Blame our boom years for today's energy price news

Things get "tight and uncomfortable".

“Life could get very tight and uncomfortable around 2015 to 2018”, said Ofgem’s departing chief executive, Alistair Buchanan to the BBC’s Today Programme this morning.

The “tight and uncomfortable” refers to new energy price rises forecast amid power station closures. Coal is, in Buchanan’s words, “coming off the bars now” and nuclear and renewable sources are still in their infancy. So, in another breath of optimism, Buchanan explains: “We’re going to have to go shopping for gas in world markets... which briefly will be tight themselves, so we’ll have a double squeeze”. Again he emphasises, “Prices are going to get quite squeezy as supply and demand converge”.

Words like “uncomfortable” and “squeezy” from an influential figure like Buchanan are worrying. Although nobody yet knows quite how harsh these price rises will be, there is one certainty – this is unwelcome news.

For once, though, these unwelcome bills are not Coalition policy, they are the direct result of our boom years. International emissions agreements signed between 2004 and 2008, right before what Buchanan labels the “financial tsunami”, take most of the blame. While environmental policy, not the economy was headlining political rhetoric and green protests, not occupy movements were plaguing London’s streets, deals were made to cap emissions. These good intentions have now come back to haunt us as coal power stations are forced to close earlier than expected, and our reliance on gas doubles from 30 to 60 per cent.    

Allocating blame to the past eases the pain. Decisions have been made and we must live by the consequences. But the effects are only short-term: once our wind turbines start spinning, wave hubs start floating and nuclear power plants start...humming, we will surely be back in the black.

Photograph: Getty Images

Oliver Williams is an analyst at WealthInsight and writes for VRL Financial News

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As the strangers approach the bed, I wonder if this could be a moment of great gentleness

I don’t know what to do. In my old T-shirt and M&S pants, I don’t know what to do.

It’s 1.13am on an autumn morning some time towards the end of the 20th century and I’m awake in a vast hotel bed in a small town in the east of England. The mysterious east, with its horizons that seem to stretch further than they should be allowed to stretch by law. I can’t sleep. My asthma is bad and I’m wheezing. The clock I bought for £3 many years earlier ticks my life away with its long, slow music. The street light outside makes the room glow and shimmer.

I can hear footsteps coming down the corridor – some returning drunks, I guess, wrecked on the reef of a night on the town. I gaze at the ceiling, waiting for the footsteps to pass.

They don’t pass. They stop outside my door. I can hear whispering and suppressed laughter. My clock ticks. I hear a key card being presented, then withdrawn. The door opens slowly, creaking like a door on a Radio 4 play might. The whispering susurrates like leaves on a tree.

It’s an odd intrusion, this, as though somebody is clambering into your shirt, taking their time. A hotel room is your space, your personal kingdom. I’ve thrown my socks on the floor and my toothbrush is almost bald in the bathroom even though there’s a new one in my bag because I thought I would be alone in my intimacy.

Two figures enter. A man and a woman make their way towards the bed. In the half-dark, I can recognise the man as the one who checked me in earlier. He says, “It’s all right, there’s nobody in here,” and the woman laughs like he has just told her a joke.

This is a moment. I feel like I’m in a film. It’s not like being burgled because this isn’t my house and I’m sure they don’t mean me any harm. In fact, they mean each other the opposite.

Surely they can hear my clock dripping seconds? Surely they can hear me wheezing?

They approach, closer and closer, towards the bed. The room isn’t huge but it seems to be taking them ages to cross it. I don’t know what to do. In my old T-shirt and M&S pants, I don’t know what to do. I should speak. I should say with authority, “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” But I don’t.

I could just lie here, as still as a book, and let them get in. It could be a moment of great gentleness, a moment between strangers. I would be like a chubby, wheezing Yorkshire pillow between them. I could be a metaphor for something timeless and unspoken.

They get closer. The woman reaches her hand across the bed and she touches the man’s hand in a gesture of tenderness so fragile that it almost makes me sob.

I sit up and shout, “Bugger off!” and they turn and run, almost knocking my clock from the bedside table. The door crashes shut shakily and the room seems to reverberate.

This article first appeared in the 12 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's revenge