How do we negotiate with the Taliban . . .

. . . if we can’t identify their leaders?

Had I watched such a story unfold on Spooks or 24, I would have shaken my head in disbelief and wondered how the scriptwriters thought they could get away with such a silly and unrealistic tale.

But it happened. In real life. In Afghanistan.

From the Daily Mail:

It sounds like the plot from a spy novel or James Bond film.

But Nato chiefs in Afghanistan have been severely embarrassed by a shopkeeper who fooled them into thinking he was a Taliban commander during secret peace negotiations.

Astonishingly, the ruse went on for two months, during which time the "contact" was paid a substantial sum of money.

He was also flown on a British military plane to three meetings designed to end the insurrection.

Despite suspicions about his identity, nobody disputed his claim to be Mullah Akhtar Mohammad Mansour, one of the Taliban's most senior leaders.

It was only months later – and after the handover of piles of cash to keep him coming back – that an old friend of Mr Mansour said they had the wrong man.

American officials have already given up hope that he was Mr Mansour, or even a member of the Taliban at all.

They now believe he was nothing more than a shopkeeper from the Pakistani city of Quetta.

The paper adds:

The fraudster even impressed negotiators with his moderate stance and, unlike other Taliban leaders, did not demand a withdrawal of foreign forces.

Travelling from Pakistan, he twice met Afghan President Hamid Karzai. It was during a third meeting, in the southern city of Kandahar, that a man who had known Mr Mansour years ago told Afghan officials that the Taliban leader at the table did not resemble him. Officials say it is not clear why he posed as Mr Mansour.

They believe it could have been for personal gain or he was possibly planted by the Pakistani intelligence service.

Others have said he could have been a Taliban agent, but all agreed that to pull off such a con meant he was "a very clever man".

A US official in Kabul added: "One would suspect that in our multibillion-dollar intel community there would be the means to differentiate between an authentic Quetta Shura emissary and a shopkeeper.

"On the other hand, it doesn't surprise me in the slightest. It may have been Mullah Omar – posing as a shopkeeper. I'm sure that our intelligence whizzes wouldn't have known."

Mehdi Hasan is a contributing writer for the New Statesman and the co-author of Ed: The Milibands and the Making of a Labour Leader. He was the New Statesman's senior editor (politics) from 2009-12.

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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