Politics is not a parlour game

Roy Hattersley responds to Anthony Barnett’s New Statesman essay “Hang ’em”.

Much of Anthony Barnett's "Hang 'em" (NS Essay, 22 March) is so absurd that it is hard to believe that the author -- usually a thoughtful man -- regarded it as anything but a way of provoking other radicals into expressing more creative and realistic judgements on what sort of government should follow the general election.

Like him, I want to see the creation of a progressive alliance -- co-operation between social democrats in the Liberal and the Labour parties. That is why I now support an electoral system based on proportional representation. But I cannot see the new dawn of radical politics following an "increase in the number of independent and third-party MPs". It is hard to believe that redemption depends on the election of Esther Rantzen and Terry Waite.

I have spent a good deal of time, during the past 13 years, publicly criticising the group that chose to call itself New Labour -- both its policies and its philosophy. Barnett's description of its record swings wildly between caricature and fantasy. We are told that the government "embraced globalisation", as if it could have been disowned and ignored. The challenge was to harness and tame -- through international action -- a force more powerful than most national governments. Too often, New Labour regarded the power of the global economy as irresistible. But to write as if it could have been abolished by a conference resolution contributes very little to serious debate.

The paragraph in "Hang 'em" that I've most enjoyed begins: "We are entering a new kind of constitution, one overseen not by judges, but by the Association of Chief Police Officers, organised as a private company . . ." Nothing I have read in years has so reminded me of the good old days fighting the Militant Tendency. On the other hand, what he has to say about greater equality -- in my view the central objective of a social-democratic party -- is revealing without being rewarding.

Certainly, the widening gap between rich and poor is a terrible indictment of government policy. But to describe Harriet Harman's real attempts to redress the balance as "one of the tricks of Brown's trade" makes it clear that the essay was written to condemn rather than to analyse.

Anthony Barnett has always lived in a rarefied political atmosphere. Somebody ought to tell him that the outcome of the next election will affect millions of real lives. He admits that "Britain would have been even more unequal had the Conservatives won" in 1997. Yet he suggests that it would be wrong for Labour to retain office if the party won the largest number of seats but not the most votes -- though the constitutional propriety for doing so is beyond doubt.

Politics is not a parlour game. The idea that the Tories should be let in, simply to respect a principle that Barnett has just invented, tells us all we need to know about his real concern for the egalitarian ideal that "Hang 'em" claims to espouse.

Roy Hattersley was deputy leader of the Labour Party from 1983-92

This article first appeared in the 29 March 2010 issue of the New Statesman, Hold on tight!

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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