70 per cent of the Royal Mail is now in private hands. Photo: Getty.
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Its share price has fallen, but the Royal Mail sale was still a debacle

The government lost between £750m and £1.7bn in selling off the Royal Mail – or three times as much as the bedroom tax might save.

An announcement today, from the recently privatised Royal Mail PLC, has reignited the debate over whether the company was sold incompently by the coalition.

A slight fall in the share price has led some to suggest its IPO was not quite the disaster it first appeared – when its share price rocketed nearly 40 per cent in one day.

But, by any measure, the sale still appears to have been an abject failure.

Royal Mail’s shares were priced at £3.30 when they floated in October. Within hours they had risen nearly 40 per cent.

The spike wasn’t an aberration, as Vince Cable – the minister responsible for the sale – tried to suggest. (The other minister involved was Michael Fallon, who has since been made Defence Secretary.) The price stayed high, and within three months it had nearly doubled in value.

The current price is back in line with the price to which it rose on the first day of trading. At that price – around £4.50 per share – the government’s mispricing cost the taxpayer between at least £750m, but at January's peak price it cost £1.7 bn.

Cable has claimed that this outcome would have been impossible to predict, and criticism is all very well in hindsight. But the department was under no obligation to sell its 70 per cent stake all at once. It used a procedure called "book-building" to choose its floation price of 330 pence, and could have pursued similar measures to calculate the value of its shares.

Instead, it relied on the advice of many of the financial firms behind the last economic crisis – some of whom have been criticised by the Bureau of Investigative Journalism over their conflicts of interest – and sold almost all of its shares in bulk.

They did this despite the fact that the pre-launch demand for shares was 24 times greater than supply. It scarcely takes an economist to consider that a mispricing.

As a result, Royal Mail’s shares rose twice as much as any other new shares did on their opening day in 2013.

The £750m lost through the sale has cost far more than, for instance, the government's roundly-criticised bedroom tax is projected to save, and is twice as much as the nation spends on museums and galleries.

But, even more distressingly, the justification for the sale – a promise of long-term capital investment – quickly unraveled. The government allocated more than a fifth of the Mail's shares to 16 "priority investors" before launch. These were ‘long term, stable investors’, Cable declared in the wake of the sale.

But, by January, 75 per cent of them had sold at least 48 per cent of their holdings, and six of the 16 no longer owned a single share.

As usual, the government was left at the whim of private institutions who were placed under no obligation to deliver. After the stratospheric rise in the company's value, these financial firms made the quick profit made open to him.

Now, hedge funds, and other financial firms that were initially classed as "non-priority, long-only" funds, hold more of the company than the 16 priority investors who were used to justify the sale.

The past year has been relatively slow for the coalition. The Programme for Government, on which they ushered themselves into power, was never formally updated, and in June they announced the fewest bills by a government in 20 years.

But the selling of the Royal Mail was one of the great changes of the past year. Unfortunately, it has simply served as the latest example of how inept the government often is at selling the "family silver".

The Royal Mail is the company that delivers parcels and letters. It is (now) distinct from the Post Office, which operates the 11,500 red-lettered branches that pepper your local high street. The Post Office remains in government hands.

The government argued the service desperately needed private capital in order to reinvest and uphold its "universal service". Putting the firm in private hands ensured it wouldn’t compete with "schools and hospitals" for government funding.

They pointed to equivalent services across Europe – in Belgium, Austria and Germany – that moved into profit after privatisation, and delivered levels of service that more than matched British standards.

But, while this argument appears persuasive, in practice the sale has shown the way government appears incapable of mandating anything to the private firms it often relies upon. It also ignores the non-monetary benefits a government-owned service can provide.

It is the same problem that has plagued the government’s attempts to reform welfare, make the banks lend more, or introduce any large IT project.  

Harry Lambert was the editor of May2015, the New Statesman's election website.

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Inside Big Ben: why the world’s most famous clock will soon lose its bong

Every now and then, even the most famous of clocks need a bit of care.

London is soon going to lose one of its most familiar sounds when the world-famous Big Ben falls silent for repairs. The “bonging” chimes that have marked the passing of time for Londoners since 1859 will fall silent for months beginning in 2017 as part of a three-year £29m conservation project.

Of course, “Big Ben” is the nickname of the Great Bell and the bell itself is not in bad shape – even though it does have a huge crack in it.

