About Charlie Whitaker

Charlie is from the UK.

Wielding hammers

Paul Lewis:

Nearby a group of young men emerged from Haringey and Enfield magistrates court wielding hammers. They had shunned the temptation of the looted stores to break seven windows in the courthouse.

They burned the probation office too. As you will have heard, there have been riots in Britain; in several cities simultaneously. Police forces have been bussed around the country in a whack-a-mole style effort to put the rioting down. They’ve not had any obvious success, but the rioting has now stopped, and it’s time for explanations. OK, the cynical among you might sneer, but the explanations are necessary if there’s going to be politics, and there does need to be politics, for the alternative to politics is rioting (something nicely expressed here).

The British political right – that is, the current administration – has already decided on its explanation: moral decay. If pushed, they’ll extend this explanation chronologically by dragging in the preceding generation; parents have decayed morally; the rioters are those with bad parents. Actually, I think the Tories et al. are on the money with their moral decay claim: it’s probably true that some time before the riots, attitudes for some were a certain way, and that those attitudes then changed, hence the new behaviour. If you want, call this moral decay.

Trouble is, you’re nowhere further forward with explaining the riots. Saying ‘it’s moral decay, that’s what it is’ equips you with nothing in the way of a guide to action. For that, you need some reasonable theory as to what will block – more or less – the development of pro-riot attitudes. The likely Tory response here – if they respond at all – is more prison. More convictions and longer sentences: ‘criminals whimpering in the dock’. A possible second Tory front is education: school reform. Finally – and probably most egregious – there are the proposed benefit withdrawals. The simple, practical effectiveness of all of these is highly questionable; further, such policies promise social exclusion (life history: expelled from school, denied housing, banished into jail) rather than a fix. Having said that, I won’t get into what the alternatives might be. However, I think it’s worth saying this: if you’re going to debate social policy with Tories, you will need some theory as to what caused the riots. Here, I think some people generally opposed to the right-wingers are tempted to stick – sceptically – to moral decay style non-explanations of their own. I’ve picked up three versions so far. Here they are, very roughly:

(1) Rioters just hate the police. Always have, always will. But rioting in some form has always offered this possibility; the rioting isn’t novel in its police-baiting aspect. And rioting is not a constant. This doesn’t happen every summer. So what’s changed?

(2) Rioters are just indulging in a stupid, dangerous sport, like the Pamplona bull runners. They’ve discovered just how much fun it can be to run from a Jankels armoured car. They would have done it before, if they’d known about it. This falls foul of the same objection as (1); rioting has always – I’d guess you’d all agree – offered the possibility of thrills. It also doesn’t explain the looting of certain sorts of shops, the targetting of a magistrates court, the arson at a Sony warehouse full of CDs and DVDs. There’s information there, albeit in some hard-to-recover form.

(3) The riots are just a new way to steal, like ram-raiding was in the 1990s. Innovation in thievery explains what’s going on. This doesn’t explain the non-thieving (but criminal) behaviour we’ve seen. Looters who’ve taken their loot onto the street and promptly smashed it. Rioters who’ve torched the shops they were in the process of stealing from (arson has been somewhat rare, thankfully).

Those are the reductions I’ve seen. All of them attempt to give the riots their full explanatory basis in the attitudes of certain people; that is, the rioters. I don’t think it’ll work, and as I’ve said, it’s not enough for policy. Not if you don’t want to concede that using tougher / better police tactics and getting rid of those who have rioted by imprisoning them are the only answers.

Value chain TV

Back in the 90s, a colleague who’d joined our office from America demanded to know what, exactly, got made in Britain. Nothing got made or done here; that was his basic position. At the time, I thought the best answer was to point to things like aerospace, pharmaceuticals and chemicals. Not so many internationally recognised consumer goods, true, but then a sensible person surely has to realise that certain things such as washing machines – whatever the nationality of the brand – tend to get made and sold locally owing to transportation costs. Now if I’d been smart like Newsnight’s Evan Davis, I could have gone a bit further and eulogised stage one of the value chain: activities such as research and design. These things happen in Britain too. Davis has made a whole BBC television series that describes the value chain in the clearest, simplest terms. I wonder if his examples aren’t a bit dated (ARM, Glaxo) but it probably doesn’t matter: I think it’s good to have the idea spelled out.

