Morning Call: pick of the papers

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

1. MPs must not decide what goes in the papers (Times) (£)

The public mood is for a press law. But that mood will blow over and we will look foolish if we give into it, says Matthew Parris.

2. You're not a tourist, Obama. Go to Israel with a message (Guardian)

As Netanyahu unveils his new government, the US president should echo Israel's former security chiefs: the occupation must end, says Jonathan Freedland. 

3. Nigel Farage: beware Ukip's smiling assassin (Daily Telegraph)

The Ukip leader Nigel Farage his party of 'cranks and gadflies’ have become a clear and present danger to David Cameron and the Conservative Party, writes Judith Woods.

4. The Leveson dispute could destroy our free press (Independent)

One of the principles that made me want to be a journalist in the first place and to help produce a newspaper such as this one, is at stake, says Chris Blackhurst.

5. Osborne and Cameron must cut further (FT) (£)

The choice is pain now or prolonged agony later, writes Terry Leahy.

6. Royalists make the lives of the royal family a misery (Guardian)

The monarchy locks people in a gilded cage and denies them the most basic freedom of all – the freedom to be themselves, writes Deborah Orr.

7. Charities must clean up their act if they want us to dig deep (Daily Telegraph)

Surveys show that people will donate more when they understand the purpose of the donation, so maybe charities should stop trying to function as political groups, argues Graeme Archer.

8. How to protect individuals and press freedom (Times) (£)

Our Royal Charter-plus will ensure robust self-regulation while winning cross-party support, writes Nick Clegg.

9. David Cameron's court rounds on Theresa May (Daily Express)

Every prime minister has a court, rather in the style of a Tudor monarch, says Patrick O'Flynn.

10. The new Pope promises a new approach in the Catholic Church - but will this extend to Twitter? (Independent)

Perhaps it's time for @pontifex to loosen up and add Piers Morgan, says Simon Kelner.

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Over a Martini with my mother, I decide I'd rather not talk Brexit

A drink with her reduces me to a nine-year-old boy recounting his cricketing triumphs.

To the Royal Academy with my mother. As well as being a very competent (ex-professional, on Broadway) singer, she is a talented artist, and has a good critical eye, albeit one more tolerant of the brighter shades of the spectrum than mine. I love the RA’s summer exhibition: it offers one the chance to be effortlessly superior about three times a minute.

“Goddammit,” she says, in her finest New York accent, after standing in front of a particularly wretched daub. The tone is one of some vexation: not quite locking-yourself-out-of-the-house vexed, but remembering-you’ve-left-your-wallet-behind-a-hundred-yards-from-the-house vexed. This helps us sort out at least one of the problems she has been facing since widowhood: she is going to get cracking with the painting again, and I am going to supply the titles.

I am not sure I have the satirical chops or shamelessness to come up with anything as dreadful as Dancing With the Dead in My Dreams (artwork number 688, something that would have shown a disturbing kind of promise if executed by an eight-year-old), or The End From: One Day This Glass Will Break (number 521; not too bad, actually), but we work out that if she does reasonably OK prints and charges £500 a pop for each plus £1,000 for the original – this being at the lower end of the price scale – then she’ll be able to come out well up on the deal. (The other solution to her loneliness: get a cat, and perhaps we are nudged in this direction by an amusing video installation of a cat drinking milk from a saucer which attracts an indulgent, medium-sized crowd.)

We wonder where to go for lunch. As a sizeable quantity of the art there seems to hark back to the 1960s in general, and the style of the film Yellow Submarine in particular, I suggest Langan’s Brasserie, which neither of us has been to for years. We order our customary Martinis. Well, she does, while I go through a silly monologue that runs: “I don’t think I’ll have a Martini, I have to write my column this afternoon, oh sod it, I’ll have a Martini.”

“So,” she says as they arrive, “how has life been treating you?”

Good question. How, indeed, has life been treating me? Most oddly, I have to say. These are strange times we live in, a bit strange even for me, and if we wake up on 24 June to find ourselves no longer in Europe and with Nigel Farage’s toadlike mug gurning at us from every newspaper in the land, then I’m off to Scotland, or the US, or at least strongly thinking about it. Not even Hunter S Thompson’s mantra – “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro” – will be enough to arm myself with, I fear.

The heart has been taking something of a pummelling, as close readers of this column may have gathered, but there is nothing like finding out that the person you fear you might be losing it to is probably going to vote Brexit to clear up that potential mess in a hurry. The heart may be stupid, but there are some things that will shake even that organ from its reverie. However, operating on a need-to-know basis, I feel my mother can do without this information, and I find myself talking about the cricket match I played on Sunday, the first half of which was spent standing watching our team get clouted out of the park, in rain not quite strong enough to take us off the field, but certainly strong enough to make us wet.

“Show me the way to go home,” I sang quietly to myself, “I’m tired and I want to go to bed,” etc. The second half of it, though, was spent first watching an astonishing, even by our standards, batting collapse, then going in at number seven . . . and making the top score for our team. OK, that score was 12, but still, it was the top score for our team, dammit.

The inner glow and sense of bien-être that this imparted on Sunday persists three days later as I write. And as I tell my mother the story – she has now lived long enough in this country, and absorbed enough of the game by osmosis, to know that 17 for five is a pretty piss-poor score – I realise I might as well be nine years old, and telling her of my successes on the pitch. Only, when I was nine, I had no such successes under my belt.

With age comes fearlessness: I don’t worry about the hard ball coming at me. Why should I? I’ve got a bloody bat, gloves, pads, the lot. The only things that scare me now are, as usual, dying alone, that jackanapes Farage, and bad art. 

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 23 June 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Divided Britain