Centrica's exit isn't as big a deal as you think

Centrica withdrew from new UK nuclear projects.

Yesterday Centrica announced it would not take a 20 per cent share in the new nuclear power plant planned for Hinkley Point in Somerset. It was the minority partner with EDF, and leaves the France-based utility holding the entire (potentially £6 bn) can.

Centrica pulled out because of uncertainty on cost and schedule. No doubt its decision is a blow for the project to build a 1650 MW EPR pressurised water reactor—for which, by the way, EDF has not made a final investment decision. But there still are lots of reasons to hope that the project will still go ahead.

First, the current adverse market conditions favour nationalised utilities (or vendors) like EDF for nuclear new-build; whether it is Russia in India, Turkey, Belarus or China, or South Korea in the UAE, state-owned developers have the deepest pockets. They need them: unlike gas or coal, nuclear power plants demand most of their costs up front.

And those vendors that are not state-owned but wish to pursue nuclear new-build have had to act like it. In 2011, GE Hitachi proposed being a major investor in a new reactor for Lithuania (although those plans have probably been shot down by a referendum). Its corporate cousin Hitachi has recently come to the UK and is underwriting its pre-construction safety assessment (for now) as the new owner of nuclear new-build venture Horizon, after Germany-based utilities e.on and RWE sold out. They were beset by problems at home: after Fukushima, the German government quickly arranged a phase-out of all nuclear power plants. Over the next decade, their once-profitable assets will have to be written off.

One nuclear new-build vendor who has so far not pledged to take a share of a new-build project is France’s AREVA (79 per cent owned by the French state). However, its role as the principal contractor (with Siemens) for Finland’s Olkiluoto 3 has become tantamount to the same thing. To land the contract for the first non-France EPR, AREVA agreed with client TVO on a fixed-price contract. Subsequent delays and cost overruns have led to litigation with billions at stake.

Second, EDF’s purchase of British Energy in 2008 really only makes sense in the context of the opportunity for new-build. Seven of the eight nuclear power plants it bought at the time were based on obsolete technology whose potential for long-term operation was iffy (although their lifetimes will be extended by seven years in general). Those assets were not worth the £12.5 bn purchase cost. What was worth paying for, according to this idea, was lots of potential for new-build sites. Backing out now would harm the company’s future prospects.

Third, the UK branch of EDF, EDF Energy, has had a good 12 months. Its performance in 2012 was the best for seven years, which means not only cash in the bank but also a hopeful step away from technical faults that have hurt recent performance. Commercial production of the first units of its new 1300 natural gas plant in West Burton, Nottinghamshire started in 2012 and the rest are due to come online later this year. When Centrica joined EDF in new-build, it also put in a 20 per cent stake in EDF Energy’s operating nuclear power fleet. It has not announced plans to pull out of that investment.

The most important development for EDF’s new nuclear ambitions was that its nuclear reactor design was finally approved by the regulator at the end of 2012. Although it will still have to apply for a nuclear construction permit, obtaining design approval has broken the back of one of the biggest sources of nuclear new-build investment risk: the uncertainty caused by regulatory scrutiny. As of right now, the EPR reactor is the only modern nuclear power plant design that can be built in the UK. The Westinghouse AP1000 reactor is next in line; it is waiting for a customer to  finish the review process.

Will Dalrymple is editor of Nuclear Engineering International

Photograph: Getty Images
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In the 1980s, I went to a rally where Labour Party speakers shared the stage with men in balaclavas

The links between the Labour left and Irish republicanism are worth investigating.

A spat between Jeremy Corbyn’s henchfolk and Conor McGinn, the MP for St Helens North, caught my ear the other evening. McGinn was a guest on BBC Radio 4’s Westminster Hour, and he obligingly revisited the brouhaha for the listeners at home. Apparently, following an interview in May, in which McGinn called for Corbyn to “reach out beyond his comfort zone”, he was first threatened obliquely with the sack, then asked for a retraction (which he refused to give) and finally learned – from someone in the whips’ office – that his party leader was considering phoning up McGinn’s father to whip the errant whipper-in into line. On the programme, McGinn said: “The modus operandi that he [Corbyn] and the people around him were trying to do [sic], involving my family, was to isolate and ostracise me from them and from the community I am very proud to come from – which is an Irish nationalist community in south Armagh.”

