Morning Call: pick of the papers

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

1. Osborne's in the crosshairs, and the trigger finger is twitching (Daily Telegraph)

His enemies know that if the Chancellor can’t find growth, the Tories are in real trouble, writes Benedict Brogan. 

2. As Osborne reels, why is Balls feeling the heat? (Independent)

There are calls for the shadow chancellor to be replaced - but Balls is one of the few politicians who has the economic experience to rise to the challenge of a crisis, says Steve Richards.

3. With threats and bribes, Gove forces schools to accept his phoney 'freedom' (Guardian)

Through its academies programme, the government is creating a novelty: the first capitalist command economy, writes George Monbiot. 

4. Euro crisis is breeding comics not fascists (Financial Times)

Times may be tough but this is not the 1930s, writes Gideon Rachman. Modern Europe is a richer, less traumatised continent. 

5. 'Benefit tourism' – real or hyped – must be tackled (Independent)

The longer ministers decline to tackle concern about welfare benefits for new migrants, the more likely it is that xenophobes will end up with the field to themselves, says an Independent editorial. 

6. Tories must see the conservative in Cameron (Times

The PM’s modernising instincts are rooted in traditional values, says Rachel Sylvester. His party must realise this is the only way to win.

7. After Eastleigh, the Lib Dems have finally found the fire in their belly (Guardian)

The Lib Dems must now seize the chance to prove they aren't just a fig leaf for the Tories' cruellest cuts, says Polly Toynbee.

8. Cameron condemned to rightward lurches (Financial Times)

The moment to push root-and-branch modernisation has gone, writes Janan Ganesh.

9. Theresa May's human rights stunt (Guardian)

The home secretary's talk of defying Europe's courts is all show, says Conor Gearty. Human rights are now part of our legal system – rightly so.

10. Why 'hi-viz’ will make the police less visible (Daily Telegraph)

Putting bobbies in the yellow jackets that everyone from dustment to builders wears will only reduce police officers' authority, says Philip Johnston. 

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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