Compare and contrast with another BBC series that’s supposed to be about business. Yes, that would be The Apprentice. Now you might object that this is really just an entertaining reality show that trades on the self-destructive antics of eager twenty-somethings, but I’d point out that there’s clearly a strong normative component to the show as well. Sir Alan is the voice of the no-nonsense business-minded serious person. His two advisors are practically schoolteachers. They hover over the apprentices and their default attitude is one of disapproval; you can see it in the set of their chins. Now, every few episodes the apprentices get sent to a Soho consultancy for twenty-four hours in order to get something made. Supposedly the apprentices design things during this time period. An iPhone app, say, or a new perfume. Of course, it’s actually the professionals at those consultancies who do the designing; the timescale being ultra-short, they roll out some basic, reheated product. This is as you’d expect: real design is much, much harder; the difficulty of it underpins the possibility of making money at it. The problem with The Apprentice is that there’s next to no recognition of the reality. The Apprentice view of stage one value chain activity is that you do it by marching into the design studio and ‘giving a steer’ to the creatives, who will then work all night. At the end of the all-nighter, the delegator gets to pluck the fruit; the designed product.

Perhaps it’s not surprising that Sir Alan’s company is not so much about computers these days.

A semi-facetious slightly sour grapes post about the Olympics

 By now it’s very obvious to everyone in the UK that there aren’t enough Olympics tickets. Two thirds of the nearly two million British ticket applicants didn’t get any of the tickets they wanted – in fact they didn’t get any tickets at all. At the same time, there are stacks of unsold tickets to sports such as football and volleyball. It seems that applicants realise that the Olympic experience can’t be exported to regional football stadia, or to Excel, or to Earl’s Court. No one wants to settle for second best, and why should they? I’d guess there’s a lot of bad feeling about this around the country; an unusually large amount of it, even. To make things worse, there’s a steady stream of stories about great thick wads of corporate sponsor tickets, local and national government tickets, tranches reserved for sale abroad, and so on, giving a sense that the whole process is characterised by unjust privilege and possibly minor corruption too. Luckily for the 2012 organisers, the resentment at all this will likely find no expression, and in any case the circus will be conveniently leaving town once all the medals have been handed out.

But what must the ticket furore look like from an entrepreneurial point of view? There’s an obvious market lesson here. Money – masses of it – has been left on the table. You might wonder if it’s enough for somebody – a television network, perhaps – to think it worthwhile to stage a competitor event to the Olympics. So what would stop a start up event – let’s call it the Spartan games – from getting off the ground?

Venues are not scarce: many cities bidding for the Olympics already have athletics stadia and parks. For example, Rome, which is bidding for the 2020 games, has Mussolini’s stadium and the Foro Olimpico. Say Rome loses its 2020 bid; well, there’ll be a discount to be had. And since in all likelihood the Spartan games will simply not offer things like dinghy sailing and ping pong but will instead offer more athletics – much more – the Spartan games organisers will likely not face problems of needing to find multiple venues, of connecting them, of giving them consistent branding, etc.

No, the main problem I see in getting the Spartan games going is the old problem of mind share: people have to believe that the Spartan games matter. They don’t much believe in the Commonwealth games, or in your regular international athletics. But what the Commonwealth games is missing is countries; whole regions of the globe are excluded. And what regular international athletics is missing – as far as I know – is a decent medals table. Now, the international medals table is surely the key innovation of the Olympics (even if its existence is not officially acknowledged by the Olympic management). The medals table makes the Olympic games matter (no, really, it does). Further, it seems to me that a well constructed medals table absolutely requires opportunities for certain countries to do better than might be expected. And this is where minor sports come in (for instance, rowing and track cycling are where Britain finds its Olympic medals) yet these are exactly the sports the Spartan games will do without. So, what to do?

