemouth’s hotels struggle to cope with the demands of Labour’s conference.

In fact getting a room is nigh on impossible. I overhear a less than discrete MP moaning into his mobile, “There’s nowhere to stay within miles – I’m looking for an intern to lie on tonight”. Since new Labour came along they’ve learnt the meaning of ‘party’.