Shouldn't Justine Greening resign over the West Coast fiasco?

The former Transport Secetary described the bidding as a "fair and well established process".

So, when did David Cameron know about the West Coast Main Line contract debacle? I only ask because normally the Secretary of State responsible for a major tender like this would be considering their position. In response to loud and vociferous complaints, the individual in question described the bidding as a "fair and well established process", and only opened an inquiry into the process after a threat of legal action from one of the bidders - an inquiry which concluded that "regrettable and completely unacceptable mistakes" had been made by the Transport Department.

Add in the £40m compensation it is estimated that we, the taxpayer, will have to pay to the losing bidders, plus the questions it raises over the award of every other rail tender – and normally that Secretary of State would face the prospect of "more time with their family" right now. But that hasn’t happened because the Secretary of State in charge of the department while this fiasco was going on was moved in the reshuffle.

I always wondered about the ‘too opposed to Heathrow’ excuse that was given for moving Justine Greening. Firstly, she was the MP for Putney and her views on the third runway were well known before Cameron put her in Transport. To move her just 11 months later over Heathrow would actually suggest a complete political misjudgement in the first place. Secondly, Greening had stuck rigidly to the official Tory line on Heathrow – no change in view before 2015.  She said nothing about after 2015 - that’s a dangerous line to try and hold in West London. Sacking her for that was harsh, to put it mildly. And while the new Secretary of State for Transport describes himself as neutral on a third runway, the new transport minister, Simon Burns, has said: "Just as I am opposed to a second runway at Stansted, I am equally opposed to a third runway at Heathrow. This is environmental vandalism and will dramatically increase our carbon dioxide emission levels. The government should be encouraging better use of regional airports rather than concentrating on travel around London".

All of which suggests either Cameron cocked up his evil plans once again or that Heathrow wasn’t the main reason for moving Greening out.

Which takes me back to the original question. When did Cameron know about this debacle? And did it have anything to do with moving Greening? And I’d add a third question – isn’t there a case for her resigning over this fiasco anyway?

Richard Morris blogs at A View From Ham Common, which was named Best New Blog at the 2011 Liberal Democrat Conference.

Justine Greening was moved from Transport to International Development in last month's cabinet reshuffle. Photograph: Getty Images.

Richard Morris blogs at A View From Ham Common, which was named Best New Blog at the 2011 Lib Dem Conference

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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