National Portrait Gallery adds Dame Kelly Holmes to its contemporary idols

Dame Kelly joins the "heroes" in the NPG's range of celebrities.

A portrait of Dame Kelly Holmes is the latest addition to the National Portrait Gallery as part of the BP Portrait award competition. The large-scale oil painting joins such important figures in the NPG's Contemporary Collection as footballer Bobby Charlton and the UK's "favourite"  billionare, Sir Richard Branson. Glancing over the portraits in the Contemporary rooms of the NPG, I'd say that, aesthetically, they have a lot to offer. The variation in styles begins to be somewhat overwhelming, however, leaving one skimming over pieces with less initial impact, such as John Swannell's photo portrait of Princess Diana with her sons (which at first glance I presumed to be a promotional shot from a 1970s family sitcom). Excluding this happy accident of a photo, most of the paintings could belong in any wing of the Tate Modern; some are so obscure that it seems the artists just decided to paint something  in their characteristic style, the famous figures depicted being mere quirks that made the pictures noteworthy enough to get into the NPG. The portrait of Holmesis one of the exceptions in its initial straightforwardness, though she looks so remarkably sad one would guess she had had her two Olympic gold medals revoked. In fact, there is no allusion to her sporting career at all.

But it does leave us questioning the kinds of people our society chooses as role models. Why is it that we value these people? If their fame is celebrated in the form of a portrait, why are the reasons for their being celebrated so often left out of the picture? This is perhaps less surprising in the case of some of the well-known actors portrayed, such as Alan Rickman and Helen Mirren. Perhaps they've reached the stage when they're famous for being famous, like the disreputable Kardashians or the wretched Jade Goody? We see faces such as those of Sir Roy Calne, surgeon extraordinaire, scientist Robert Winston and Body Shop founder and human rights activist Dame Anita Roddick, who have contributed to society in a slightly more productive way. But they are a lonely few in a sea of tabloid-worthy celebrities.

Kelly Holmes and J K Rowling are Orwellian Big Brothers,  inspiration to the proles to make something, anything, of their lives. Congratulations to Dame Kelly for joining the ranks of 16th-century kings and 20th-century singers. Let's hope it motivates the lazy nobodies to get out and climb the ladder so high they're forced to cover their faces in public.

Dame Kelly's portrait will appear alongside Britain's favourite celebrities, including the Queen. Photograph: Andrew Cowie/AFP/GettyImages
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I can’t follow Marie Kondo's advice – even an empty Wotsits packet “sparks joy” in me

I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

I have been brooding lately on the Japanese tidying freak Marie Kondo. (I forgot her name so I typed “Japanese tidying freak” into Google, and it was a great help.) The “Japanese” bit is excusable in this context, and explains a bit, as I gather Japan is more on the case with the whole “being tidy” thing than Britain, but still.

Apart from telling us that we need to take an enormous amount of care, to the point where we perform origami when we fold our underpants, which is pretty much where she lost me, she advises us to throw away anything that does not, when you hold it, “spark joy”. Perhaps I have too much joy in my life. I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

After a while I gave up on this because I was getting a bit too happy with all the memories, so then I thought to myself, about her: “This is someone who isn’t getting laid enough,” and then I decided that was a crude and ungallant thought, and besides, who am I to wag the finger? At least if she invites someone to her bedroom no one is going to run screaming from it, as they would if I invited anyone to my boudoir. (Etym: from the French “bouder”, to sulk. How very apt in my case.) Marie Kondo – should bizarre circumstance ever conspire to bring her to the threshold – would run screaming from the Hovel before she’d even alighted the stairs from the front door.

I contemplate my bedroom. As I write, the cleaning lady is in it. To say that I have to spend half an hour cleaning out empty Wotsits packets, and indeed wotnot, before I let her in there should give you some idea of how shameful it has got. And even then I have to pay her to do so.

A girlfriend who used to be referred to often in these pages, though I think the term should be a rather less flippant one than “girlfriend”, managed to get round my natural messiness problem by inventing a game called “keep or chuck”.

She even made up a theme song for it, to the tune from the old Spiderman TV show. She would show me some object, which was not really rubbish, but usually a book (it may not surprise you to learn that it is the piles of books that cause most of the clutter here), and say, “Keep or chuck?” in the manner of a high-speed game show host. At one point I vacillated and so she then pointed at herself and said, “Keep or chuck?” I got the message.

These days the chances of a woman getting into the bedroom are remote. For one thing, you can’t just walk down the street and whistle for one much as one would hail a cab, although my daughter is often baffled by my ability to attract females, and suspects I have some kind of “mind ray”. Well, if I ever did it’s on the blink now, and not only that – right now, I’m not even particularly bothered that it’s on the blink. Because, for another thing, I would frankly not care to inflict myself upon anyone else at the moment.

It was all a bit of a giggle eight years ago, when I was wheeled out of the family home and left to my own devices. Of course, when I say “a bit of a giggle”, I mean “terrifying and miserable”, but I had rather fewer miles on the clock than I do now, and a man can, I think, get away with a little bit more scampish behaviour, and entertain a few more illusions about the future and his own plausibility as a character, when he is squarely in his mid-forties than when he is approaching, at speed, his middle fifties.

Death has rather a lot to do with it, I suppose. I had not actually seen, or touched, a dead body until I saw, and touched, my own father’s a few weeks ago. That’s what turns an abstract into a concrete reality. You finally put that to one side and gird up your loins – and then bloody David Bowie snuffs it, and you find yourself watching the videos for “Blackstar” and “Lazarus” over and over again, and reach the inescapable conclusion that death is not only incredibly unpleasant, it is also remorseless and very much nearer than you think.

And would you, dear reader, want to be involved with anyone who kept thinking along those lines? I mean, even if he learned how to fold his undercrackers into an upright cylinder, like a napkin at a fancy restaurant, before putting them in his drawer? When he doesn’t even have a drawer?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war