"I do not know." These four words are forbidden in British public life. No minister, no opposition spokesman, no newspaper pundit, no talking head wheeled up for Newsnight or Panorama, no expert on a government advisory committee dare admit to ignorance or to a worm of doubt. They are paid to dispense wisdom, to demand action, to denounce or to reassure. The age of the sound-bite leaves no room for hesitation or qualification.
That explains the mistakes the Tories made over BSE, which dealt the final blow to their reputation for competent government. Astonishingly, Labour makes the same mistakes over genetically modified (GM) foods, even to the extent that Tony Blair's assurance that he himself eats them echoes John Gummer's foolish stunt of feeding a hamburger to his daughter. In both cases, the only honest answer to public concern is to say "we don't know". For many years, scientists and farmers have cross-bred plants and animals, found new ways to accelerate growth or maximise yield, invented new pesticides, added preservatives, flavourings and colourings. If all this were as dangerous as some people suggest, life expectancy would be falling, not rising, and infant mortality would be at unprecedented levels. Even so, beef, eggs, apples, olive oil, tomatoes, mineral water and many other products have been found on occasion to damage human health. Since both scientists and farmers are capable of greed and stupidity, to say nothing of honest error, these things will happen. But politicians cannot admit it. They deal only in categorical assurances and emphatic denials.
The trouble is that, when it comes to science, this is precisely what the public expects. We accept that nobody can give the last word on the merits of, say, Damien Hirst or Will Self, but we think that scientists can forecast the results of putting fish genes into cauliflowers with the same confidence as they predict that the sun will rise in the east. Most of us do not know a lectin from a prion, but we think we can recognise a scientist because he has letters after his name. If it takes three people to make a riot, it takes only one scientist to make a panic while 20, regardless of their distinction or specialist expertise, can herald the end of civilisation as we know it. How many scientists would it take to put our minds at rest? Perhaps if they had reassuringly British names and worked in reassuringly British universities, about 40 would do. But we shouldn't listen to them, either, and the more expert they may seem, the more suspicious we should be. Scientists have to make a living like anybody else and those in the forefront of biotechnology research, hungry for grants from industry and government, are hardly likely to support a moratorium on further work.
So what should the government do? Whether the issue is beef or GM food, ministers, Tory or Labour, start from two assumptions. First, they must do everything possible to protect the economy, maximising employment prospects, growth and share dividends. On that above all else, they know, they will be judged at the polls. So their first instinct is to deny anything that might damage a large-scale industry such as farming, food processing or biotechnology research (now one of the world's fastest-growing industries). In that sense, the notion that new Labour or any other government can habitually put consumers before producers is so much nonsense. Ministers must always play down a new food scare. Edwina Currie, far from doing so, actually stoked one; she was fired.
The second assumption, however, is that, once the smallest risk is admitted, ministers must act. "It's not worth doing anything" is no more acceptable than "I don't know". All danger must be eliminated and confidence restored so that an industry may resume its normal growth and profits flow without inhibition once more. Food is either safe to eat or it is poisonous. If it is the latter, it must be restored instantly to the former condition. No modulation (safe unless you're very unlucky; safe unless you're an octogenarian with poor digestion; we're getting there) is admissible.
All this explains the strange disjunctions in official policy whereby nobody is allowed to touch beef on the bone while a baby may be given a dodgy tomato puree. One answer, as Colin Tudge argues on page 9, is to produce food in order to feed people, not to make profits. Another, perhaps more realistic, answer is to treat people as adults, giving them the (uncertain) facts, insisting on proper labelling and then allowing them to make up their own minds. Which is exactly the policy that governments adopt for the riskiest products of all: tobacco and alcohol.
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