The answer, I think, lies in recognizing that there is a network of nationally-based training organisations with an orientation towards the Olympics; the existence of these organisations give the Olympic contests the texture they in fact have. And these could be replicated, with strategic intent. Each American NFL team strategically locates its annual training camp so as to maximise fan appeal; likewise, the Spartan games could strategically emplace its own sports academies. Each such academy could have a narrow specialisation; narrower than what we currently see. For example, France might become the location of a pole vaulting centre of excellence. And while of course open to non-French nationals, the Spartan pole vaulting academy – given time – would indeed tend to produce mostly French pole vaulting champions. This solves the medal table problem: the Spartan games can reliably feature winners from many nations, not excluding the rich nations, in fair and open competition.

Step three: profit!
      

Desert dialectic

Rowan Williams:

[we have seen a] quiet resurgence of the seductive language of ‘deserving’ and ‘undeserving’ poor”.

Iain Duncan Smith:

With respect to the Archbishop of Canterbury I have never ever spoken about the deserving or undeserving poor. I don’t believe in that concept. All I say is that the system itself has created an undeserving group, that’s what it has created.”

I’m struggling to understand what IDS is saying here. One way we might read him is this: nothing intrinsic to a population group makes that group undeserving; welfare allocation on its own – and nothing else – determines desert. But this takes away desert as a justification for policy: people are going to be getting pie – or not – just because IDS says so. Imagine if this were the stance with respect to taxes: George Osborne says the top rate is going to go up to 60%, well … because, that’s why. And when it does, you’ll deserve it. Or how about this: low Conservative tax rates have created a deserving group: the low taxed. You wonderful people, you.

In response, IDS might say: yes, of course our policies need to be justified, but that justification needn’t have anything to do with who gets what. When I say that welfare recipients are ‘undeserving’, I’m only saying that people oughtn’t to receive welfare because welfare has bad consequences. It has bad consequences if fifty people receive it or if fifty million people receive it. But what are the bad consequences of welfare? Here, IDS might say that when people choose welfare instead of work, they become apathetic and unhappy: welfare erodes self-esteem just as cigarettes erode your lungs. But someone making this sort of argument has to face the possibility that all kinds of unearned wealth have similar bad effects. Inherited wealth, for instance, or windfall profit. And that’s not a place any respectable Tory wants to go. But perhaps IDS can steer the discussion away from such difficult topics by arguing that welfare is bad because it, uniquely, has bad consequences for everyone. Our over-generous handouts are making the public debt unmanageable, and we won’t be caring about who gets what if the entire country goes under. However, if welfare is rejected for a reason like that, then it’s open for people to argue that welfare should be increased as and when things change for the better. Who knows what the future will bring. Take Alaska’s Permanent Fund, for instance. The Alaskans never saw that coming. Yet somehow I seriously doubt that IDS envisages a future of share and share alike, should the nation be so lucky as to run into big patch of oil, or something.

So what else could IDS say when it comes to explaining his position on welfare? All that’s left – it seems – is an argument that appeals to justice. That is, it’s simply unjust that some people get benefit when they’ve never had any intention of working: the responsible people lose out; they’ve lived carefully, they’ve never been slackers, they’ve carried the load. But then Rowan Williams’s accusation sticks.

On being partisan, while unsure of your own party

The all-you-can-eat reasons buffet is open at the Telegraph. Charles Moore says that tuition fees are unfair on students in general:

The poll tax went wrong because it came in, for many, at punitively high rates, with more losers than gainers. You got the bill long before you got the benefit of better-run councils. Tuition fees may incur the same problem. The loss is certain, the gain uncertain. From the autumn of 2012, the fees will almost triple to £9,000 per year, a sum that less than 10 per cent of the population (and virtually no students) could pay out of post-tax income. So most students will incur debts amounting to more than £30,000.

While also being unfair to those students who happen to have wealthy parents:

If you are a citizen of Bahrain or Brunei or Brazil, you can get your child into a pretty decent British university without his or her grades getting more than a cursory glance, because you will be paying the full fees, for which that university is desperate. That option is not open to British students – an anomaly which Mr Willetts was trying to address with his “gaffe” this week.

