The real reason the right is baying for Denis MacShane's blood

The former Labour MP has been targeted because he's the EU's greatest defender, not because of his expenses.

What’s really going on with this new police investigation into Denis MacShane’s expenses? Months ago, the police said there would be no charges, and there’s no new information. There’s a reason why they have suddenly reopened it, now of all times, and it’s got nothing at all to do with Denis’s expenses, and everything to do with David Cameron’s speech about Europe.

I’m not excusing MacShane (who, incidentally, is an old chum – but I’d be writing this if I’d never met him.) He had £7,000 of public money which – or some of which - he wasn’t entitled to, and claimed the money in a way which made it look dishonest even if it wasn’t. The money didn’t go into his own pocket. In a desperate attempt to save his career, he has paid back much more than £7,000 and spent another £40,000 on lawyers.

Liberal Democrat MP David Laws was recently restored to the cabinet, having, apparently, suffered enough for incorrectly claiming more than £40,000 – almost six times as much as MacShane’s £7,000. Laws, like MacShane, did not do it for gain. He didn’t need the money, for Laws, unlike MacShane, is a very rich man. He wouldn’t cross the road for £7,000.

So how come Laws sits demurely on the government benches, and MacShane risks sitting in a prison cell? The clue lies in the identities of the people who have been screaming for MacShane’s blood, and whose pressure has forced the police to reopen their investigations.

They are led by right-wing blogger Guido Fawkes, whose delight that he may be able to get the hated MacShane locked up is revolting in its slavering vindictiveness. Hearing the news, Fawkes asked: "Is it too early to open the champagne on a Monday morning?"

He and several right-wing Tories are desperate to see MacShane locked up. Why? The answer lies in a piece by the relatively civilised europhobe Daniel Hannan (who, to his credit, hasn’t joined the lynch mob.) He wrote after MacShane resigned from Parliament: "Who will the BBC find to defend Brussels on air? Seriously – who?" Right now that’s a question that matters rather a lot.

Vengeful right-wing bigots like Guido Fawkes hate him, not because of his expenses, but because he is – or was - easily the most fluent and authoritative advocate for the EU.

Former Europe minister Denis MacShane, who resigned as Labour MP for Rotherham last year. Photograph: Getty Images.
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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