Farage's hint of a pact with the Tories is a sign of weakness

If Ukip could find enough half-decent candidates the party wouldn't be angling to share with the Con

Nigel Farage is proving to be a very effective nuisance to the Conservative leadership. His latest bit of mischief is to revive in an interview with the Spectator, the idea of joint Ukip/Tory candidacies. This notion crops up from time to time and is quickly buried in an avalanche of scorn rolling down from the top of the Conservative party.

But as the Speccie’s James Forsyth points out, there is a growing number of Tory MPs who are finding it hard to mobilise a campaign on the ground when some of their activists and local association stalwarts have defected. The problem for Downing Street is that the segment of the electorate being haggled over here overlaps all too awkwardly with the group from whom Cameron energetically tried to distance himself as part of his “modernisation” of the party in opposition. In other words, wooing them back implies a repudiation of his entire political agenda. Tricky.

Tory strategists recognise that a conspicuous bid for Ukip voters would be electoral suicide. Andrew Cooper, Downing Street’s in-house pollster, is said to be the most consistent and influential voice urging Cameron not to go down that path. The important thing for the Conservatives to remember is that Farage’s angling for a pact of some kind is a sign of weakness not strength. He can disrupt the Tories by provoking their visceral hostility to the European Union and prodding other nerves along the way. What he cannot do is field a bunch of credible candidates to be MPs. Ukip’s strong performance in European elections (where huge numbers of sensible voters stay at home, privileging the turnout for fanatics) has produced some fairly dodgy MEPs.  

I have heard one senior Ukip official admit privately that the party’s biggest problem was that it became a magnet for “people who have failed in everything else in life and have an axe to grind”.

If Farage could muster a serious electoral battalion, surely an effective, dynamic, ambitious character like Dan Hannan would have defected by now. Wisely, he stays with the Tories hoping they will eventually swallow up the Ukip tendency (just as softer, liberal Tories hope the party can swallow up the Lib Dems). I am told Hannan is watched very carefully in Number 10 and not without some trepidation. He is seen as a useful indicator of feelings and loyalties in a certain quarter of the party.

The pressure on Cameron to give some concession on Europe keeps growing. As I wrote recently, the promise of some kind of referendum in the next manifesto is seen by most Tory MPs as the minimum required to buy loyalty and a semblance of unity. Ukip’s antics may be a sign of weakness; the question is whether Cameron is strong enough to ignore them. 

Rafael Behr is political columnist at the Guardian and former political editor of the New Statesman

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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