In conclusion, a one-two combo of special pleading and mincing:

The Conservative part of the Coalition has made a point of not sucking up to those who Mrs Thatcher used to call “our people”. That may be acceptable as part of the “we’re all in this together” theme of recession. But once “our people” start to feel positively persecuted, they will take their electoral revenge. You cannot build the Big Society – let alone a Tory election victory – by disrespecting the leading 15 per cent of its citizens.

A third of whom can’t afford the £9,000 p.a. tuition fees out of their post-tax income. You also have to ask: what’s the mechanism of this ‘electoral revenge’, exactly? Voting Lib Dem? Voting for UKIP? Labour? Is he still the editor?

Royals

When I look out my window, I see no bunting and no sign of any street party. We’re all republicans round here, then. If I were to take a trip into town, to where the royal wedding procession is going to be, I’d likely find a ratio in the order of 3:1 of foreigners to Brits. Still, it’s a morning for reflection. Over at Stumbling and Mumbling, Chris argues (and surely only for the sake of argument) that the monarchy is a good thing. Let me reflect on that for a moment. Er … no. The monarchy isn’t a good thing. Here are my reasons.

1. The monarchy is not politically neutral. Even if the monarchy isn’t explicitly of the political right, whether in custom or belief, royal arrangements and traditions are such that they can be taken advantage of by the ruling party. Best advantage from them is had by a right wing ruling party. Neutral royals with a minimum of clout would have made sure that former Labour prime ministers remained on the wedding guest list, and were visible on the day. Neutral royals would have insisted that the wedding cause only a minimum of disruption to national life. Instead, the wedding is happening on a Friday and the government has declared it a holiday. It certainly looks as though the British Conservatives have an interest in our stopping work to watch what’s going on with the royals; if the monarchy were politically neutral, the ruling party wouldn’t bother much with them. As it is, we find David Cameron saying things like this.

2. The monarchy is illiberal. The royal wedding explicitly promotes the norm of marriage: that’s obvious. But the monarchy as a whole also promotes the norms of heterosexuality, male primogeniture, patriarchy, religious worship, military service, and – last but not least – fixed, titled status distinctions. All of these norms are bound up together in a picture of an ‘ideal life’, as lived by one family. This goes against the liberal idea that we each have a right to choose which values to take up, and which to drop. Titles and status aside (any head of state will have a title and high status) we can ask whether the royal family could at least display a pluralism of values. Could there be a openly gay Prince of Wales and an avowedly atheist Queen Mother? I think the answer is no, and not because that’s what the Windsors are like: I don’t think any family, royal or not, is capable of a pluralism of values to the degree that’d be needed. Compared to the society within which each is embedded, all families are small, insular and parochial. As a consequence, it’s doubtful that a liberal society can tolerate the very notion of an exemplar family. Yet this is what the British monarchy is usually taken to be.

3. The monarchy does something terrible to the Metropolitan Police, who seem to think today is all about the nation coming together to celebrate. In fact, they’ve announced their intention to firmly sit on anyone who looks as though they’re doing something other than celebrating. This, of course, is not how they should be carrying on: a liberal polity would make this clear to them.

4. The monarchy encourages us to accept class divisions. This goes along with the illiberalism, but there’s also clearly something up with the whole spectacle of the monarchy. It’s not just that the royals are rich and upper class, it’s that we seem content to gaze on their wealth and high status. Ordinarily, you might think to ask: why don’t the houses in my street look more like Buckingham Palace? Why aren’t my circumstances better? And is there something I can do about it? If you’re having a royal wedding street party today, you’re probably not thinking any of that: you’re bound up in the spectacle. And that might be the idea. Chalk one up for the thesis of false consciousness.

