Who would benefit most from a Lib Dem meltdown?

The Tories are in second place in 39 of the Lib Dems’ 57 seats. But Labour could still benefit most.

Yesterday's vote on tuition fees was the Liberal Democrats' Iraq moment, a profound breach of trust for which the party will pay dearly at the next election. In little more than eight months, the Lib Dems have fallen from 34 per cent in the polls to just 8 per cent, their lowest rating for 20 years. They are certain to lose votes and seats at the next election. But who would benefit most from a Lib Dem meltdown?

It is the Conservatives who stand to win the most seats off Nick Clegg's party. The Tories are currently in second place in 39 of the Lib Dems' 57 seats, typically by a considerable margin. By contrast, Labour is in second place in just 16.

As UK Polling Report shows, while 13 of the Tories' top 50 target seats are Lib Dem-held, just six of Labour's are. A poll of marginals by the Conservative Party deputy chairman Michael Ashcroft in July suggested that the Tories can hope to win as many as 30 seats off the Lib Dems.

But Labour supporters can derive much comfort from the fact that a wave of Lib Dem defectors will allow them to win back dozens of seats from the Conservatives. As a Fabian Society analysis pointed out earlier this year, there are 25 seats that would swing back from the Conservatives to Labour if just one in five Lib Dem voters switched to the red team.

In addition, a defection of this size would allow Labour to win 15 seats off the Lib Dems, including all five gains that Clegg's party made at the last election – Norwich South, Bradford East, Brent Central, Burnley and Redcar. Encouragingly for Ed Miliband, a recent ComRes/Independent poll found that more than one in five people who voted for the Lib Dems say they would now vote Labour.

But the risk for Labour is that justifiable anger at the Lib Dems unwittingly allows the Tories to avoid the blame for unpopular decisions. As Ed Balls points out in his latest Tribune column:

The Prime Minister plays the global statesman – travelling around the world and hosting foreign leaders in Downing Street – but rarely allows himself to be dragged into domestic policy controversies. George Osborne is rarely seen in public defending his reckless gamble with the economy.

But week after week it is Lib Dem ministers like Danny Alexander and Vince Cable who find themselves in TV studios defending what are essentially Conservative policies in a predominantly Conservative government. The Lib Dems have willingly become David Cameron's human shields, haemorrhaging support in the process.

Unless Labour begins to develop a more coherent critique of the Conservatives, Cameron's party, not least under the redrawn constituency boundaries, could be in a strong position come the election.

George Eaton is 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