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Terror of standing on chairs is why men of a certain age put off changing the light bulb

Nicholas Lezard's Down and Out column.

There has been a photographer in the Hovel, because the Sindie wants to have pictures of the kids and me to illustrate the big Father’s Day piece I mentioned a few weeks ago. I had, earlier, written loftily to the children, in that way you sometimes do after a glass too many (“You may be part of the social media generation, which values exposure above all things, but you have, to your great credit, not bought into these values wholesale,” and so on), in case they decided they didn’t want to be photographed or associated publicly with me in any way, but they were happy with the idea, although perhaps privately beginning to wonder if their old man was losing his marbles. Assuming he had many marbles to begin with.

The cleaning lady had been in the day before and I had simply not moved for 24 hours to minimise any damage I could do to the order of the place but, as visitors already know, the Hovel’s system of accelerated entropy has gone too far now for a weekly two-hour blitz to do much more than the most limited damage control. People who have never visited the place before, I realise, can never be prepared enough for the sight that awaits them. The photographer had been told roughly what to expect but you could tell when he entered the living room that he was deeply moved. That’s the great thing about photographers: they see the world in purely visual terms, not moral ones (although he did tell me a story about photographing [name redacted on legal advice], which confirmed that my suspicion that [name redacted] was a complete shit was right on the money).

I once used to joke with the great photographer Roger Bamber that his job was easy, as it was over in a 250th of a second and even sooner if it was a sunny day, which never failed to enrage him, but golly, they do have to work hard. Writers may moan about their lot but we don’t have to lug a hundred kilos of kit around. The bottom line is that all a writer needs is a Ryman notebook (a fiver, indistinguishable, three paces away, from a Moleskine costing three times as much) and a biro. We do not need a lighting rig that goes FLASH and one of those umbrellas lined with silver. (You can safely dismiss any writer who says they would be utterly lost without their MacBook as a fraud.)

We all had a jolly time until at one point the photographer asked me to stand on a chair. The children had already had their turn but standing on chairs holds no terror for the young. After you reach the age of about 25, though, it becomes one of those things that you decide you’ve wrung every last drop of pleasure from; you conclude that chairs are, in the final analysis, for sitting on. You can put your feet on a chair if you’re already sitting in another one but that’s about it. This is a feeling that intensifies with the years. It’s one of the reasons why it takes so long for men over a certain age to change a light bulb.

Doing this made me feel a bit light-headed and it also gave me a new perspective on the living room, so I noticed the fez hanging off the antlers and suggested putting it on. This hat has been in the family gathering dust since a parental trip to Morocco in the 1970s so I pinched it shortly after Matt Smith, in his incarnation as the 11th Doctor, rescued the head wear from the grip of the late Tommy Cooper. Once I put it on, though, the mood among the children curdled. Embarrassing one’s offspring is easier than falling off a chair but this time I wondered if I had gone too far. After all, as my eldest son has remarked, it is not just me in my own little world. (Although, speaking in strictly philosophical terms, that’s exactly what it is.)

We repaired outside to the terrace for some fresh air and more photographs. The outside is less Hovelly than the inside if you turn away from half of the plant pots and the heap of wax that looks as though a candle had vomited underneath the table. It’s at this point I notice that the daughter is suffering: it is bright outside and she had – how shall I put this? – stayed up rather late the night before. Wearing sunglasses indoors had not been an affectation.

The photographer packed up, we shook hands (we’d got on splendidly) and the children left. Except the daughter, who stayed on the sofa and didn’t leave till the next day. She spent the time drinking tea and watching Withnail and I. I wonder what on earth it could have been that drew her to that particular film.

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 11 June 2014 issue of the New Statesman, The last World Cup

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Is defeat in Stoke the beginning of the end for Paul Nuttall?

The Ukip leader was his party's unity candidate. But after his defeat in Stoke, the old divisions are beginning to show again

In a speech to Ukip’s spring conference in Bolton on February 17, the party’s once and probably future leader Nigel Farage laid down the gauntlet for his successor, Paul Nuttall. Stoke’s by-election was “fundamental” to the future of the party – and Nuttall had to win.
 