5. The monarchy discourages human flourishing. Prince William and Kate Middleton are young, active and attractive. In the royal wedding, we see two people in their prime making plans to spend their lives together. Setting the issue of chauvinism of physical appearances aside for a moment, why shouldn’t we celebrate what we see? Well, one national newspaper said that if Kate Middleton hadn’t gotten engaged to whom she did, she would have spent her life in “peaceful anonymity”. But why should that be so? Why couldn’t Kate Middleton have an accomplished life in her own right, and a famous life at that? The monarchy promotes the idea that some people are to receive certain rewards while the rest of us get to watch. This goes beyond simple allocative unfairness. William and Kate’s material blessings are conditional on their acceptance of extraordinarily rigid career constraints. These two people simply won’t get to do the things of which they’re capable, yet they’re to be considered high achievers nonetheless. Their failure is to count as success. This can’t be considered an encouragement of human potential. Specifically, William will be doing token military service for a few more years: after that, he’ll be attending state and establishment social events. He’ll occasionally attend the openings of public works, which could be seen as a limited positive. Kate will be having kids: in fact, she’ll be spending her life in “peaceful celebrity”.

6. The monarchy is excessive. No country with a presidency would close the streets and line them with soldiers for the marriage of the grandson of the serving president. It could all be done with very much less.

7. The monarchy does something terrible to the British media. Have you seen?

Update: I didn’t intend to single out heterosexuality as the norm promoted by the royal family; something has to go first in the sentence order, after all. But it seems to have gotten the attention over here.

Update 2: Here’s a video of Charlie Veitch getting arrested in Cambridge the day before the royal wedding. He was released 23 hours and 45 minutes later, without charge. It turns out that the Metropolitan Police co-ordinated its efforts with other police forces to make a series of pre-emptive arrests (around a hundred?). They detained others on the day of the wedding itself. Altogether, the arrests seem to have been a tactical move aimed at keeping would-be protestors in custody during the wedding, with police powers to detain people without prosecution as the means. However, if no law is being upheld and no crime is being prevented, the effect is simply to stifle expression of public dissent. This is wholly inconsistent with the democratic right to freedom of expression. Since the arrests were regionally co-ordinated, it’s reasonable to assume that the tactic was decided on by police at a high level. It’s also reasonable to assume that they were acting with the connivance of the British government. If that’s so, then the British government has in fact adopted a policy of suppressing dissent. It seems confined to street protest so far. I’m not sure they’d dare push it much further, but we’ll see. Who knew that they cared so much about royal weddings?

Update 3: And here’s another video, this time of the Metropolitan Police doing their thing in support of freedom of speech, in Soho Square, on the day of the wedding. Soho Square is quite some way from the Mall, incidentally. But six guys with a guitar and a megaphone: a threat to the regime? Really?

Thursday ambiguous usage link

If your mind isn’t fitted to the world, you’re in want of a better understanding. If the world isn’t fitted to your mind, you’ll be wanting to do something about it. The concept of direction of fit could have been put to good use here:

Suppose an alternative history in which big-box stores, Wal-Mart and others, were unionized,” [Krugman] says. “You could easily imagine that you could have a large number of service-sector workers who were, if not like autoworkers, like manufacturing-sector union workers in the golden age of private-sector unions.” He thinks for another minute. It might not have been Utopia, he says, but it could have been France. But now these possibilities seem further away than ever. Part of the basic loneliness of economic study is that you are always looking back, at data sets that are already completed. And so you realize your vision of a perfect society just as it disappears from view.

I suspect Paul Krugman understands well the difference between “realize” in the sense of grasping things, and “realize” in the sense of bringing things about. (From an otherwise very readable piece by Benjamin Wallace-Wells.)

Velma and the cloud of krypton

Jim Gutshall:

It was coming up 441, when you’d come up the road, you could taste it. Up there around Wickersham Road. And right around the Hoover farm. It must have been that it hit the high spots. I can’t really say anything else other than the metallic taste. My main thing was that taste.

Ruth Hoover:

That night we had little red spots on our arms where we didn’t have sleeves on. … We saw on TV that night where they said, “Take a shower if you think you had any exposure to anything. To fallout.” I was so scared and I was just glad to be out of there. We never did take a shower until the next morning. I was so emotionally exhausted, all we did that night was just lay there and watch for the news on TV. We talked about it later, that we had little red spots on the arms. We talked to our doctor. He said that it definitely should have been washed immediately. We should have scrubbed it. But, time will tell if anything happens to us. There was quite a few over in Goldsboro (who said they saw the powdery substance). There might have been a couple of people on this side of the river (also). But it was really fine. It wasn’t as large as paper trash or anything like that. It was real fine. 

