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The New Statesman’s Scottish referendum coverage

We’ll be here all night!

Here at the NS, it feels like we’ve been talking and writing about the Scottish referendum for a very long time now – so much so, in fact, that it’s hard to believe that the day itself has now arrived, and we are less than 24 hours from knowing the result.

In October 2011, a week before the Scottish general election, we published a leader warning Westminster (particularly Labour) that a strategy for independence was well underway, and they would do well to pay attention to it. Since then, the magazine has had major interviews with Alex Salmond and Alistair Darling (Alex Salmond also interviewed Judy Murray for us), done a special Scotland issue, and run a steady stream of essays and commentaries by the UK’s foremost thinkers and writers on the subject, including Tom Holland, Helena Kennedy, Gerry Hassan, Angus Roxburgh, Adam Tomkins, Andrew Marr, Alan Taylor, Cal Flyn and many others.

 

Online, we’ve had a regular blogger on the subject, James Maxwell, since 2011, and my colleague George Eaton has been reporting every nuance of the debate for a number of years. George and NS editor Jason Cowley are in Scotland at the moment, filing observations and analysis from the ground. (Indeed, Jason has been encouraging us to pay attention to this issue for so long now that it has earned him the office nickname “Mr Scotland”.) Since we launched our election site May2015.com earlier this month, Harry Lambert has been weighing in with polling and demographic analysis – if graphs are your thing, you must have a look at what he’s been up to in the last few weeks.

Now, for the night itself. We might not have the resources of a large newspaper or broadcaster, but we’ll be on duty all night and into tomorrow, bringing you the latest results and analysis (as well as the odd hilarious video). This is the schedule for who will be at the helm, complete with our Twitter handles should you have any tips or observations, or just want to chat in the wee small hours. (Our guide to when the results are expected, and therefore how late/early you need to be awake, can be found here.)

7pm – 11pm – Helen Lewis (@helenlewis)

11pm – 3am – Anoosh Chakelian (@anooshchakelian)

3am – 6am – Harry Lambert (@harrylambert1)

4am – 12pm – Caroline Crampton (@c_crampton)

12pm – 6pm – Anoosh Chakelian (@anooshchakelian)

In addition, our political editor George Eaton (@georgeeaton) and our contributing writer Tim Wigmore (@timwig) will be weighing in with posts and results.

We’ll be live-tweeting every update on @The Staggers, and The Staggers blog is also where you’ll find the majority of our coverage. And of course, the main @NewStatesman Twitter feed and Facebook page will have updates too. Here we go. . .

Caroline Crampton is web editor of the New Statesman.

Qusai Al Shidi/Flickr
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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