The UK Supreme Court in Parliament Square, London. Photograph: Getty Images.
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The Ray Tooth and Ayesha Vardag debacle proves there really is such a thing as bad publicity

Tooth, a 73-year-old veteran of divorce law, accused his former protégée Vardag of trying to pinch celebrity clients from him, and set about him in astonishing fashion.

There is something quite pathetic about the squabble between divorce lawyers Ray Tooth and Ayesha Vardag. Tooth, a 73 year old veteran of divorce law whose clients include Sadie Frost and Irina Abramovich, accused Vardag, Chairman of family law firm Vardags, of trying to pinch celebrity clients from him by buying Google Ad Words several months ago.

The dispute has now reached a settlement: Vardag has agreed to pay £5,000 with £38,000 costs, although it admits no fault or liability. But neither individual should perceive themselves as a winner in this debacle: it has shown both highly successful lawyers squabbling over the wreckage of super-rich and high profile marriages, apparently just as concerned about their own fame as their clients’ divorces. As such, it will only serve to confirm what many people already think of lawyers – especially divorce lawyers – and proves that there really is such a thing as bad publicity.

That the small world of London matrimonial law is also a very bitchy one is not news. When Spear’s ran its Family Law Index in April 2013, profiling the leading 20 divorce lawyers, The Times gave it full-page coverage under the headline “Divorce Lawyers Take Off Their Gloves As They Rate Rivals”. I was a journalist at Spear’s at the time and worked on that Index – and the comments we received from these lawyers about their peers (all of which were given anonymously) were astonishing: “A monster with a personality disorder” and “a thug in lawyer’s clothing” were two of my favourites.

Tooth – who gave Vardag her first family law job – has set about his former protégée with characteristic vigour, arguing that she was “biting the hand that had fed her” in buying Ad Words. A few months ago, a sponsored Google advert, now taken down, appeared when people searched for Sears Tooth; it lead people to Vardag’s website, where the following text appeared under Tooth’s firm’s logo:

Sharing elements of Ray Tooth’s flamboyant and forceful style, Ayesha Vardag has been described by senior members of the profession as the modern successor to the family law ‘crown’, which Tooth wore through the eighties and nineties.

Tooth claims that this blurb (of which the above is just an extract) tried to portray him as a spent force, and that clients were better off with flashy Vardags than with the more traditional, old-school Sears Tooth. Vardag claims she didn’t know about the wording of the ad – a “defence” which, if true, is pretty appalling, especially given the hard-hitting marketing and PR strategies she is known for.

Tooth has won a hollow victory here. Under The Times’ online coverage of the Vardag-Tooth battle a reader bluntly states: “Who gives a toss about the shenanigans of these overpaid and unpleasant people?” I don’t think Tooth or Vardag are necessarily overpaid, and I have no idea what sort of people they are – but I do think they shouldn’t need to resort to tactics like this to gain either clients or publicity. They certainly shouldn’t be just as concerned – as this rather grubby dispute has shown them to be – with their own public image as they are to do a good job for the divorcing couples they represent.

Mark Nayler is a senior researcher at Spear's magazine.

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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