Marie Holowka:

So, I finally got up after struggling there maybe five minutes or so. I walked to the house. I opened the door. I stumbled into the house. I said to them, “Did you hear anything about Three Mile Island?” They said, “No, we didn’t.” I said, “You know what happened to me. I fell down three times before I could come to the house.” I was just something like a drunk. We stayed in the house. It was blue. You couldn’t see anything or nothing. And we were scared. Everything was blue. Everywhere was blue. Couldn’t see the buildings or anything. It was just heavy blue all that time. We closed up our doors. We stuffed rags underneath the door so this wouldn’t come in. But I think it was all the way in. And we stayed there. It was a warm day. It was a hot day. It was so hot. We shut all the windows and all the doors and we stayed inside. And about nine [a.m.] we listened to the local radios. But they wouldn’t say anything. They were only playing Dolly Parton’s music.

From Three Mile Island: The People’s Testament, by Aileen Smith, 1989.

Aaron Datesman at A Tiny Revolution takes the last of these reports and tentatively puts forward a physical explanation: the Holowka farm had been blanketed in radioactive krypton, the emitted gamma rays colliding with atmospheric nitrogen to produce blue light. One of the messages Datesman wants us to take away is that nuclear accidents have hard-to-predict and hard-to-track outcomes. Uncontained fission products may turn up some distance from the site of the accident, in patches, and in harmful concentrations. There are no systems in place for measuring the spread of radiation over large areas; in any case ‘radiation’ refers to three physical processes (alpha, beta and gamma decay), each of which affects human health differently.

And Holowka’s story is terrifying. But then, it would be. It has classic ghost story ingredients: an isolated, rural setting; a malign, home-invading, luminous ether which suffocates its victims. In his retelling, Datesman adds a sucker punch: a plausible explanation that makes things worse. Normally, with a ghost story, you have a rational ‘out’. Someone plays the role of Velma from Scooby Doo, explaining that the floating lights are just illuminated balloons, or something, and the fear is instantly dissipated. Datesman’s role, by contrast, is to make that same explanation intensify the fear; this time, the rational position doesn’t lead to an out: our world really is like this. There really are ground-hugging poisonous clouds that glow, and will kill you.

It’s not that there are no comforting explanations available, and in this next bit I’ll have a go at providing some. Of course, unlike someone who knows some physics and who—in a pinch—can quantify, I can offer only endoxa, shuffled around. Marie Holowka had a stroke; a transient ischaemic attack. She lost consciousness for a while, then—the blood flow to the part of her brain that processes vision having been impaired—she ‘saw’ blue. No one else reported seeing blue. Ruth Hoover and her sister were sunburned: it was unusually sunny for early spring, and they were just outside for too long. And fallout was something they’d been told about since high school. There’d been an accident at the nuclear plant: yes, you’d expect to see fallout. In reality, some ashes from a neighbour’s fire had been picked up on a breeze. Similarly, Jim Gutshall was the reteller of an urban myth: that radiation ‘tastes like metal’. Everyone in the neighbourhood of Three Mile Island got to hear that same story that year. The local doctor had a stream of people coming to him saying they’d had a funny taste in their mouth.