Needless to say, the Labour leader’s office has continued to deny any such thing, but while we may nurture some suspicions about his behaviour, McGinn was also indulging in a little airbrushing when he described south Armagh as an “Irish ­nationalist community”. In the most recent elections, Newry and Armagh returned three Sinn Fein members to the Northern Ireland Assembly (as against one Social Democratic and Labour Party member) and one Sinn Fein MP to Westminster. When I last looked, Sinn Fein was still a republican, rather than a nationalist, party – something that McGinn should only be too well aware of, as the paternal hand that was putatively to have been lain on him belongs to Pat McGinn, the former Sinn Fein mayor of Newry and Armagh.

According to the Irish News, a “close friend” of the McGinns poured this cold water on the mini-conflagration: “Anybody who knows the McGinn family knows that Pat is very proud of Conor and that they remain very close.” The friend went on to opine: “He [Pat McGinn] found the whole notion of Corbyn phoning him totally ridiculous – as if Pat is going to criticise his son to save Jeremy Corbyn’s face. They would laugh about it were it not so sinister.”

“Sinister” does seem the mot juste. McGinn, Jr grew up in Bessbrook during the Troubles. I visited the village in the early 1990s on assignment. The skies were full of the chattering of British army Chinooks, and there were fake road signs in the hedgerows bearing pictograms of rifles and captioned: “Sniper at work”. South Armagh had been known for years as “bandit country”. There were army watchtowers standing sentinel in the dinky, green fields and checkpoints everywhere, manned by some of the thousands of the troops who had been deployed to fight what was, in effect, a low-level counter-insurgency war. Nationalist community, my foot.

What lies beneath the Corbyn-McGinn spat is the queered problematics of the ­relationship between the far left wing of the Labour Party and physical-force Irish republicanism. I also recall, during the hunger strikes of the early 1980s, going to a “Smash the H-Blocks” rally in Kilburn, north London, at which Labour Party speakers shared the stage with representatives from Sinn Fein, some of whom wore balaclavas and dark glasses to evade the telephoto lenses of the Met’s anti-terrorist squad.

The shape-shifting relationship between the “political wing” of the IRA and the men with sniper rifles in the south Armagh bocage was always of the essence of the conflict, allowing both sides a convenient fiction around which to posture publicly and privately negotiate. In choosing to appear on platforms with people who might or might not be terrorists, Labour leftists also sprinkled a little of their stardust on themselves: the “stardust” being the implication that they, too, under the right circumstances, might be capable of violence in pursuit of their political ends.

On the far right of British politics, Her Majesty’s Government and its apparatus are referred to derisively as “state”. There were various attempts in the 1970s and 1980s by far-right groupuscules to link up with the Ulster Freedom Fighters and other loyalist paramilitary organisations in their battle against “state”. All foundered on the obvious incompetence of the fascists. The situation on the far left was different. The socialist credentials of Sinn Fein/IRA were too threadbare for genuine expressions of solidarity, but there was a sort of tacit confidence-and-supply arrangement between these factions. The Labour far left provided the republicans with the confidence that, should an appropriately radical government be elected to Westminster, “state” would withdraw from Northern Ireland. What the republicans did for the mainland militants was to cloak them in their penumbra of darkness: without needing to call down on themselves the armed might of “state”, they could imply that they were willing to take it on, should the opportunity arise.

I don’t for a second believe that Corbyn was summoning up these ghosts of the insurrectionary dead when he either did or did not threaten to phone McGinn, Sr. But his supporters need to ask themselves what they’re getting into. Their leader, if he was to have remained true to the positions that he has espoused over many years, should have refused to sit as privy counsellor upon assuming his party office, and refused all the other mummery associated with the monarchical “state”. That he didn’t do so was surely a strategic decision. Such a position would make him utterly unelectable.

The snipers may not be at work in south Armagh just now – but there are rifles out there that could yet be dug up. I wouldn’t be surprised if some in Sinn Fein knew where they are, but one thing’s for certain: Corbyn hasn’t got a clue, bloody or otherwise. 

Will Self is an author and journalist. His books include Umbrella, Shark, The Book of Dave and The Butt. He writes the Madness of Crowds and Real Meals columns for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 25 August 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Cameron: the legacy of a loser