Shock: King Herod turns green

Michael Jacobs thinks that, before very long, we really will have an energy tax

Lord Marshall of Knightsbridge makes an unlikely green hero. Chairman of British Airways (one of the biggest companies in one of the world's most polluting sectors), former captain of the captains of industry at the CBI, he is a man who just eight months ago was not known to have any environmentalist sympathies whatsoever. Indeed, when he was asked by Gordon Brown in March to examine the potential role of an energy tax on industry, Friends of the Earth described this as "like putting Herod in charge of childcare".

Herod has obviously been to parenting classes. Marshall's report to the Chancellor, published with the pre-Budget statement last week but little noticed, not only recommends that an industrial energy tax be introduced, but in doing so accepts the central assumptions and claims of the environmental movement. It is not too much to say that the Marshall report marks a coming of age for the green movement.

The power of the report stems from its conclusion that industrial competitiveness, contrary to the CBI's view, need not be harmed by an energy tax.

First, Marshall insists the revenues from the tax should be recycled back to business: partly in the reduction of other business taxes, partly as assistance towards energy efficiency investment measures. This will ensure that the overall tax burden on industry is kept broadly neutral: there would simply be redistribution from extravagant to efficient energy users.

Indeed, Marshall argues that if the introduction of an energy tax allowed labour taxes (such as employers' national insurance contributions) to be reduced, the overall effect on the economy could be positive. This would be the so-called "double dividend", in which falling energy use is accompanied by rising employment. This claim has been widely modelled by environmental economists; it is the first time it has appeared in a Treasury document.

Second, Marshall shows how, throughout industry, improvements in energy efficiency would save firms money. A tax would help to get these implemented, but would leave firms no worse off overall. He argues that it is only in the energy-intensive sectors (such as iron and steel, cement and chemicals) that seriously higher costs would result. He recommends that energy-intensive firms should be given either lower tax rates in return for signing energy efficiency agreements with the government, or tax credits or reliefs for emission-reducing investments.

Third, the report points out that six European countries already have energy or carbon taxes. An energy tax package (with lower labour taxes) is a centrepiece of the new government programme in Germany, and the Italian government has proposed a carbon tax in its latest budget. The claim, therefore, that an energy tax would raise British industry's costs above those of its competitors does not stand up.

So the environmentalist baton has been passed to the Treasury. Will Gordon Brown run with it? Don't be fooled by his non-committal statement last week; the Treasury is definitely interested. This is not surprising: after a short while, an energy tax could bring in several billion pounds a year, and the Treasury does not turn up its nose at new revenue streams of this magnitude.

Just as importantly, Brown is well aware of the political opportunity. The transport white paper has proposed allowing local authorities to introduce road-congestion charges, and to use the money for public transport spending; it has also raised the prospect of a tax on office car parking. Other measures, including the reform of company car taxation, a pesticides tax and water pollution charges, are under review.

But the energy tax is the big one, and would firmly establish Brown as the first green Chancellor. The prospect of combining environmental virtue with reductions in other business taxes, including possibly the national insurance "tax on jobs", might well look enticing.

Peter Mandelson at the Department for Trade and Industry will be the principal focus for industry lobbying. The DTI has co-operated fully with the Marshall study, but its instincts are likely to be negative. Which way Mandelson will turn, however, is not clear. On the one hand, his agenda is pro-business and he will not want to damage the government's good relations with the CBI. But on the other, the energy tax can be seen as wholly in line with his vision of a highly efficient, high-technology future for British industry.

Current energy use patterns by British firms are wasteful and unproductive; investing in the latest energy-efficient technology should be a central part of any strategy of modernisation. As the Marshall report argues, there are potential export opportunities here, too. In these circumstances Mandelson might well find the environmental case as attractive as Brown.

All eyes will now be focused on the Budget next March. Clearly more work needs to be done on the precise design of any new tax. But the environmental lobby argues that this should not prevent the government announcing an intention to introduce it, just as it did with the windfall tax. A clear commitment would encourage firms to make adjustment plans well in advance of implementation.

Either way, the proposal for an industrial energy tax is now firmly on the agenda. At last, the environmental movement has entered the heart of government.

