Robert Shirley, Earl Ferrers: 1929 - 2012

The Conservative peer who served five prime ministers.

The Lord Speaker has just announced that Robert Shirley, the 13th Earl Ferrers, has died. He was 83, and had been unwell for some time. He had sat in the Lords for over 50 years, and served five prime ministers - as a lord-in-waiting, and as a minister in the Ministry of Agriculture, Home Office and others. He was an extremely tall man, who seemed to uncoil himself with great dignity whenever he rose to speak in the Lords, but was always happy to bend down to hear what you had to tell him.

A New Statesman journalist marking the passing of a hereditary Conservative peer like this seems unlikely, I know. But a couple of years ago, I had the chance to meet Earl Ferrers on a few occasions (I used to work at Total Politics magazine, which is published by the same outfit that was publishing his gently brilliant memoir, Whatever Next?) and found him to be a charming, funny and fascinating man. He was a living piece of history - you only had to see the guestlist for his book launch party (which included a former prime minister and half of Thatcher's cabinet) to get a sense of the amount of time and effort he had ploughed into top-level politics, and the high regard in which he was held by some of the most eminent politicians of the last five decades.

In 1998, when the House of Lords was partially reformed and a ballot was held to choose the 92 hereditary peers who would hang on to their seats in the legislature, Earl Ferrers topped the list. He was popular, yes, but his fellow Lords also voted for him in recognition of the fact that, unlike some others, he considered being a peer to be a full-time job. While further reform of the upper house seems to have vanished off the agenda once again, in the future we mustn't forget that even in its undemocratic state, the Lords contained individuals like Earl Ferrers who, through an accident of birth, were placed in a position of power and went about their jobs with good humour, hard work and individuality.

If you never had the good fortune to meet him or see him speak, you're in luck - the Daily Mail serialised his book last year, so you can still read some extracts on their website. I also recommend the anecdote in this interview about how he once threw a rotting fish, repeatedly, at the Lords Chief Whip, Bertie Denham. I mean, who wouldn't?

Earl Ferrers in 1979. Photograph: Getty Images

Caroline Crampton is web 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