It's party political conference season and Labour put their case.

It's party political conference season and Labour put their case.

Just when you thought it was safe to avoid the subject, it's reared its ugly head again. Yes folks, it's the party political conference season in Britain and here we are back in the same place as we were last year- and more decades ago than you would care to imagine. It's that yearly gathering of the vocal, vociferous, impassioned and the downright opinionated. It's time for fiercely contentious issues to be debated, voices to be raised to the highest decibel level and Jeremy Corbyn trying to avoid complete humiliation.

First up on the podium are the Labour party, a veritable rag tag, make do and mend collection of hobbledehoys and 19th century Socialists who still believe quite possibly that the unions should still have a profound influence on the running of the country and every major industry should be nationalised. The fundamental ideals of the Labour party are much the same as the ones espoused by Neville Chamberlain during the Second World War. For now though the sense of crisis that now seems to be eating away at the very core of the Labour party can only get worse before it gets better.

And yet here we are on the first real day of the Labour party conference in salty and salubrious Brighton and the usual old chestnuts are now firmly back under the microscope. Steering the ship is Jeremy Corbyn, a man so deeply unpopular and offensive that surely it can only be a matter of time before Corbyn takes one look in the mirror and admits that he can't take his faltering party any further, meekly leaving by the tradesman's entrance.

But party political conferences are essentially about straight talking, forthright comments from the hip and firmly held convictions. They're about standing on platforms, pointing accusing fingers at everybody but themselves and then realising that a part of that audience have just dropped off to sleep. It is a time for raving and ranting, heckling and haranguing, bitterness, rage, personal grievances and a whole lot of noise. And that's just Tuesday afternoon taken care of.

In the old days Labour party members who were affiliated to the unions since birth, used to swear by their beer and sandwiches diet, men and women who would begin their speeches facing the audience and then turn around at an angle in the hope that they would be listened to properly. They would open up their bodies, swivel their hips, wave flailing arms all over the place and then inexplicably wag their fingers at nothing and nobody in particular.

It was the kind of behaviour that you feel sure, has been carefully analysed by body language experts from all around the world without reaching any positive conclusions. Then again they'll probably never encounter anybody quite like Jeremy Corbyn. Corbyn of course, as has now been frequently documented, is ferociously racist, completely out of touch with the rest of society, crusty, reactionary and, to a vast majority of the nation, politically dangerous.

To most of us Corbyn is just insufferable, totally objectionable, lost in another world and, to the Jewish community, antisemitic. He stands up for everything that most of would find utterly deplorable. There is a shameful lack of self awareness about a man who would, deludedly, kid himself into believing that he has all the relevant credentials for the job of Prime Minister.

Over 35 years ago a certain Neil Kinnock emerged from the wings, rabble rousing, blasting out his hatred of Margaret Thatcher, convinced that he was the next man to lead the country. Then, in the most embarrassing pre General Election speech ever made, Kinnock lost his way, said the wrong things and Thatcher must have thought it was her birthday. The image of Kinnock and his wife Glenys falling over each other as the sea waves swept over them, is one both would rather forget.

And so we return to the business to hand at the moment. This week the Labour party are faced with the one issue they must have thought they'd never have to confront. For the last three years the whole of Britain has torn itself apart at the very mention of Brexit. Now, Jeremy Corbyn is the one figure who finds himself in the wrong place and the wrong time. Is he in full agreement with the rest of the nation or does he simply go along with the consensus? None of us is ever likely to find out one way or the other.

The simple truth is that the Labour party and Corbyn are caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. Corbyn just wants the keys to 10 Downing Street and there is nothing else to discuss. He argues his case both powerfully and forcefully. He shouts and hectors, throwing his voice in much the way that an experienced actor would deliver Shakespeare's Othello or the Merchant of Venice. The volume goes up to an inaudible pitch and you're reminded of that 1970s TV commercial featuring the incomparable Ella Fitzgerald breaking a glass as a result of that majestic voice.

Corbyn is accompanied by John Mcdonnell, two men who remind you a couple of 1920s gangsters creating havoc wherever they go. These are inauspicious times for the Labour party since the one man entrusted with taking charge of the party is no more fit to lead Britain than, quite possibly, Fidel Castro or some crazy revolutionary with ideas way above his station. Undeterred though Corbyn ploughs on, ducking all the awkward questions with  the flair of some tongue tied, monosyllabic after dinner speaker who suddenly gets all his words mixed up.

For some of us though the Labour party represented everything that was good, wholesome and virtuous. My dad was a staunch Labour man, a man honest and law abiding, faithfully proud of his working class values. He would awake at the crack of dawn, jump onto bus and train, pull up his warm coat collar and earn his living as the most persuasive menswear salesman in the world. Dad loved to think that Labour was working for him and never wavered from those fervent beliefs.

So here we are at Brighton by the seaside, beside the seaside, beside the sea. The wide promenade is heaving with red rose Labour loyalists, the sea gulls are not entirely sure where to go and there are very few on the beach because summer has now gone and autumnal mists are gathering over head. A gentleman with a thick grey beard and even greyer policies is stalking the sea front and hoping against hope that nobody gets in his way or behaves in a disagreeable fashion.

This week though we shall find out much more about the Jeremy Corbyn that everybody has now come to loathe and detest. Perhaps he's been ridiculously misunderstood, wrongly perceived as some evil pantomime villain, maybe even a warmonger. The image though is of a man who doesn't quite know how to address any audience and would rather not  be drawn on any issue he would rather not talk about.

The one question on everybody's mind is Corbyn's stance on Brexit and the merits and demerits of whether Britain should negotiate a deal or conversely, a no deal. Sadly, the bearded one appears clueless, spineless, neither here or there, far too extremist and still trapped in a time warp. Realistically though the past will always now haunt Corbyn's past. There were the shared stages with Hamas terrorists, the anti Israel stance and a whole variety of similar public appearances.

By the end of this week we will find out how much further forward the Labour party has moved or just slipped into obscurity. It'll be a week of proposals and counter proposals, motions put forward by desperate men and women wearing red rosettes and then savage arguments that seem to drag on throughout the week. Let the verbal hostilities commence.

There has always been a belt and braces pragmatism about the Labour party that has almost become part of their DNA. It may be a bitter pill to swallow but for those at the coalface in red, the future for Jeremy Corbyn may be considerably bleaker than he might have thought. Let the brothers and sisters of the party political conference season make themselves heard. We can hardly wait.