The writer, an environmental economist, is general secretary of the Fabian Society

Michael Jacobs is visiting professor in the Department of Political Science / School of Public Policy at UCL and at the Grantham Research Institute on Climate Change and the Environment at the London School of Economics. He is co-editor of the Political Quarterly

This article first appeared in the 13 November 1998 issue of the New Statesman, Why gays become politicians

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No peace after progress

How the death of the industrial way of life gave us choice – and stoked resentment and fear.

Now that the making of useful and necessary things in Britain is only a shadow of what it once was, we can see more clearly the effects of the Manufacturing Age. The cost was high to the producers of prodigious wealth; a ten-year difference in life expectancy remains between people living in the richest areas and those in Glasgow. The (fleeting, it now seems) visitation of industrialism has made life more comfortable and its dismantling has liberated millions from choiceless occupations. The legacy is one of spectacular improvement, unequally shared.

Perhaps the most dramatic experience of the 20th century was the suddenness with which profligate plenty replaced a skinflint subsistence. Was it the speed of this that distracted us from wondering why, instead of the secure sustenance that generations of needy people had asked of an unyielding economic system, we were offered a promiscuous spillage of goods, promoted with quasi-religious zeal by the converts of a capitalism that had previously delivered to most of its captive workers a life of penury? Such a rapid reversal might have alerted us to changes beneath the surface that elided losses incurred.

The greatest of these was certainly not the extinction of the industrial way of life itself, release from which has been an unqualified blessing. But the transition from relentlessly work-driven lives (in the 1950s, two-thirds of Britain’s workers were still manual labourers) was marked by perfunctory obituaries for the disintegration of industrial communities, with no acknowledgement that, for a century and a half, they had represented the inescapable destiny of the people they sheltered.

Even less recognition was given to the fortitude with which they had borne a long, coercive labour. A way of life, buried without ceremony in the unmarked grave of progress, could not be mourned; and this has generated some social pathologies of our time: resentment over an arbitrary obliteration of industry, disengagement from a party of labour by those it called, like feudal lords, its “own people”, loss of memory of the economic migrants we also were, passing from the goad of industry into the pastures of consumption, and thence into the liberating servitude of technology.

Grief makes no judgement on the intrinsic value of what is lost. Absence of the known and familiar is the object of melancholy in its own right, even if replaced by something immeasurably better. Objectively, there was little to mourn in the vanished industrial way of life: insufficiency and humiliation, malice of overseer and manager, officiousness of poor-law administrator and means-test man. Male industrial workers exhausted in body and spirit, instead of protecting those for whom the power of their hands was the only shelter against destitution, visited similar punishment on their wives and children. There is nothing to be lamented in an end to the penitential life of women, scrubbing not only the red tiles of the kitchen floor, but even an arc of pavement outside the front door; their interception of men on payday before wages were wasted on beer and oblivion; the clenching against joyless invasion of their bodies in the boozy aftermath. But it was the only life they knew, and they adhered to it with grim stoicism and even pride.

There is much to be said for their resistance. The fragile lattice formed by women’s arms was often the only safety net against destitution. Trade unions and friendly and burial societies that shielded folk from economic violence foreshadowed the welfare state and the National Health Service.

The life of labouring people in Britain was strikingly homogeneous, despite diversity of occupation, dialect and local sensibility. There was the same collective experience: terraced house with parlour reserved for celebration or mourning; the three-piece suite, plaster figure on a stand behind the window, chenille curtain against the draught, engraving of The Stag at Bay on the wall; the deal table and Windsor chairs in the living room, the mantelpiece a domestic shrine with clock, candlesticks and pictures of soldiers smiling before they died; the music of cinders falling through the bars in the grate; cheerless bedrooms where husband and wife slept in high connubial state, more bier than bed, where sexual enjoyment was ritually sacrificed as flowers of frost formed on the inside of the window.

And everywhere photographs: wraithlike children with ringlets or in sailor suits, fated never to grow up; weddings in the back garden, a bouquet of lilies and a grandmother in boots and astrakhan hat; the smudged features of a kinsman no one can now identify. Identical memories, too: the shotgun wedding in the dingy finery of a Co-op hall; the funeral tableau around the grave, amid ominous inscriptions of “Sleeping where no shadows fall”; queues outside the ocean-going Savoy or Tivoli to watch Gone With the Wind; the pub where “Vilia” or “The Last Rose of Summer” was hammered out on a discordant piano.

