The other Lib Dem by-election triumph: Berrylands

The party's victory over the Tories in last night's council by-election in London offers even greater evidence of Lib Dem resilience.

In light of last night’s by-election triumph (and our political editor’s written permission to show off a little), I’d like to accept the opportunity to say that our victory demonstrates why the rumours of a Lib Dem wipeout in 2015 have been wildly exaggerated. Berrylands was exactly the sort of seat the Tories should be winning, a relatively affluent corner of the world with a strong Conservative showing in the 2010 election and the sad loss of the previous Lib Dem office holder removing the incumbency factor. It should have been a shoe-in for the Tories.

That’s right, not Eastleigh. Berrylands. Don’t get me wrong, Eastleigh is a brilliant result – and it’s a victory for the grass roots, who flooded into the area from all over the country, joined phone banks if they couldn’t make it down there, or made big financial contributions to the cause. But it’s not in itself proof of the resilience of the Lib Dems. Because the amazing Eastleigh operation can’t be repeated in 2015 – there simply aren't enough feet to put on the ground.

But the Berrylands by-election, which also took place yesterday in Surbiton, south west London, is a much better demonstration of the resilience of the Lib Dem brand. A vacant Lib Dem seat in a Lib Dem-controlled council with a Lib Dem MP, it was a true test of the incumbency effect, not least because so many party activists were in Eastleigh, that the local team will have found themselves sadly stretched.

And as one notable Lib Dem resident noted, it’s not like the other parties didn’t take the Berrylands election seriously. They threw major resources at it. 

And even in Eastleigh, the Tories were thinking of Berrylands – here’s Maria Hutchings's final written tweet last night…

The Lib Dem candidate was local, the campaign was fought on local issues. And the net result – a Lib Dem hold on 38 per cent of the vote. And the Tories cursing the rise of the UKIP vote locally. I don’t know if this rings any bells with anyone?

Eastleigh means last night was a great night for the Lib Dems. Berrylands means the Tories should take a look at the Grant Shapps target seat list, full of Lib Dem-Tory marginals – and think again.

Richard Morris blogs at A View From Ham Common, which was named Best New Blog at the 2011 Liberal Democrat Conference

Liberal Democrat Eastleigh by-election candidate Mike Thornton celebrates his win with Nick Clegg at the Hampshire County Cricket ground on March 1, 2013 in Eastleigh, Hampshire. Photograph: Getty Images.

Richard Morris blogs at A View From Ham Common, which was named Best New Blog at the 2011 Lib Dem Conference

Qusai Al Shidi/Flickr
Show Hide image

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