Kim Howells: Plain-speaking minister from the Valleys with few regrets

Kim Howells smiles and pauses for thought when asked whether he regrets any of the provocative remarks that have earned him admiration and opprobrium in equal measure.

Perhaps his description of last year's Turner prize entries as "cold, mechanical, conceptual bullshit"? His withering assessment of British film-makers as "a very small miserable bunch of chattering classes"? His observation that most Americans think Britain is somewhere in the Middle East? What about offending fans of the veteran folk group the Wurzels by describing their music as his idea of hell?

Certainly not his heretical suggestion in 1996 that socialism should be "humanely phased out" of the Labour lexicon; after all, Tony Blair immediately agreed with him, albeit slightly less colourfully.

The Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State for Culture, Media and Sport can think of just one headline-grabbing comment he would put differently – and then only slightly. "I guess saying all the royals were bonkers ... It's quite obvious that some of them have got some fine qualities," he says half-heartedly.

In an administration routinely accused of government by focus group, the garrulous Welshman stands out, firing off in all directions with little care for the potential side-effects.

"You can't keep tiptoeing around issues," he insists. "Sooner or later you have to try to say things as simply as you can and sometimes they make a bit of sense to people, sometimes they don't."

Most recently, Mr Howells has been in hot water with his "Islington critics" after the murder of two teenage Birmingham girls caught in the crossfire between feuding gangs. His scathing attack on "boasting macho idiot rappers" for their part in creating a culture where "killing is almost a fashion accessory" prompted charges of racism but created a national debate – including a "difference of opinion" in the Howells household. That, he says, is all he wanted to achieve.

"For 10 years now, my kids have been playing this stuff. I have not known who the bands are, but the lyrics have been so appalling I have said 'what are you listening to this stuff for?' and they say: 'You don't understand. You're out of touch'. I honestly assumed it was a subject of debate and then I find it's one of those areas that's never debated."

Far from repenting his sortie into the raucous world of rap, the 56-year-old minister has got the gamut of youth culture in his sights – and in particular the proliferation of gory video games. And once again it is his sons, Cai, 18, and Scott, 14, who have unwittingly aroused their father's fury.

"I watch my kids constantly playing blood-spattered video games. I don't think a child is going to turn out to be a killer or more violent as a consequence of playing those games. That is not what I'm saying. But it's the acceptance of that heartlessness that is at the centre of all those kind of games, the kind of joy of shooting innocent bystanders or running them over in the car."

His anger extends to film and television programme makers whose output he blames for creating "a pornography of violence" and making icons of killers and junkies. He cites hip gangster movie Pulp Fiction for its "triumph of nihilism" and the graphic portrayal of the drugs underworld in Trainspotting, which "glorified and emphasised those violent individuals who are despised by most people".

"Any night you can see any amount of violence on television," he complains. His current bugbear is ITV's Serious and Organised, starring Martin Kemp as an amoral cop dispensing brutal justice.

He insists he does not believe tougher censorship is desirable or possible, but is adamant that artists have a responsibility to society, particularly to younger, more impressionable viewers and listeners. "I look at some of the video games my kids play, I look at some of the movies they and their friends think are wonderful and I see no humanity at all, nothing that tries to highlight, and underpin, the finer virtues that are in people and society. It's always playing to the lowest common denominator, which is a kind of vicarious pleasure in spilling blood."

Mr Howells' abhorrence of casual brutality on screen and record is rooted in the post-war generation's familiarity with the senseless loss of life and his south Wales upbringing. "I was brought up in a very tough village; I have a healthy respect for physical violence. And I hate the way these actors and film directors and authors treat violence – you get punched and suddenly you're OK again and walk away. I have seen the most terrible traumas in terms of what violence can bring."

Most of his colleagues cannot help being fond of Mr Howells, with his easy charm, ready supply of anecdotes and catholic interests, ranging from jazz and rock-climbing to cycling and novel-writing (he finished his latest work over Christmas). Alastair Campbell is said to value his inadvertent ability to knock more troublesome headlines off the front page.

But his critics – including much of the art establishment, left-wing union leaders and supporters of Welsh devolution who are more enthusiastic than he is – privately accuse him of talking a good game at the expense of concrete achievement. He is infuriated by the charge, pointing out that he is steering through the Commons two of his department's most weighty pieces of legislation for years – the Communications Bill and the long-awaited overhaul of the licensing system.

He also faces the task of reviving British tourism after the traumas of foot-and-mouth and 11 September. Characteristically, though, he cannot resist floating a controversial marketing ploy: you might be safer at home. "I would have thought – given the uncertainties in the world at the moment, terrorism, doubts about what's going to happen in the future – there could never have been a better time for companies to say to people in Britain: 'Hey, come on, why travel abroad? We're the fifth most visited country on earth; discover what's on your doorstep', but the industry seems reluctant."

In outlook, Mr Howells, now in his third Whitehall post, is a model Blairite minister. But his background could not be more socialist. The son of a communist lorry driver, he followed him into the party after a spell as a student revolutionary during which he led a sit-in at his art college.

He joined Labour in 1981 and three years later, as research officer for the South Wales National Union of Mineworkers during the 1984-85 strike, he became a nationally known figure, eloquently espousing their cause during a conflict that privately drove him to despair. "The strike made me realise nationalised industries don't really work. They engender a mentality which inevitably results in the decline of that industry. It very much changed my view of the politics of it as well."

Today, his only quibble with the Government's agenda is that perhaps it does not embrace reform quickly enough – and the party could pay an electoral price as a result. "I worry we've allocated these huge amounts of money for services like health but the improvements are slow to come through. We can't shy away from the arguments and debates about why that is."

Consistent to the last, sitting in his Whitehall office, surrounded by (conventional) art-works, he has no fear that he may have somehow betrayed his roots in the Valleys. What matters is what works, he insists. "We're trying to run capitalism more efficiently and humanely than it has been."