To fix our broken energy market, we need Help to Supply

The government should do more to help communities, local authorities and businesses not only produce but supply their own power.

The Help to Buy scheme has so far attracted 6,000 applicants in just two months, and has already enabled nearly 750 people to climb onto the property ladder: another step towards encouraging a "property-owning democracy" and securing assets for individuals and families. Great. But there is a much more radical shift waiting to happen in the energy retail market, and a far greater opportunity to facilitate widespread ownership, not only among individuals, but communities and businesses too. We have heard so much about the need to encourage diversity and competition beyond the "big six", yet seen little by way of policies to put this into action.

In fact, we’ve seen the reverse taking place. The reduction in the Energy Company Obligation (ECO) levy will aid to bring down costs, but only for the larger energy companies, giving them an even greater advantage in winning over customers. And according to a recent report, the 20 month price freeze advocated by Ed Miliband will see smaller utilities lose out. We desperately need policies that will not seek to disadvantage start-ups and smaller players within this sector. The party manifestos - if they are serious about tackling high energy bills – must include measures that encourage innovation, competition and widespread ownership, not stifle it.

Markets overseas show that an entirely different picture can be painted. Germany has 1,100 electricity suppliers, and the average household has a choice of around 72 of these. The four major energy companies operating in Germany (E.ON, RWE, EnBW and Vattenfall) take up 43.8 per cent of the retail market. Most other suppliers are owned by the municipality or the community, and the rate of "bottom-up" ownership of such services and assets is growing. At the end of 2012, 190 communities had been successful in bidding to run – yes, own and run – their local distribution grid (at least nine of these are co-operatives) and 70 municipal utilities had been founded.

This is not renationalisation or even remunicipalisation, but a move toward a much more constructive, locally-governed infrastructure in which communities ensure transparency, efficiency and good competition. Many of these emerging community-owned suppliers, such as Feldheim Energie and EWS Schönau, are not only offering cheaper tariffs than their competitors, but are seeking and fuelling the prosperity of their locality. In contrast, the UK has 30 licensed suppliers and the largest six take up 98 per cent of this market. No community has yet set themselves up as a competitor.

True, we cannot lift the infamous successes of Germany’s market and immediately apply them to the UK, and neither for this reason can we directly duplicate policies from overseas. But what we can do is not do nothing: we need a strong policy infrastructure, backed by government, that will catalyse new start-ups and new competition.

The Community Energy Strategy, published today, recognises that many of the UK’s communities, local authorities and businesses have an ambition to not only produce, but supply their own power. Ofgem’s "Licence Lite", which was introduced five years ago to make this possible, has so far seen only one application progress. The GLA, the largest governing authority in the UK, has the facility, scope and financial backing to take advantage of this scheme, but many institutions and civic groups don’t. The London Authority’s application is still pending final approval, so we are unsure as to whether even this will be successful.

What we need is a "Help to Supply" scheme. Government, working with the Department for Energy and Climate Change and Ofgem, should set up a series of pilots to work with a range of partners – communities, generators, local authorities, supermarkets, business hubs, Local Enterprise Partnerships – to help them establish a licensed supply company. Along the way, risks, costs and barriers should be noted and policies – perhaps even an alternative to Licence Lite – should be implemented as a result of this learning. This way, we may move from the paltry 30 suppliers we currently have to doubling or trebling this number in the next couple of years, and perhaps even more as the momentum builds.

Our ambitions are right, but our policies are wrong. If we are to take rising bills, competition and transparency seriously, we simply cannot let this opportunity pass us by.

Caroline Julian (@carolinejulian) is Head of Research at ResPublica and undertook a Winston Churchill Memorial Trust travel fellowship to Germany last year to explore the ownership structures of local distribution grids and utilities. The report based on this trip will be published through ResPublica this year.

Lightbulbs on display in an electrical retailer in Soho in London. Photograph: Getty Images.

Caroline Julian is a senior researcher and project manager at the think-tank ResPublica.

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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad