Treat with extreme caution

Homoeopathic medicine is founded on a bogus philosophy. Its continued use is a drain on NHS resource

Two years ago, a loose coalition of like-minded scientists wrote an open letter to chief executives of the National Health Service Trusts. The signatories simply stated that homoeopathy and other alternative therapies were unproven, and that the NHS should reserve its funds for treatments that had been shown to work. The letter marked an extraordinary downturn in the fortunes of homoeopathy in the UK over the following year, because the overwhelming majority of trusts either stopped sending patients to the four homoeopathic hospitals, or introduced measures to strictly limit referrals.

Consequently, the future of these hospitals is now in doubt. The Tunbridge Wells Homoeopathic Hospital is set to close next year and the Royal London Homoeopathic Hospital is likely to follow in its wake. Homoeo paths are now so worried about the collapse of their flagship hospitals that they are organising a march to deliver a petition to Downing Street on 22 June. Local campaign groups are being formed and patients are being urged to sign the petition.

Homoeopaths believe that the medical Establishment is crushing a valuable healing tradition that dates back more than two centuries and that still has much to offer patients. Homoeopaths are certainly passionate about the benefits of their treatment, but are their claims valid, or are they misguidedly promoting a bogus philosophy?

This is a question that I have been considering for the past two years, ever since I began co-authoring a book on the subject of alternative medicine with Professor Edzard Ernst. He was one of the signatories of the letter to the NHS trusts and is the world's first professor of complementary medicine. Before I present our conclusion, it is worth remembering why homoeo pathy has always existed beyond the borders of mainstream medicine.

Homoeopathy relies on two key principles, namely that like cures like, and that smaller doses deliver more powerful effects. In other words, if onions cause our eyes to stream, then a homoeopathic pill made from onion juice might be a potential cure for the eye irritation caused by hay fever. Crucially, the onion juice would need to be diluted repeatedly to produce the pill that can be administered to the patient, as homoeopaths believe that less is more.

Initially, this sounds attractive, and not dissimilar to the principle of vaccination, whereby a small amount of virus can be used to protect patients from viral infection. However, doctors use the principle of like cures like very selectively, whereas homoeopaths use it universally. Moreover, a vaccination always contains a measurable amount of active ingredient, whereas homoeopathic remedies are usually so dilute that they contain no active ingredient whatsoever.

A pill that contains no medicine is unlikely to be effective, but millions of patients swear by this treatment. From a scientific point of view, the obvious explanation is that any perceived benefit is purely a result of the placebo effect, because it is well established that any patient who believes in a remedy is likely to experience some improvement in their condition due to the psychological impact. Homoeopaths disagree, and claim that a "memory" of the homoeopathic ingredient has a profound physiological effect on the patient. So the key question is straightforward: is homoeopathy more than just a placebo treatment?

Fortunately, medical researchers have conducted more than 200 clinical trials to investigate the impact of homoeopathy on a whole range of conditions. Typically, one group of patients is given homoeopathic remedies and another group is given a known placebo, such as a sugar pill. Researchers then examine whether or not the homoeopathic group improves on average more than the placebo group. The overall conclusion from all this research is that homoeopathic remedies are indeed mere placebos.

In other words, their benefit is based on nothing more than wishful thinking. The latest and most definitive overview of the evidence was published in the Lancet in 2005 and was accompanied by an editorial entitled "The end of homoeopathy". It argued that ". . . doctors need to be bold and honest with their patients about homoeopathy's lack of benefit".

An unsound investment

However, even if homoeopathy is a placebo treatment, anybody working in health care will readily admit that the placebo effect can be a very powerful force for good. Therefore, it could be argued that homoeopaths should be allowed to flourish as they administer placebos that clearly appeal to patients. Despite the undoubted benefits of the placebo effect, however, there are numerous reasons why it is unjustifiable for the NHS to invest in homoeopathy.

First, it is important to recognise that money spent on homoeopathy means a lack of investment elsewhere in the NHS. It is estimated that the NHS spends £500m annually on alternative therapies, but instead of spending this money on unproven or disproven therapies it could be used to pay for 20,000 more nurses. Another way to appreciate the sum of money involved is to consider the recent refurbishment of the Royal Homoeopathic Hospital in London, which was completed in 2005 and cost £20m. The hospital is part of the University College London Hospitals NHS Foundation Trust, which contributed £10m to the refurbishment, even though it had to admit a deficit of £17.4m at the end of 2005. In other words, most of the overspend could have been avoided if the Trust had not spent so much money on refurbishing the spiritual home of homoeopathy.

Second, the placebo effect is real, but it can lull patients into a false sense of security by improving their sense of well-being without actually treating the underlying conditions. This might be all right for patients suffering from a cold or flu, which should clear up given time, but for more severe illnesses, homoeopathic treatment could lead to severe long-term problems. Because those who administer homoeopathic treatment are outside of conventional medicine and therefore largely unmonitored, it is impos sible to prove the damage caused by placebo. Never theless, there is plenty of anecdotal evidence to support this claim.

For example, in 2003 Professor Ernst was working with homoeopaths who were taking part in a study to see if they could treat asthma. Unknown to the professor or any of the other researchers, one of the homoeopaths had a brown spot on her arm, which was growing in size and changing in colour. Convinced that homoeopathy was genuinely effective, the homoeopath decided to treat it herself using her own remedies. Buoyed by the placebo effect, she continued her treatment for months, but the spot turned out to be a malignant melanoma. While she was still in the middle of treating asthma patients, the homoeopath died. Had she sought conventional treatment at an early stage, there would have been a 90 per cent chance that she would have survived for five years or more. By relying on homoeopathy, she had condemned herself to an inevitably early death.

The third problem is that anybody who is aware of the vast body of research and who still advises homoeopathy is misleading patients. In order to evoke the placebo effect, the patient has to be fooled into believing that homoeopathy is effective. In fact, bigger lies encourage bigger patient expectations and trigger bigger placebo effects, so exploiting the benefits of homoeopathy to the full would require homoeopaths to deliver the most fantastical justifications imaginable.

Over the past half-century, the trend has been towards a more open and honest relationship between doctor and patient, so homoeopaths who mislead patients flagrantly disregard ethical standards. Of course, many homoeopaths may be unaware of or may choose to disregard the vast body of scientific evidence against homoeo pathy, but arrogance and ignorance in health care are also unforgivable sins.

If it is justifiable for the manufacturers of homoeopathic remedies in effect to lie about the efficacy of their useless products in order to evoke a placebo benefit, then maybe the pharmaceutical companies could fairly argue that they ought to be allowed to sell sugar pills at high prices on the basis of the placebo effect as well. This would undermine the requirement for rigorous testing of drugs before they go on sale.

A fourth reason for spurning placebo-based medicines is that patients who use them for relatively mild conditions can later be led into dangerously inappropriate use of the same treatments. Imagine a patient with back pain who is referred to a homoeopath and who receives a moderate, short-term placebo effect. This might impress the patient, who then returns to the homoeopath for other advice. For example, it is known that homoeopaths offer alternatives to conventional vaccination - a 2002 survey of homoeopaths showed that only 3 per cent of them advised parents to give their baby the MMR vaccine. Hence, directing patients towards homoeo paths for back pain could encourage those patients not to have their children vaccinated against potentially dangerous diseases.

Killer cures

Such advice and treatment is irresponsible and dangerous. When I asked a young student to approach homoeopaths for advice on malaria prevention in 2006, ten out of ten homoeopaths were willing to sell their own remedies instead of telling the student to seek out expert advice and take the necessary drugs.

The student had explained that she would be spending ten weeks in West Africa; we had decided on this backstory because this region has the deadliest strain of malaria, which can kill within three days. Nevertheless, homoeopaths were willing to sell remedies that contained no active ingredient. Apparently, it was the memory of the ingredient that would protect the student, or, as one homoeopath put it: "The remedies should lower your susceptibility; because what they do is they make it so your energy - your living energy - doesn't have a kind of malaria-shaped hole in it. The malarial mosquitoes won't come along and fill that in. The remedies sort it out."

The homoeopathic industry likes to present itself as a caring, patient-centred alternative to conventional medicine, but in truth it offers disproven remedies and often makes scandalous and reckless claims. On World Aids Day 2007, the Society of Homoeopaths, which represents professional homoeopaths in the UK, organised an HIV/Aids symposium that promoted the outlandish ambitions of several speakers. For example, describing Harry van der Zee, editor of the International Journal for Classical Homoeo pathy, the society wrote: "Harry believes that, using the PC1 remedy, the Aids epidemic can be called to a halt, and that homoeopaths are the ones to do it."

There is one final reason for rejecting placebo-based medicines, perhaps the most important of all, which is that we do not actually need placebos to benefit from the placebo effect. A patient receiving proven treatments already receives the placebo effect, so to offer homoeopathy instead - which delivers only the placebo effect - would simply short-change the patient.

I do not expect that practising homoeopaths will accept any of my arguments above, because they are based on scientific evidence showing that homoeopathy is nothing more than a placebo. Even though this evidence is now indisputable, homoeopaths have, understandably, not shown any enthusiasm to acknowledge it.

For now, their campaign continues. Although it has not been updated for a while, the campaign website currently states that its petition has received only 382 signatures on paper, which means that there's a long way to go to reach the target of 250,000. But, of course, one of the central principles of homoeopathy is that less is more. Hence, in this case, a very small number of signatures may prove to be very effective. In fact, perhaps the Society of Homoeopaths should urge people to withdraw their names from the list, so that nobody at all signs the petition. Surely this would make it incredibly powerful and guaranteed to be effective.

"Trick or Treatment? Alternative Medicine on Trial" (Bantam Press, £16.99) by Simon Singh and Edzard Ernst is published on 21 April

Homoeopathy by numbers

3,000 registered homoeopaths in the UK

1 in 3 British people use alternative therapies such as homoeopathy

42% of GPs refer patients to homoeopaths

0 molecules of an active ingredient in a typical "30c" homoeopathic solution

$1m reward offered by James Randi for proof that homoeopathy works

This article first appeared in the 21 April 2008 issue of the New Statesman, Food crisis

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The last days of the Big K

Kellingley Colliery helped keep Britain’s lights on. But now, as the once mighty coal industry dies, the last deep mine in the country is closing.

The last deep coal mine in Britain is an arresting sight – a sprawling tangle of towers, conveyor belts, processing sheds, railway lines and “muck heaps”, as its mountains of grey-black slag are known in Yorkshire. It is called “the Big K”, and with reason. Kellingley is one of Europe’s largest mines, producing two million tonnes of coal a year. It sits on tens of millions of tonnes of reserves. Its two shafts descend 2,600 feet beneath the surface, and so much coal has been extracted since it opened in 1965 that from the bottom of those shafts miners must now travel six miles, on small battery-powered trains and then conveyor belts, to reach the face. There they labour round the clock, in intense humidity and temperatures that reach 90 degrees Fahrenheit.

Each day, Kellingley despatches three or four trainloads of coal 12 miles to Drax, which is Britain’s biggest coal-fired power station and generates about 7 per cent of the UK’s electricity. For decades Kellingley also supplied huge amounts of coal to Ferrybridge power station, just three miles away in West Yorkshire. It has, in short, helped to keep the country lit and heated – but not for much longer.

Drax has converted three of its six generators to biomass, importing six million tonnes of wood pellets from North America each year to run them, and plans to convert a fourth. In recent years Ferrybridge has increasingly used imported coal, which is cleaner and cheaper than Kellingley’s despite being shipped several thousand miles. In any case, Ferrybridge is closing next year as part of a government drive to shut down all of Britain’s 12 remaining coal-fired power stations within 15 years and halve greenhouse-gas emissions by 2025.

As the market withers, Kellingley is being closed by its owner, UK Coal, the successor company to RJB Mining, which bought most of Britain’s surviving coal mines when the industry was privatised in 1994. The colliery’s giant underground shearing machines will cease operation just before Christmas. The mine buildings will be razed, its shafts and labyrinthine tunnels sealed, and its memorial to the 17 miners who lost their lives at Kellingley over the past half-century moved to the National Coal Mining Museum in Overton, near Wakefield. Except for a few remaining surface mines, an industry that has done so much to shape Britain, for better or worse, will finally die.

By the time the last shift finishes at Kellingley, about 700 miners will have lost their jobs there. They are angry and bewildered. The mine is modern and productive, and they have fought to keep it open. They attempted a buyout, each offering to contribute £2,000 and to take a 10 per cent wage cut. They lobbied MPs, marched through Westminster, even invited the cast of Pride – the film about gay and lesbian activists helping Welsh miners during the 1984-85 strike – to join a demonstration outside the pit. They do not accept that coal has had its day, though it is by far the “dirtiest” source of energy. They believe an industry long synonymous with socialism and working-class struggle is being closed for political as much as economic or environmental reasons. Chris Kitchen, the secretary of the rump National Union of Mineworkers, described it to me as “a vindictive act”.

