The Daily Politics, which on Tuesday aired on BBC1 for the last time, was never watercooler television, for one simple, practical reason: if you were watching an hour of suits, chatting, in the middle of the day, you most probably didn’t have a job. Retired people could watch it, though that’s just a guess; I’m definitely not inferring from the distinctive vintage to the comments on social media (“Will someone tell that annoying woman to stop biting her nails?”). It seemed to exist in the fine tradition of daytime news coverage, there to satisfy the Gods of Public Information that the discussion format was being observed. Arguably, office-hours audiences for day-time TV will always be pretty small, and so it should be. It is not the job of a public service broadcaster to make sure everyone is watching telly all the time, or at least I don’t think that’s what Reith had in mind.

Presenter Andrew Neil was plainly on the right; his defenders would claim he was equally hard on Labour and Conservative politicians alike, but as enjoyable as this often was to watch, as a definition of neutrality it is a little lame. Fellow presenter Jo Coburn had a more sober style and was a deft interviewer (both will continue to present the show’s replacement, Politics Live). The show never deviated, so far as I could see, from its core precept: anything Labour said that sounded remotely appealing was a leftwing pipe dream, while the Conservatives were natural arbiters of affordability. I remember having a particularly ridiculous argument when Jeremy Corbyn was promising a limit to primary school classes that was a fraction less ambitious than Tony Blair’s 20 years earlier: someone from Conservative Woman tendered the view that, in austerity politics, we couldn’t afford luxurious educational standards, and anyway, Keir Starmer’s kids didn’t go to ordinary state schools (which they did). This is silly, I thought. Nobody thinks that deficit reduction is a more important goal for a civilised nation than basic schooling. Nobody wants important debate reduced to a mud-slinging match in which even the mud is fake. But I always went on anyway, because the battleground was so clearly marked, and it seemed important to disrupt the lines, like a bad apple at a barn dance; question the caller, go the wrong way, interrupt the boisterous inevitability.

In the Corbyn era, many in the Labour party complained about the lack of balance, particularly on the Sunday Politics, the show’s weekend edition, where it was not unusual to have a panel of three journalists, one from the far right (the Express or the Telegraph), one from the “centre”, which broadly meant also supporting the government, and one from the “centre left”, who hated the leader of the Labour party more than the other two put together. Across the BBC’s current affairs coverage, there is a readiness to air developments on the right – so Nigel Farage is a powerful voice, with resonant views, which must be heard and respected. This courtesy isn’t extended to developments on the left, whose new face won’t become real or plausible until it’s actually in Downing Street. The kindest, but also most likely, explanation is that the BBC’s rightwing critics are correct: it is the natural home of liberals. Radicalism from opponents is fascinating, in an alien, Blue Planet kind of way, while radicalism from their own side is more than a threat; it’s an insult. If we’re going to keep the same formats and just renew their titles, I would argue for more Conservatives at the heart of the corporation; whatever that means for balance, they might at least manage to treat Jacob Rees-Mogg and this cascading Tory shambles with the scorn it deserves, rather than indulgent, mystified surrender.

A death penalty referendum could really divide Britain

Frances Crook runs the Howard League for Penal Reform; she is a magnificent campaigner, bringing a lot of old-fashioned notions such as decency to the debate on prisons, fighting for things you couldn’t quite believe anyone would have to fight for. It was a surprise, for instance, to find in 2014 that Chris Grayling wanted to ban people from sending books to prisoners, but in fairness, back then we didn’t know him very well.

Crook’s legal challenge to Sajid Javid goes beyond the realm of the surprise into that of the surreal. Javid has, apparently unilaterally, rowed back on a core British principle: we do not allow transfer or extradition of any prisoner to any country where they might face death at the hands of the state. It was all very well, according to Javid, before Isis, but now crimes are as heinous as beheadings, the brutality spoke for itself. The irony that decapitation was a preferred death penalty method in France until 1977 is dwarfed by the sense of impending acrimony.

I can just picture the referendum: there is no compromise between death penalty and no death penalty. There is no third way of “some death”, although some bright button from a centre-left thinktank will, equally inevitably, cite death’s support in the “reasonable anger” of the “left behind” areas, and come up with a plan for regional death penalties, where people’s legitimate thirst for blood can be decided on a constituency-by-constituency basis. There is no compelling argument against the death penalty, except for centuries of well-rehearsed principles of humanity, redemption, non-violence and rehabilitation, and we all know how yawn things are when you’ve rehearsed them. It’s another bitter division, unearthed for no reason, except some Thanatotic lust for conflict and death, to keep the country in a state of perpetual chaos.

The beach: my idea of an existential crisis

Whenever I get on to a beach, my first thought is: how long, realistically, do I have to stay here? It’s nothing in particular – I don’t mind being too hot or ingesting sand, the sea is fine – it’s just the absence of meaningful activity, the enforced peace, all possibilities collapsing down to two: staring, or napping. At least when you’re a child, you can add “fighting”. My offspring argued yesterday about whose idea it was to dig a hole. Pacing and foraging for food don’t count; they’re what you do as a prelude to telling everyone you want to leave. But look around; everyone is pacing or foraging. Everyone feels this way.