The bell weighs nearly 14 tonnes and it cracked in 1859 when it was first bonged with a hammer that was way too heavy.

The crack was never repaired. Instead the bell was rotated one eighth of a turn and a lighter (200kg) hammer was installed. The cracked bell has a characteristic sound which we have all grown to love.

Big Ben strikes. UK Parliament.

Instead, it is the Elizabeth Tower (1859) and the clock mechanism (1854), designed by Denison and Airy, that need attention.

Any building or machine needs regular maintenance – we paint our doors and windows when they need it and we repair or replace our cars quite routinely. It is convenient to choose a day when we’re out of the house to paint the doors, or when we don’t need the car to repair the brakes. But a clock just doesn’t stop – especially not a clock as iconic as the Great Clock at the Palace of Westminster.

Repairs to the tower are long overdue. There is corrosion damage to the cast iron roof and to the belfry structure which keeps the bells in place. There is water damage to the masonry and condensation problems will be addressed, too. There are plumbing and electrical works to be done for a lift to be installed in one of the ventilation shafts, toilet facilities and the fitting of low-energy lighting.

Marvel of engineering

The clock mechanism itself is remarkable. In its 162-year history it has only had one major breakdown. In 1976 the speed regulator for the chimes broke and the mechanism sped up to destruction. The resulting damage took months to repair.

The weights that drive the clock are, like the bells and hammers, unimaginably huge. The “drive train” that keeps the pendulum swinging and that turns the hands is driven by a weight of about 100kg. Two other weights that ring the bells are each over a tonne. If any of these weights falls out of control (as in the 1976 incident), they could do a lot of damage.

The pendulum suspension spring is especially critical because it holds up the huge pendulum bob which weighs 321kg. The swinging pendulum releases the “escapement” every two seconds which then turns the hands on the clock’s four faces. If you look very closely, you will see that the minute hand doesn’t move smoothly but it sits still most of the time, only moving on each tick by 1.5cm.

The pendulum swings back and forth 21,600 times a day. That’s nearly 8m times a year, bending the pendulum spring. Like any metal, it has the potential to suffer from fatigue. The pendulum needs to be lifted out of the clock so that the spring can be closely inspected.

The clock derives its remarkable accuracy in part from the temperature compensation which is built into the construction of the pendulum. This was yet another of John Harrison’s genius ideas (you probably know him from longitude fame). He came up with the solution of using metals of differing temperature expansion coefficient so that the pendulum doesn’t change in length as the temperature changes with the seasons.

In the Westminster clock, the pendulum shaft is made of concentric tubes of steel and zinc. A similar construction is described for the clock in Trinity College Cambridge and near perfect temperature compensation can be achieved. But zinc is a ductile metal and the tube deforms with time under the heavy load of the 321kg pendulum bob. This “creeping” will cause the temperature compensation to jam up and become less effective.

So stopping the clock will also be a good opportunity to dismantle the pendulum completely and to check that the zinc tube is sliding freely. This in itself is a few days' work.

What makes it tick

But the truly clever bit of this clock is the escapement. All clocks have one - it’s what makes the clock tick, quite literally. Denison developed his new gravity escapement especially for the Westminster clock. It decouples the driving force of the falling weight from the periodic force that maintains the motion of the pendulum. To this day, the best tower clocks in England use the gravity escapement leading to remarkable accuracy – better even than that of your quartz crystal wrist watch.

In Denison’s gravity escapement, the “tick” is the impact of the “legs” of the escapement colliding with hardened steel seats. Each collision causes microscopic damage which, accumulated over millions of collisions per year, causes wear and tear affecting the accuracy of the clock. It is impossible to inspect the escapement without stopping the clock. Part of the maintenance proposed during this stoppage is a thorough overhaul of the escapement and the other workings of the clock.

The Westminster clock is a remarkable icon for London and for England. For more than 150 years it has reminded us of each hour, tirelessly. That’s what I love about clocks – they seem to carry on without a fuss. But every now and then even the most famous of clocks need a bit of care. After this period of pampering, “Big Ben” ought to be set for another 100 or so years of trouble-free running.

The Conversation

Hugh Hunt is a Reader in Engineering Dynamics and Vibration at the University of Cambridge.

This article was originally published on The Conversation. Read the original article.