One week on, Nuttall has failed that test miserably and thrown the fundamental questions hanging over Ukip’s future into harsh relief. 

For all his bullish talk of supplanting Labour in its industrial heartlands, the Ukip leader only managed to increase the party’s vote share by 2.2 percentage points on 2015. This paltry increase came despite Stoke’s 70 per cent Brexit majority, and a media narrative that was, until the revelations around Nuttall and Hillsborough, talking the party’s chances up.
 
So what now for Nuttall? There is, for the time being, little chance of him resigning – and, in truth, few inside Ukip expected him to win. Nuttall was relying on two well-rehearsed lines as get-out-of-jail free cards very early on in the campaign. 

The first was that the seat was a lowly 72 on Ukip’s target list. The second was that he had been leader of party whose image had been tarnished by infighting both figurative and literal for all of 12 weeks – the real work of his project had yet to begin. 

The chances of that project ever succeeding were modest at the very best. After yesterday’s defeat, it looks even more unlikely. Nuttall had originally stated his intention to run in the likely by-election in Leigh, Greater Manchester, when Andy Burnham wins the Greater Manchester metro mayoralty as is expected in May (Wigan, the borough of which Leigh is part, voted 64 per cent for Brexit).

If he goes ahead and stands – which he may well do – he will have to overturn a Labour majority of over 14,000. That, even before the unedifying row over the veracity of his Hillsborough recollections, was always going to be a big challenge. If he goes for it and loses, his leadership – predicated as it is on his supposed ability to win votes in the north - will be dead in the water. 

Nuttall is not entirely to blame, but he is a big part of Ukip’s problem. I visited Stoke the day before The Guardian published its initial report on Nuttall’s Hillsborough claims, and even then Nuttall’s campaign manager admitted that he was unlikely to convince the “hard core” of Conservative voters to back him. 

There are manifold reasons for this, but chief among them is that Nuttall, despite his newfound love of tweed, is no Nigel Farage. Not only does he lack his name recognition and box office appeal, but the sad truth is that the Tory voters Ukip need to attract are much less likely to vote for a party led by a Scouser whose platform consists of reassuring working-class voters their NHS and benefits are safe.
 
It is Farage and his allies – most notably the party’s main donor Arron Banks – who hold the most power over Nuttall’s future. Banks, who Nuttall publicly disowned as a non-member after he said he was “sick to death” of people “milking” the Hillsborough disaster, said on the eve of the Stoke poll that Ukip had to “remain radical” if it wanted to keep receiving his money. Farage himself has said the party’s campaign ought to have been “clearer” on immigration. 

Senior party figures are already briefing against Nuttall and his team in the Telegraph, whose proprietors are chummy with the beer-swilling Farage-Banks axis. They deride him for his efforts to turn Ukip into “NiceKip” or “Nukip” in order to appeal to more women voters, and for the heavy-handedness of his pitch to Labour voters (“There were times when I wondered whether I’ve got a purple rosette or a red one on”, one told the paper). 

It is Nuttall’s policy advisers - the anti-Farage awkward squad of Suzanne Evans, MEP Patrick O’Flynn (who famously branded Farage "snarling, thin-skinned and aggressive") and former leadership candidate Lisa Duffy – come in for the harshest criticism. Herein lies the leader's almost impossible task. Despite having pitched to members as a unity candidate, the two sides’ visions for Ukip are irreconcilable – one urges him to emulate Trump (who Nuttall says he would not have voted for), and the other urges a more moderate tack. 

Endorsing his leader on Question Time last night, Ukip’s sole MP Douglas Carswell blamed the legacy of the party’s Tea Party-inspired 2015 general election campaign, which saw Farage complain about foreigners with HIV using the NHS in ITV’s leaders debate, for the party’s poor performance in Stoke. Others, such as MEP Bill Etheridge, say precisely the opposite – that Nuttall must be more like Farage. 

Neither side has yet called for Nuttall’s head. He insists he is “not going anywhere”. With his febrile party no stranger to abortive coup and counter-coup, he is unlikely to be the one who has the final say.