Commons Confidential

Mata Hattie's mutiny

I for one didn't think she had it in her. But the Talibrown mutters that Harriet Harperson was the cabinet end of A Very Rubbish Coup. The word in Westminster is that Gordon Broon's disloyal deputy admitted that her long chats with Patsy Hewitt over the holidays were about more than their old days at the National Council for Civil Liberties. She was, I hear, poised to play the role of Mata Hattie, until a loss of nerve turned "the snow plot" to slush.

Weeping under the £134.50 pair of lamps he bought at our expense is Michael Gove. The Tory educashun spokesman was forced to give up his £65,000 column for the Times when David Cameron ordered frontbenchers to ditch outside earners. When Ken Clarke was asked how he got away with making his BBC jazz programme in January, the rogue chuckled that he had slipped under the wire by making it last year.

A disgruntled insurrectionist whispered that Hattie resents Premier Broon's unwillingness to pull out his finger to land Mr Harperson, Jack "the Knife" Dromey, a safe parliamentary seat. Local flak has unsettled plans to parachute the union baron into Leyton. Scurrilous MPs whisper that Tessa Jowell, a family friend, is willing to lay down Dulwich, a constituency neighbouring Hattie's Peckham patch. Lady Jowell certainly has a ring to it.

Witches feared ducking stools and politicians worry about Mumsnet. In pursuit of votes, the PM's human shield, Sarah Brown, is to endure the questions of yoghurt-knitters and political plants. Yummy Mummy Sammy Cameron was due to appear with her insignificant other until Tory spinners began to fear abuse over her £995 Smythson handbags.

Labour boasts many amateur actors but only one true thespian, the Oscar-winning Glenda Jackson. The Rada-trained MP has a Shakespearean command of the English language. Asked her view of the plotters by a whip, she was more Merry Wives of Windsor than Henry V. "They're a bunch of arseholes," was Queen Glenda's considered view.

The rarefied surroundings of the Cholmondeley Room in the House of Lords made an incongruous venue for the Electoral Reform Society's New Year bash. Perhaps the all-party CND group should check whether Aldermaston is available.

Kevin Maguire is associate editor (politics) of the Daily Mirror

Kevin Maguire is Associate Editor (Politics) on the Daily Mirror and author of our Commons Confidential column on the high politics and low life in Westminster. An award-winning journalist, he is in frequent demand on television and radio and co-authored a book on great parliamentary scandals. He was formerly Chief Reporter on the Guardian and Labour Correspondent on the Daily Telegraph.

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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