The price of tidal power

When did it become OK to save our wildlife at the expense of everyone else’s?

There’s no joy in it but it’s got to be done. We have to press ahead with harvesting the tidal energy of the River Severn, despite the havoc it is likely to wreak on local wildlife, because these days there is no such thing as local wildlife.

When we talk about living in a globalised world, we don’t usually think about nations sharing wildlife. But we are now getting other people’s fish. Bluefin tuna and anchovies are increasingly common in British waters and no doubt we’ll be getting into fights with foreign fishing fleets about them soon. Elsewhere, species of Japanese coral are migrating northwards. A few weeks ago, Australian scientists issued a report into the ocean biodiversity in their region. Rather shockingly, their tropical fish are moving away – those that aren’t dying off in the rapidly warming water are migrating southwards, following the plankton that are being carried on currents that are rising in strength.

You won’t be surprised to hear that the blame for all this flux lies with global warming. Rising temperatures leave the inhabitants of the ocean no choice but to embrace change. Paradoxically, though, taking measures to combat global warming – such as building the Severn barrage to reduce our dependence on fossil fuels – will also force changes on the natural world. It’s now a question of whether we value our creatures more than everyone else’s.

The Severn provides Britain with a golden opportunity to exploit lunar power. The moon’s pull causes earth’s water to bulge out from the surface and the geometry of the Severn creates a bigger bulge than most. The difference between its high and low tide is the second largest in the world; only Canada’s Bay of Fundy can beat the Severn’s 14-metre pile of water.

Hold that heap of water back until just the right moment and the resulting torrent on release is a renewable source of energy. A Severn barrage would provide enough lunar electricity to power 5 per cent of Britain’s homes, equivalent to three nuclear or gas-fuelled power stations. It would also last three times longer – at least. According to projections, the barrage could operate for over a century, compared to the few decades of lifetime offered by a nuclear plant.

A cross-party group of MPs is backing a campaign for the barrage to be built and David Cameron has recently instructed the Energy Secretary, Ed Davey, to look at the proposal. It still might not take off, however. That is because, from a local perspective, it will be an environmental tragedy.

As with any hydroelectric project, holding back the water floods areas that would usually be dry. In the case of the Severn barrage, many of those areas are mudflats designated as sites of special scientific interest: feeding grounds for important bird species. It’s also worth mentioning that forcing the water through electricity-generating turbines at high pressure cannot help but hurt fish populations, too.

No pain, no gain

The consortium looking to build the barrage has come up with a design that, it claims, reduces mudflat loss by 60 per cent and operates at lower pressures, easing the toll on the Severn’s fish. Perhaps there are other mitigation efforts that can be made, such as constructing artificial mudflats at the water’s new edge. Either way, it is hard to see how we can justify holding back the barrage now. We will have to sacrifice some of our cherished natural environment.

As far as carbon-free, sustainable energy generation goes, this is the low-hanging fruit. If we don’t grab it, our continued emissions will have a similar, maybe greater, impact on biodiversity in other places. Yes, it will hurt but when did it become OK to save our wildlife at the expense of everyone else’s?

 

Surfers ride the Severn Bore along the River Severn. Photograph: Getty Images

Michael Brooks holds a PhD in quantum physics. He writes a weekly science column for the New Statesman, and his most recent book is At the Edge of Uncertainty: 11 Discoveries Taking Science by Surprise.

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Is there such a thing as responsible betting?

Punters are encouraged to bet responsibly. What a laugh that is. It’s like encouraging drunks to get drunk responsibly, to crash our cars responsibly, murder each other responsibly.

I try not to watch the commercials between matches, or the studio discussions, or anything really, before or after, except for the match itself. And yet there is one person I never manage to escape properly – Ray Winstone. His cracked face, his mesmerising voice, his endlessly repeated spiel follow me across the room as I escape for the lav, the kitchen, the drinks cupboard.

I’m not sure which betting company he is shouting about, there are just so many of them, offering incredible odds and supposedly free bets. In the past six years, since the laws changed, TV betting adverts have increased by 600 per cent, all offering amazingly simple ways to lose money with just one tap on a smartphone.

The one I hate is the ad for BetVictor. The man who has been fronting it, appearing at windows or on roofs, who I assume is Victor, is just so slimy and horrible.

Betting firms are the ultimate football parasites, second in wealth only to kit manufacturers. They have perfected the capitalist’s art of using OPM (Other People’s Money). They’re not directly involved in football – say, in training or managing – yet they make millions off the back of its popularity. Many of the firms are based offshore in Gibraltar.

Football betting is not new. In the Fifties, my job every week at five o’clock was to sit beside my father’s bed, where he lay paralysed with MS, and write down the football results as they were read out on Sports Report. I had not to breathe, make silly remarks or guess the score. By the inflection in the announcer’s voice you could tell if it was an away win.

Earlier in the week I had filled in his Treble Chance on the Littlewoods pools. The “treble” part was because you had three chances: three points if the game you picked was a score draw, two for a goalless draw and one point for a home or away win. You chose eight games and had to reach 24 points, or as near as possible, then you were in the money.

“Not a damn sausage,” my father would say every week, once I’d marked and handed him back his predictions. He never did win a sausage.

Football pools began in the 1920s, the main ones being Littlewoods and Vernons, both based in Liverpool. They gave employment to thousands of bright young women who checked the results and sang in company choirs in their spare time. Each firm spent millions on advertising. In 1935, Littlewoods flew an aeroplane over London with a banner saying: Littlewoods Above All!

Postwar, they blossomed again, taking in £50m a year. The nation stopped at five on a Saturday to hear the scores, whether they were interested in football or not, hoping to get rich. BBC Sports Report began in 1948 with John Webster reading the results. James Alexander Gordon took over in 1974 – a voice soon familiar throughout the land.

These past few decades, football pools have been left behind, old-fashioned, low-tech, replaced by online betting using smartphones. The betting industry has totally rebooted itself. You can bet while the match is still on, trying to predict who will get the next goal, the next corner, the next throw-in. I made the last one up, but in theory you can bet instantly, on anything, at any time.

The soft sell is interesting. With the old football pools, we knew it was a remote flutter, hoping to make some money. Today the ads imply that betting on football somehow enhances the experience, adds to the enjoyment, involves you in the game itself, hence they show lads all together, drinking and laughing and putting on bets.

At the same time, punters are encouraged to do it responsibly. What a laugh that is. It’s like encouraging drunks to get drunk responsibly, to crash our cars responsibly, murder each other responsibly. Responsibly and respect are now two of the most meaningless words in the football language. People have been gambling, in some form, since the beginning, watching two raindrops drip down inside the cave, lying around in Roman bathhouses playing games. All they’ve done is to change the technology. You have to respect that.

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war