The sense of betrayal spans generations. Stanley Gilliland, 67, began working at Kellingley when it first opened and he was 16. He lost his left leg in an underground accident in 1974 but stayed on and became the pit’s longest-serving employee. He left in the first batch of redundancies in July with a cheque for just £14,250, and not a handshake or word of thanks for his 51 years of service from the management of UK Coal. “Coal was my livelihood. It was our lives and the country’s lifeblood, and now it’s gone and it’s not coming back,” he said.

Lee Gent, 26, will hold the dubious distinction of being the last underground miner the industry ever employed. The son and grandson of miners, he was one of nine apprentices taken on at Kellingley in January 2014. “They promised us a career,” he said. “The job was quality. It were ace. I’ve never felt euphoria like it.”

When he heard the pit was closing he was distraught. “The best opportunity of my life was given to me in one hand and snatched out of the other. It were the best and worst thing that ever happened to me . . . There’s no future in mining. They’ve made sure of that. It’s a dying shame.”


Deep coal mining in Britain dates back to Tudor times. In the 18th and 19th centuries it powered the Industrial Revolution, providing the fuel for the nation’s steam engines, ironworks, railways and factories. The industry peaked during the arms race before the First World War, with 3,024 mines employing 1.1 million people and producing 292 million tonnes of coal in 1913. (During the fighting, miners were used to tunnel under German lines and blow them up.) In the Second World War coal was so vital to the war effort that miners were banned from joining the armed forces, and Ernest Bevin, the wartime minister of labour, conscripted 48,000 “Bevin Boys” to keep the industry going.

It was filthy work. In The Road to Wigan Pier (1937), George Orwell described miners as “poor drudges underground, blackened to the eyes, with their throats full of coal dust, driving their shovels forward with arms and belly muscles of steel”. As late as the mid-20th century nearly 10 per cent of miners in Britain suffered from pneumoconiosis or “black lung” disease.

It was also uniquely dangerous, with at least 164,000 miners losing their lives in the pits since 1700. Explosions killed 361 men and boys at the Oaks pit near Barnsley in 1866, 295 at the Albion Colliery in Glamorgan in 1894 and 439 at Senghenydd in Glamorgan in 1914. Women and children under the age of ten were not banned from working in mines until 1842. Two shafts became mandatory only after a fallen beam blocked the single shaft at the Hartley Colliery in Northumberland in 1862, killing 204 men and boys. Mining deaths did not fall below a thousand a year until well into the 20th century: 1,297 were killed and 20,000 injured in 1923 alone.

The General Strike of 1926 was called to oppose wage cuts and deteriorating conditions in the coal industry, but it was only after hundreds of privately owned mines were nationalised in 1947 that the newly formed NUM became a force in the land and the miners’ lot improved markedly. At that point “King Coal” supplied 90 per cent of Britain’s energy needs.

In January 1972 the NUM called the first national miners’ strike since 1926 and won a substantial pay increase from Edward Heath’s Tory government. The turning point was the so-called Battle of Saltley Gate, where Arthur Scargill, a young NUM official from Barnsley, persuaded 30,000 Birmingham factory engineers to march on the Saltley coke works and force its closure. “Here was the living proof that the working class had only to flex its muscles and it could bring governments, employers, society to a total standstill,” Scargill boasted.

Two years later another protracted miners’ strike reduced the country to a three-day working week. Heath called a general election on the issue of “Who governs Britain?” and lost. Harold Wilson’s new Labour government swiftly awarded the men a 35 per cent pay rise, and roughly the same again the following year. The miners became the best-paid and most powerful of all industrial workers in Britain – but Margaret Thatcher, the next Conservative leader, had taken note.

