Oliver Letwin apologises to Sheffield. Or does he?

Tory minister’s slip of the tongue shows what our Old Etonian rulers really think of the north.

A few days ago, Oliver Letwin got into trouble after he said he did not want to see people from Sheffield using cheap flights to go on holiday. He had been talking to Boris Johnson about airport policy. Only the two men knew who said what and one of them leaked what had been said.

The remark caused huge offence in South Yorkshire, with Nick Clegg saying Letwin was not very popular in Sheffield. (Clegg is a bit of an expert on politicians and popularity in Sheffield.)

I wrote to Letwin asking him to apologise to people in South Yorkshire after his patronising insult. Today, I received a reply in which he writes:

I don't think it would be appropriate for me to comment on what is alleged to have been said in a private conversation. However, I can assure you that I would never knowingly say something offensive to the people of Sheffield.

I have been trying to deconstruct his letter. Letwin, after all, has the reputation of being an intellectual. Yet this is the oddest not-quite-an-apology I have ever seen from a minister. Letwin says he would "never knowingly say something offensive" about the people of Sheffield. That sounds as if he is admitting he did make the remarks attributed to him which have caused such offence in South Yorkshire – but that he did not make them "knowingly".

Letwin was silly to assume any conversation with his fellow Old Etonian Boris Johnson would ever remain private if Boris could turn it to his advantage as part of his campaign to distance himself from his other Old Etonian mate David Cameron, in order to stay on as Mayor of London.

The notion of a private conversation is not one that this generation of Old Etonian Tories understands – especially where there is political advantage to be gained. I think it is safe to assume that Letwin did make the offensive remarks attributed to him, but would not make them in public.

Is not this double standard – sneering at South Yorkshire people in private but saying he would not "knowingly" do so in public – precisely what this present government stands accused of? In public, its members claim to support the National Health Service, help poorer students, keep our forests public or work constructively in Europe. Behind the veil, however, the private view of our new governing elite is very different.

I guess we must thank Boris for breaching a confidence and showing what our Old Etonian rulers really think of the north.

Denis MacShane is the MP for Rotherham (Labour) and a former minister for Europe at the Foreign Office.

Denis MacShane is MP for Rotherham and was a minister at Foreign and Commonwealth Office
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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