Morning Call: pick of the papers

The ten must-read comment pieces from this morning's papers.

1. Labour can turn NHS scandal into success (Daily Telegraph)

Ed Miliband’s response to the Francis report on the Mid Staffordshire scandal could be the first step towards a Labour victory in 2015, says Mary Riddell.

2. Same-sex marriage vote: on the wrong side of history (Guardian)

The passing of the bill in the Commons was the latest climax in a disintegrating crisis of Conservative party credibility, says a Guardian editorial.

3. Cameron has sown needless discord (Daily Telegraph)

With the vote on gay marriage, the Prime Minister bounced his party into a reform for which there was no popular pressure, argues a Telegraph leader.

4. Japan can put people before profits (Financial Times)

The key to a better-balanced economy is to take surplus profits away from a corporate oligopoly, writes Martin Wolf.

5. Trident is no longer key to Britain’s security (Daily Telegraph)

Like-for-like renewal of our nuclear deterrent is neither strategically sound nor economically viable, write Des Browne and Ian Kearns.

6. It’s human to dread change and fear loss (Times) (£)

Good conservatives understand the value of tradition, but know when to welcome gay marriage or shopping malls, writes Daniel Finkelstein. 

7. Tory metrosexuals won the gay marriage vote – but at what cost? (Guardian)

 I agree that gay marriage is right, says Simon Jenkins. But the true test of tolerance lies in its treatment of intolerance – and we failed that test.

8. The Bank of England's new Governor is about to face a grilling, but what will the markets make of him? (Independent)

Mark Carney is eager to look for new policies to promote growth, writes Hamish McRae. Whether he can succeed is another issue.

9. Britain is a proud monarchy, and as such it must treat its former sovereigns with the respect owed to the office they held (Daily Mail)

The government  should grasp this moment to light the imagination of the nation, by holding a state funeral for Richard III at Westminster Abbey, says Andrew Roberts.

10. Ageing taxpayers owe the iPod generation (Financial Times)

Tax reform is crucial for Britain’s youth, writes Nick Bosanquet.

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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