The great strike of 1984-85 was triggered by a plan to close 20 unprofitable pits with the loss of 20,000 jobs, but Scargill, by then the NUM’s president, played into the government’s hands by launching it in the spring, when demand for coal was falling. He failed to call a national ballot, splitting the union and undermining the strike’s legitimacy. He used flying pickets to try to force Nottinghamshire’s working miners into line, but merely hardened their resolve. He sought funds from the Soviet Union and Colonel Gaddafi’s Libya. He rejected compromise solutions despite the extreme suffering of the striking miners and their families. It was the most bitter industrial dispute in British history. Riot police fought running battles with armies of pickets seeking to stop “scabs” working. Thousands of miners were arrested and injured. Families and communities were sundered. Thatcher labelled the miners “the enemy within”. But the year-long action ended in abject defeat: the NUM was a spent force, powerless to resist the subsequent destruction of the coal industry. “The NUM and mining industry were seen as part of the socialist movement, in direct conflict with capitalism, and had to be destroyed and defeated at any cost,” said Chris Kitchen, the NUM secretary.

Immediately before the strike, there were 170 mines employing 148,000 workers and producing 120 million tonnes of coal. By the time the Tories privatised the industry a decade later, there were roughly 30 mines, employing 7,000 workers and producing 50 million tonnes. This year just three deep mines remained, but Hatfield in Yorkshire and Thoresby in Nottinghamshire closed in the summer. With so many other sources of energy available – oil, gas, nuclear, wind, solar and biomass – coal now produces barely a quarter of Britain’s power. And of the 48 million tonnes of coal consumed last year, 42 million were imported, mainly from Russia, the United States and Colombia.

The NUM, which once boasted half a million members, has just 800 left, including ten full-time employees. The fine stone building in Barnsley that serves as the union’s headquarters is like a morgue. During the two hours I spent there one recent afternoon I saw no other visitors and heard not a single telephone ring.

The caretaker – Kitchen’s son – showed me the magnificent council chamber with its oak panelling, stained-glass windows and ornate arched ceiling. It has become a veritable museum, a monument to the union’s glory days. Friezes show miners in heroic poses. Huge, colourful banners, each the size of a bedspread, bear slogans proclaiming that “Unity is Strength” and “The Past We Inherit. The Future We Build”. Kellingley’s banner shows a miner throttling a snake labelled “Capitalism”, above the words “Only the Strong Survive”.

It was not just the mining industry that collapsed after the 1984-85 strike. So did the entire socialist vision of working-class struggle and solidarity, trumped by the Thatcherite principles of entrepreneurialism, individualism and free-market economics that even Tony Blair embraced.

Today, miners remain deeply divided about the strike. Kitchen believes it probably slowed the government’s mine closure programme. Others argue that it accelerated the industry’s demise. “We believed everything Scargill said. It was a massive mistake . . . We imploded. We collapsed during that 12-month period,” Stanley Gilliland, the veteran Kellingley miner, said. “We’re left with total capitalism. We’ve managed to make ‘socialism’ a dirty word.”

I wondered what Scargill thought. He and the NUM fell out long ago, not least over the union’s refusal to pay the £34,000 annual cost of maintaining his flat in the Barbican, in London, for the rest of his life, so I decided to visit his home on the outskirts of Worsbrough, near Barnsley.

Now 77 and divorced, Scargill lives down a country lane in a large, isolated stone house ringed by trees, secured with lights and cameras, and overshadowed by the raised bank of the M1 motorway. The property reeked of neglect. The lawns were overgrown, the paintwork was flaking off the window frames and the blinds were down. The knocker was shaped like a miner’s lamp. Scargill opened the door himself, a ghost from the past half hidden by the gloom within.

Could we talk? “I have a lot of work to do,” he replied, amiably enough. How did he feel about the closure of Britain’s last deep mine, I persisted. “Ask the NUM officials,” he said, implying that they should have fought harder. But this was what he had predicted, I observed. Did he feel vindicated? Scargill said nothing.


Thirty years ago there were collieries all over South Yorkshire, linked by a spider’s web of railway lines. Today scarcely a trace of them remains. Their sites are covered by retail and industrial parks, warehouses and distribution centres, few of which actually manufacture anything. The “muck heaps” have been bulldozed and turned into country parks, or housing estates for commuters on streets with names such as “Colliers Way” or “Engine Lane”. Where mine-shaft headgears and winding wheels once towered above the countryside wind turbines now stand – the power of the future replacing the power of the past. “They put them up to rile us,” Keith Hartshorne, a Kellingley NUM delegate, told me. “But we laugh when they’re not turning.”