These, then, are my outs, my Velma stories. If you’re an advocate of nuclear power generation, should they also be your outs, your stories? I tend to think not. Plausible, anecdotal reassurance falls far short of what’s needed. Saying that the worried are irrational isn’t warranted. Datesman is right to point out that we are not systematic in how we measure and report radiation. A quick survey of news reports on Fukushima-Daiichi shows significant confusion over the units involved. Milli-sieverts are reported as micro-sieverts, or vice versa (one is a thousand times greater than the other); the odd reference to grays, rems and curies gets thrown in. Some people are sceptical about the informativeness of the official radiation counts; the suspicion is that they’re cherry-picked. But say the reports are honest. Are they sufficient? Nuclear plants may have radiation-measuring devices at ‘the main gate’, but what’s happening a hundred metres beyond the main gate? At a thousand metres? At ten kilometres? Although there are radiation sensors in various places (aircraft carriers, universities, EPA monitoring stations), there’s no grid of radiation sensors emplaced in the terrain. Could there be? The official response to a lack of reliable, fine-grained information—in the context of a known accident—is to announce an evacuation zone. This may be sensible, but how can it possibly be reassuring? It’s surely the opposite: an evacuation zone is meant to be alarming; you’re meant to take heed, and leave. So say you do leave. At what point is it safe to go back? At Three Mile Island, the official evacuation zone was a five mile radius from the plant, and evacuation was voluntary. After a while—it can only be—most of those who left went back. Did they go back because they were assured it would be safe from then on? Core meltdown at Three Mile Island occurred in March 1979: a release of radioactive krypton—a dense gas, heavy enough to settle on dwellings—was authorised in July 1980. There was no second evacuation. There is some good news: this planned release was to some extent monitored. The US Environmental Protection Agency describes how they went about tracking it:

On a large wall-map of the area surrounding Three Mile Island, EPA scientists plotted the trail of the krypton. The map is divided into 16 pie-shaped wedges radiating out from the power plant, with colored dots showing the location of permanent sampling sites. Other markers show the placement of the mobile sampling units, which were kept constantly informed of changes in the direction of the plume by radio contact. … EPA’s two teams were stationed on the east and west banks of the Susquehanna opposite the power plant. A monitoring team from the Nuclear Engineering Department at Pennsylvania State University took measurements at locations further out to provide an independent check of EPA’s samples. The data obtained by Penn State researchers also served as an assurance that the krypton plume was dispersing as predicted and not touching in high concentrations at remote locations.

Assuming this is how it all actually happened—that any findings of high radioactivity during the single authorised release would have been broadcast promptly—Pennsylvanians of July 1980 had a way to assess risk. You’d hope this was the case: it’s hard to see any other way of making the planned Three Mile Island krypton release acceptable, short of a second, compulsory, evacuation. But what about unauthorised, unplanned releases? In retrospect, it’s widely believed that there were several. Marie Holowka says she saw blue on the morning of the accident. On that day—March 28, 1979—there was no EPA tracking. On that day, no one was expecting Kr-85 (or Xe-133, say) to be floating around Pennsylvania.

Generally, the cause of nuclear power generation is blighted by a mix of real danger and imaginary danger, a mix of good information and bad. The responsibility for this is almost always placed on the public and the press. But in such a situation, a non-specific fear of nuclear power generation is surely rational: we, as people who happen to live near nuclear power plants, nuclear waste processing facilities and nuclear weapons factories, have only the most limited and coarse-grained information, no ready way to weight it, and the cost to us of getting it wrong seems very high. Lumping all the non-experts together and blaming them is a poor response: the official information is bad. If not outright inconsistent, it’s ad hoc and tainted with the narratives associated with nuclear deterrence. State (or state-licensed) nuclear power generation is as matter of historic fact closely tied to state production of nuclear weapons and the emergent security state which monitors for dirty bombs and / or suitcase bombs. There’s an attendant diversity of information, whether it’s the old and crude ‘Duck and Cover’ or ‘Protect and Survive’, or something more modern, like this from the US DHS (note: uses rem as its units). The state, or some part of it, attempts to to equip its own citizens with a reasonable survival plan in the case of accident, terrorist attack, or all out nuclear war. There are attempts at systematicity, and the language tends to the moderate. At the same time the same state (or some part of it; perhaps some other part) wants people to know that fissile material can be deadly: deterrence depends in part on spreading this perception. For example, here’s Kissinger (albeit in 2009, long after leaving office):

The danger posed by nuclear weapons is unprecedented. They should not be integrated into strategy as simply another, more efficient, explosive. We thus return to our original challenge. Our age has stolen fire from the gods; can we confine it to peaceful purposes before it consumes us?

