The Laws and coming out

It is impossible to detach consideration of David Laws’s misdeeds from the cultural acceptance of ho

Homosexuality is not an exoneration, of course not, no more than are the guy's political talents. No one is saying that clever people, or gay people, or even clever gay people, should not be made to abide by rules governing parliamentary expenses.

Neither David Laws's guilt in claiming housing expenses to which he was not entitled (because his landlord was his lover), nor his acceptance of that guilt, are in question. What remains to be determined is the fitting level of punishment.

To answer this question, I don't see how it's possible to ignore Laws's sexuality, because (in my mind, anyway) the punishment for venality should be of an order of magnitude stronger than that for an attempt to maintain privacy.

Jacqui Smith rented a room from her sister and designated it her "main home". That wasn't out of a desire to prevent her sororal habitation habit from being known: it was from a desire to maximise her cash take. For that, she was censured by, but not suspended from, the Commons. Her eventual expulsion from the House by her electorate was one of the most powerful arguments against AV, by the way: giving first-weight preferences to the last-placed candidates in her constituency could well have returned her to the green benches. (Update: Jacqui Smith has posted a comment below to challenge my reading of events).

So, to repeat, because it matters: I'm not arguing that Laws should go unpunished, or that he didn't act wrongly and against the rules. I'm not even pointing out the strangeness of the "No lover as landlord" rule (does a single act of intercourse with one's landlord break the rule? Or must intercourse be carried out repeatedly over time?).

I'm asking that the most probable reason for his actions be taken into account in order to deliver a just punishment. And I can't – of course I can't – separate Laws's sexuality from my thinking about this.

The best counterargument I've read came from Tom Harris, that good man and Labour MP for Glasgow South, who said to me on Twitter last night that I was "Wrong [to suggest that Laws's homosexuality is part-explanation for his behaviour]. He could easily have afforded not to claim rent at all, thus staying within rules and not outing himself." Means testing for MP expenses? Well, why not? I'm sure with hindsight Laws would have sympathy with this.

It's tempting to reply to Harris, and those who agree with him, thus: you simply have no idea what it's like to live as a gay person.

For all the movement towards legal equality of esteem, we do not inhabit a world where we are treated the same as people who are not gay.

In corporate life, at the start of my career a couple of decades ago, I sometimes noted my own lack of "clubbability" (my inability to socialise with ease, not the desirability of treating me like a baby seal in the 1980s), and asked myself if it was holding me back.

Do you see what I mean? I'm not accusing other people of treating me differently; I'm asking if something unresolved within our cultural etiquette of social interaction (because the liberated gay person is a relatively modern fact) prevented me from being as straightforward with colleagues as I would have been, were I a different person.

You will find this impossible to understand, I guess, but certainly in my twenties I found it almost excruciating to take part in any workplace conversation that moved on to the topic of families, children, schools, holidays, weekends – that is, almost anything.

There seemed no way of participating in such conversations without making a political point, which was the last thing I wanted to do ("Are you seeing anyone?" "Yes . . . [awkward silence] . . . I'm gay! Since you didn't ask").

Now, I'm about as openly gay as it's possible to be, and consider myself liberated: I don't put up with rubbish from anyone. But were I even to a mild degree more diffident, I think my professional (and private) life would be markedly less successful: I would prioritise privacy (for fear of censure) over the joy that comes from living life openly.

For the third time, and in conclusion, let me underline that I'm not claiming that any of this implies that David Laws should not be punished for his expense claim faults. He should be humbled in front of the House and repay every penny that should not have been taken. After that, though, I'd rather let the voters of Yeovil decide whether or not he should be removed from the Chamber.

Whatever happened to that rather excellent Tory initiative on voter recall?

Graeme Archer is a regular contributor to ConservativeHome hoping to remain on the Tory party official candidates' list. In real life he is a statistician. On Twitter he's @graemearcher.

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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