The opening up of such sombre lives might have been expected to call forth cries of gratitude. Instead, a synthetic joy has emanated largely from the same sources that, until recently, offered people grudging survival only, the change of tune outsourced to producers of manufactured delight, purveyors of contrived euphoria to the people – a different order of industrial artefact from the shoes, utensils and textiles of another era.

***

A more authentic popular res­ponse exists beneath the official psalmody, a persistent murmur of discontent and powerlessness. Anger and aggression swirl around like dust and waste paper in the streets of our affluent, unequal society. As long-term recipients of the contempt of our betters, we know how to despise the vulnerable – people incapable of work, the poor, the timid and the fearful, those addicted to drugs and alcohol. Sullen resentment tarnishes the wealth of the world, a conviction that somebody else is getting the advantages that ought to be “ours” by right and by merit.

Rancour appears among those “left behind” in neighbourhoods besieged by unknown tongues and foreign accents: people who never voted for unchosen change, as all political options are locked up in a consensus of elites. “Give us back our country!”
they cry; even though that country is not in the custody of those from whom they would reclaim it. There was no space for the working class to grieve over its own dissolution. If, as E P Thompson said, that class was present at its own making, it was certainly not complicit in its own undoing.

Grief denied in individuals leads to damaging psychological disorders. There is no reason to believe that this differs for those bereaved of a known way of living. The working class has been colonised, as was the peasantry in the early industrial era. When the values, beliefs and myths of indigenous peoples are laid waste, these lose meaning, and people go to grieve in city slums and die from alcohol, drugs and other forms of self-inflicted violence. Though the dominant culture’s erasure of the manufacturing way of life in Britain was less intense than the colonial ruin of ancient societies, this subculture was equally unceremoniously broken. It is a question of degree. The ravages of drugs and alcohol and self-harm in silent former pit villages and derelict factory towns show convergence with other ruined cultures elsewhere in the world.

Depression is a symptom of repressed grief: here is the connection between unfinished mourning and popular resentment at having been cheated out of our fair share, our due, our place in the world. If we are unable to discern our own possible fate in suffering people now, this is perhaps a result of estrangement from unresolved wrongs in our own past. Nothing was ever explained. Globalisation occurred under a kind of social laissez-faire: no political education made the world more comprehensible to the disaffected and disregarded, people of small account to those who take decisions on their behalf and in their name.

Anyone who protested against our passage into this changed world was criminalised, called “wrecker” and “extremist”. The miners’ strike of 1984 was the symbol of this: their doomed fight to preserve a dignity achieved in pain and violence was presented by the merchants of deliverance not only as retrograde, but also as an act of outlawry. Resistance to compulsory change was derided as a response of nostalgics protecting the indefensible, when the whole world was on the brink of a new life. Early in her tenure of Downing Street, Margaret Thatcher, that sybil and prophet who knew about these things, warned that Britain would become “a less cosy, more abrasive” place: a vision confirmed by the Battle of Orgreave – redolent of civil war – and the anguish of Hillsborough.

It is too late to grieve now. Scar tissue has healed over the untreated wound. Though no one expects the ruling classes to understand the distress of perpetual “modernisation”, the leaders of labour might have been able to recognise capitalism’s realm of freedom and a gaudy consumerism that concealed hardening competitiveness and the growth of a crueller, more bitter society.

The ills of this best of all worlds, its excessive wealth and extreme inequality, are on show in hushed thoroughfares of London, shuttered sites of “inward investment”, where the only sound is the faint melody of assets appreciating; while elsewhere, people wait for charitable tins of denutrified substances to feed their family, or sit under a grubby duvet, a Styrofoam cup beseeching the pence of passers-by.

Unresolved feelings about industrialism, enforced with great harshness and abolished with equal contempt for those who served it, are certainly related to the stylish savagery of contemporary life. The alibi that present-day evils are an expression of “human nature” is a poor apology for what is clearly the nature – restless and opportunistic – of a social and economic system that has, so far at least, outwitted its opponents at every turn.

Jeremy Seabrook’s book “The Song of the Shirt” (C Hurst & Co) won the Bread and Roses Award for Radical Publishing 2016

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