So we all know that nuclear is dangerous: we’ve been told. So when is it safe?

This is not another government initiative

So the Big Society is going to get one last push. It was felt to need one. Paul Mason (BBC Newsnight’s economics editor) said:

I’m finding it common among non-politicos these days that whenever you mention the “Big Society” there’s a shrug and a suppressed laugh – yet if you move into the warren of thinktanks around Westminster, it’s treated deadly seriously.

Mason sees this as evidence of a “complete disconnect between the values and language of the state and those of the educated young.” As if determined to prove him right, David Cameron comes out with this piece of third term Blair-speak:

For too long, our country has failed to have a proper debate on how we can make our society stronger and give people more power. Now it is happening. And not just in the thinktanks of Westminster and newspapers of Fleet Street. The big society has been a topic of discussion on a wider basis – from being on the agenda at the General Synod to being debated in front of a live television audience.

It’s pretty obvious that the Big Society has had no positive impact at all on people’s lives generally. The potholes on my street are not being fixed by armies of volunteers. I haven’t knocked on my neighbours’ doors in an attempt to get a new district charity up and running, and no one has knocked on mine. We came up with chairs and quiche for the Big Lunch, yes, but that’s something different.

There have been changes, though. Existing charities have had their state funding cut – they’ll have to re-apply for ‘contracts’ – so for those who volunteered to help out with things some time ago, the Big Society is about being told to do less. It’s the same for local authorities. And I think this is the point. British politicians have their pet projects; the Tories especially. John Major had his national sports academy, Blair had his city academies. And I think you could make a case for privatised rail. These things are still going (with the exception of Railtrack, which got re-nationalised). It’s possible that the Big Society bank will still be going in twenty years’ time. ‘Pet project’ suggests harmlessness: it’d be better to describe these projects as exercises in patronage, where the degree of harm is to do with things like size, take-up, and complexity. Sport: harmless; arguably good. City academies: mostly harmless. National rail infrastructure: decidedly bad.

There’s nothing new about patronage, nor is there anything new about the conditions that traditionally attach. The patron must be satisfied that the recipients are deserving: that they won’t go against the patron’s own ideas about how these things should be done. With the Big Society, the patronage avenues – the scope of the ‘charters’ and the ‘contracts’ – have been defined through the obsessions of the Tory press over the last few decades. Schools. Health and Safety. Local Authority social work. Now, some of the right sort of people, with the right ideas, will be allowed to set up their own state funded substitutes. But perhaps they’ll improve things, and should be allowed a chance? Not if you believe that giving things a chance should be a matter of majoritarian decision-making, and at a local level where possible. Without an acknowledgment of the role of local democracy, the attempt to paint the Big Society as ‘localism’ just doesn’t wash. Big Society advocates talk about empowerment but fling mud at the institutions of local representation: they describe elected council leaders as ‘fat cats’ and local authorities as places where ‘power is trapped’. Established charities don’t fare much better: they’re described by Shaun Bailey – Cameron’s ‘ambassador’ for the Big Society – as ‘civic unions’. The attitude looks well entrenched; the main thing stopping Michael Gove doing end runs around local authorities on schools is the constitutional limit to that sort of behaviour. So I think the death of the Big Society is best understood as the death of a rebranding exercise, not as the end of a policy. The erosion of existing local institutions and the establishment of things like free schools will continue until there’s a change of national government.

(Note: the Americans have something similar: the Office of Faith-based and Neighborhood Partnerships.)

(And see also this, at Next Left.)

To slip under the European bailout umbrella

Or in German: unter den Eurorettungsschirm schlüpfen. It’s the tenth-placed expression in the German Language Society’s list of the most important German words and expressions of 2010. Cyberkrieg also made the cut (fourth place). In first place: Wutbürger, or ‘enraged citizen’. All of which we’ve covered on Fistful recently. No one can say we don’t have our finger on the world spirit. I have to say I admire the work of the GfdS here: I feel much better knowing that all it takes for a terrible thing to seem almost humorous is to discover there’s a community of language users that’s fond of giving the terrible things their own special names.