Look hard and you can find the occasional memorial, like the one in South Elmsall, where Frickley Colliery closed after 90 years in 1993. “Out of these depths this village grows,” it proclaims. A few brass bands survive, but not one member of the celebrated, century-old Grimethorpe Colliery Band lives in that village or worked in its mine. Miners’ lamps and “checks” – the brass discs they would leave by the shafts to show they had gone underground – have become collectors’ pieces. Schoolchildren visiting the National Coal Mining Museum “don’t even know what coal is”, Darran Cowd, its collections officer, said.

Despite the huge amounts of EU money pumped into South Yorkshire to rebuild its economy after the pit closures of the 1990s, the mining villages are mostly depressed, run-down places with shuttered shops, closed pubs and neglected colliery sports grounds. The camaraderie and community spirit born of shared danger and hardship have largely gone. Where the ’stute – the Miners’ Institute – once stood in Grimethorpe, now there is just a rubble-strewn wasteland next to an overgrown field that used to be the bowling green. In Goldthorpe, whose pit closed in 1994, a three-bedroom terraced house, or “back-to-back”, fetches barely £50,000. Of South Elmsall an old miner said: “It’s died a death.”

The warehouses and distribution centres employ dozens of people, not the hundreds or thousands that worked in the mines, and at far lower salaries. Younger miners who lost their jobs in the 1990s mostly found work elsewhere, but not the older ones. They live on their pensions or benefits. You find them on their allotments, walking dogs, standing on street corners, or drinking, perhaps, in the Rusty Dudley pub on Goldthorpe’s high street on weekday mornings. When Thatcher died in 2013 they burned her effigy.


It is hard not to feel sympathy for Kellingley’s miners as they face a similarly bleak future. They are proud, hard-working men; a fading photo in the NUM’s pit office shows them posing as European champions in 1986 after producing 40,094 tonnes of coal in a single week. Most went down the mine straight from school and spent twenty, thirty or forty years producing a commodity that the country used to value. They believed they had jobs for life.

Lee Gent, the 26-year-old apprentice hired last year, is fortunate to have found a job with a steel company. His older colleagues may never work again – or if they do it will likely be in a minimum-wage job in some service industry.

“I’ve never been for an interview before and I’m 50 . . . I’m dreading the future,” said one miner, as he sat in the pit’s almost deserted canteen. Another said: “All the skills we’ve accrued are obsolete. We’re like fish out of water.”

Their jobs have been destroyed not just by the drive for clean energy and cheap imported coal but also, the miners claim, by the government’s refusal to help their industry. They argue that Britain is sitting on three billion tonnes of coal that could fuel the country for generations, reducing its dependence on foreign oil and gas, the vagaries of wind and sun, and Chinese-financed nuclear power. “The country will pay for this mistake,” Keith Poulson, the pit’s NUM secretary, said.

Union officials complain that although nuclear and renewable energies are heavily subsidised, coal-fired power stations are taxed £18 for every tonne of carbon dioxide they produce. They insist that they could compete with foreign coal if Russian and Colombian mines had to adopt proper safety standards and pay decent wages. “We can compete if it’s a level playing field,” Chris Kitchen says.

Above all, they insist that coal could be rendered as clean as any other form of energy if the government more aggressively pursued carbon capture and storage (CCS), a technology that can remove 90 per cent of coal’s harmful emissions. It has allocated £1bn for the purpose, and is funding two pilot projects, but too late to save Kellingley. Britain’s last deep mine will shut long before CCS becomes a viable commercial proposition. UK Coal, which refused to give interviews or allow access to Kellingley for this article, will presumably have ceased to exist, leaving its sister company, the property developer Harworth Estates, to exploit the pit’s huge and valuable site hard by the A1 and M62.

The NUM’s future is uncertain: some members want to wind it up and divvy out its £11m of assets, but Kitchen argues that it should continue as long as it can serve former miners and their widows. The more immediate issue is how Kellingley’s miners should mark the death of their industry in December. Some simply want to walk away after the last shift, allowing the media no chance to gawp. “Personally, I wouldn’t give them the fucking pleasure,” Poulson said.

Kitchen favours brass bands, banners and a final display of pride and solidarity. “We’ve fought nature to do this job. We’ve fought adversity and harsh conditions. We’ve fought governments and economic pressures, and I don’t think anybody should be ashamed of what we’ve done,” he said. “I think every miner has earned the right to walk out with his head held high.”

Martin Fletcher is a former foreign editor of the Times

This article first appeared in the 05 November 2015 issue of the New Statesman, The end of Europe