Marie Kondo

What do Nigel Farage, gender-critical feminism, masculinity, generalised homophobia and GB News have in common? All have been blamed in the past week or so for the pair of terror attacks in Berlin and Paris which left one dead and dozens wounded. Labour MPs (including the cabinet minister Chris Bryant), left-wing commentators and journalists have rushed to point the finger at a variety of bizarre targets. It must be hard being an Islamist. Imagine, you’ve gone to a great deal of planning and effort to commit an atrocity and make clear to the world that your motivations for doing so are your murderous religio-political creed.

Sunday marks what would have been the 100th birthday of Kenneth Williams. It’s tempting to try to imagine what he would have been like had he lived longer, though the absurdity of our age might have been beyond even his acid observation. That’s perhaps the most interesting aspect of Williams: he can’t be imagined in the present day at all. As recent as his lifetime was, it was one so utterly bound by the 20th century as to feel distant. How so? Well, his critics would point to the Carry On films. A young and serious acting talent, coached in Shakespeare by Olivier no less, was wasted, so the argument goes, on trivial smut, consigning him to perma-residence in the world of Ted Heath and the Wombles novelty record.

In February 1974, a frustrated Ted Heath, unable to achieve anything in government against constant opposition by the mighty trade unions, called an election. One basic question was front and centre of the campaign: ‘Who governs Britain?’ Soon the answer came back: ‘Not you, mate.’ In fact, it would take Margaret Thatcher’s victory to clip the power of the unions – but only after enormous political and economic risks were taken. With the collapse of public infrastructure, a lingering sense of decline, and Britain looking embarrassed (and embarrassing) on the world stage, comparisons to the 1970s abound today. Another similarity is the presence of an all-powerful caste.

After my grandmother died a few years ago, we couldn’t bring ourselves to get rid of most of her possessions. What had started as a storage room at my parents’ house quickly morphed into a living, breathing pile. It gradually invaded the spare bedroom and was making encroachments into my mother’s study. Answering the call of nature at night became fraught with terror, lest the pile had become sentient and would drag me into its clutches in the small hours of the morning. It was like living in a cross between Storage Wars and a Stephen King novel. There was a whole box devoted to Diana and Charles plates and Andrew and Fergie engagement mugs I’ve never been one for minimalism.