Why do we let protesters dictate energy policy?

Cuadrilla withdraws from oil expansion in West Sussex.

The activists have won. For now. UK based energy firm Cuadrilla announced last night it is to withdraw from its oil exploration in the village of Balcome in West Sussex.

The firm said that the move is based on police advice due to fears that the protesters would soon embark on a campaign of mass civil disobedience at the heavily fortified site.

Cuadrilla has been drilling for oil in the village but has yet to use the controversial fracking technique the No Dash for Gas group are fighting against.

The move to pull out of the site follows a piece by David Cameron in the Telegraph this week urging the country to get behind fracking operations in the UK not just in the desolate north as Tory peer Lord Howell claimed last month.

In the piece, Cameron talks of the cost of bills, the creation of jobs, the money the work will bring to the local neighbourhoods and finally the minimum damage to our countryside, not once mentioning the larger effects the work will have on the environment, outside that which directly affects the human population and over what timescale.

Though the firm has decided to suspend operations for the time being it will has said it will begin drilling for oil as soon as it is safe to do so, betting that protesters will quickly loose interest while there is no work going on.

But while the protesters have managed to get operations suspended for now, is the way they’ve gone about it helping their cause?

When a firm cites reasons of safety for the temporary end to operations in an industry which, more often than not, works in conditions far less safe than the English countryside you do have to wonder whether the campaigner’s means are justifying the end.

It is headline grabbing, sure, and it is entirely possible that people (especially the papers) would not have the same reaction to the issue without the civil disobedience that so often comes with a large scale protest. But on issues which are far less than black and white, such as that of renewable energy and climate change, should we allow protesters to intimidate and restrict legal operations when the far less harmful and threatening channels of protest remain open to them?

A protest sign in West Sussex. Photograph: Getty Images

Billy Bambrough writes for Retail Banker International at VRL financial news.
 

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She knew every trick to get a home visit – but this time I had come prepared

 Having been conned into another couple of fruitless house calls, I now parry the proffered symptoms and generally get to the heart of the matter on the phone.

I first came across Verenice a couple of years ago when I was on duty at the out-of-hours service.

“I’m a diabetic,” she told me, “and I’m feeling really poorly.” She detailed a litany of symptoms. I said I’d be round straight away.

What sounded worrying on the phone proved very different in Verenice’s smoke-fugged sitting room. She was comfortable and chatty, she had no fever or sign of illness, and her blood sugar was well controlled. In fact, she looked remarkably well. As I tried to draw the visit to a close, she began to regale me with complaints about her own GP: how he neglected her needs, dismissed her symptoms, refused to take her calls.

It sounded unlikely, but I listened sympathetically and with an open mind. Bit by bit, other professionals were brought into the frame: persecutory social workers, vindictive housing officers, corrupt policemen, and a particularly odious psychiatrist who’d had her locked up in hospital for months and had recently discharged her to live in this new, hateful bungalow.

By the time she had told me about her sit-in at the local newspaper’s offices – to try to force reporters to cover her story – and described her attempts to get arrested so that she could go to court and tell a judge about the whole saga, it was clear Verenice wasn’t interacting with the world in quite the same way as the rest of us.

It’s a delicate path to tread, extricating oneself from such a situation. The mental health issues could safely be left to her usual daytime team to follow up, so my task was to get out of the door without further inflaming the perceptions of neglect and maltreatment. It didn’t go too well to start with. Her voice got louder and louder: was I, too, going to do nothing to help? Couldn’t I see she was really ill? I’d be sorry when she didn’t wake up the next morning.

What worked fantastically was asking her what she actually wanted me to do. Her first stab – to get her rehoused to her old area as an emergency that evening – was so beyond the plausible that even she seemed able to accept my protestations of impotence. When I asked her again, suddenly all the heat went out of her voice. She said she didn’t think she had any food; could I get her something to eat? A swift check revealed a fridge and cupboards stocked with the basics. I gave her some menu suggestions, but drew the line at preparing the meal myself. By then, she seemed meekly willing to allow me to go.

We’ve had many out-of-hours conversations since. For all her strangeness, she is wily, and knows the medical gambits to play in order to trigger a home visit. Having been conned into another couple of fruitless house calls, I now parry the proffered symptoms and generally get to the heart of the matter on the phone. It usually revolves around food. Could I bring some bread and milk? She’s got no phone credit left; could I call the Chinese and order her a home delivery?

She came up on the screen again recently. I rang, and she spoke of excruciating ear pain, discharge and fever. I sighed, accepting defeat: with that story I’d no choice but to go round. Acting on an inkling, though, I popped to the drug cupboard first.

Predictably enough, when I arrived at Verenice’s I found her smiling away and puffing on a Benson, with a normal temperature, pristine ears and perfect blood glucose.

“Well,” I said, “whatever’s causing your ear to hurt is a medical mystery. Take some paracetamol and I’m sure it’ll be fine in the morning.”

There was a flash of triumph in her eyes. “Ah, but doctor, I haven’t got any. Could you –”

Before she could finish, I produced a pack of paracetamol from my pocket and dropped it on her lap. She looked at me with surprise and admiration. She may have suckered me round again, but I’d managed to second-guess her. I was back out of the door in under five minutes. A score-draw. 

Phil Whitaker is a GP and an award-winning author. His fifth novel, “Sister Sebastian’s Library”, will be published by Salt in September

This article first appeared in the 23 June 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Divided Britain