Labour as the party of civil liberties? We won't be fooled that easily

It is the Liberal Democrats that have secured the return of the freedoms curtailed by Labour.

Oh Sadiq. How could you?

Over here in the Lib Dems we’re used to you, ahem, 'borrowing' our policies. So now Labour is in favour of a mansion tax, a 2030 decarbonisation target, a reduction in the voting age to 16 and the removal of Winter Fuel Payments from the wealthiest 5% of pensioners? All this seems terribly familiar stuff. Because they’re policies and proposals championed by the Lib Dems.

And you’re probably cursing the fact you didn't make a promise of free school meals as well. Although I’m reminded of my favourite Oscar Wilde anecdote; hearing a friend utter a fabulous witticism, Wilde whispered to his companion, "I wish I had said that". "Oh don’t worry Oscar", replied the friend – "I’m sure you will…"

Surely, imitation is surely the sincerest form of flattery.

But now, Sadiq, you’ve gone too far by claiming Labour, and not the Liberal Democrats, is the champion of civil liberties. How quickly you must think we forget. Let’s review what the Convention of Modern Liberty said about civil liberties in its review of Labour from 1997-2009:

- 60 new powers introduced across 25 Acts of Parliament breaking pledges in the Human Rights Act and Magna Carta, all to reduce civil rights.

- 28-day detention without charge (And I seem to recall you wanted 90 days – 90!)

- Stop and search at airports without reason

- Control Orders

And what was the other thing you wanted to do? Oh, that’s right – introduce National Identity Cards. Words fail me.

Compare that to the Lib Dems in government. An end to child detention in immigration cases. The blocking of the Snooper's Charter. Ending the storing of DNA of innocent people. Reform of the libel laws.

Labour could have done any of this. But you didn’t. And even on our one Achilles' heel, secret courts, the grassroots in the Lib Dems have done their job – and the leadership have accepted their mistake. Only this week, conference rejected proposals for technologically impractical internet filters. What’s Labour’s policy on this? I don’t think you have one. Presumably you’re waiting for us to decide ours first so you can pinch it.

The Labour Party is many things. But claiming to be the party of civil rights? Now, that is a taking a liberty.

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

 

Shadow home secretary Yvette Cooper speaks at the Labour conference in Liverpool in 2011. Photograph: Getty Images.

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

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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