100 days of Dave

Tim Montgomerie runs through the ten moments that define David Cameron’s first three months in power

1 Cameron lost the loyalty of the right when he didn't win the general election outright

Conservative MPs have worried about Team David Cameron's electoral strategy ever since he became leader in 2005. Before the election, they were especially concerned about the lack of a clear message and about George Osborne's unpopularity. They could not understand why the Liberal Democrats were given equal status in the televised debates. They told Conservative HQ that the "big society" message needed to be more "doorstep-friendly". The Tory leadership's answer to every criticism of strategy was to look at the opinion polls. "Trust us, we're more than 10 per cent ahead," they said.

By election time, the lead shrank and a majority never came. Cameron's failure to win an election against a divided government, presiding over a deep recession and led by a prime minister whom 100 political academics have just rated the third worst since 1945, means he will never again get the same benefit of the doubt from Conservative members.

He compounded his problems with the party by trying to end backbench control of the 1922 Committee. The committee had been a thorn in John Major's side throughout the early 1990s; the former premier apparently advised Cameron to neutralise it. Cameron was forced to retreat in the face of anger and, in protest, MPs voted for the independent-minded Graham Brady as their new shop steward.

A great leader needs a wide range of qualities. We know that Cameron is brave, media- friendly and intelligent. But party management is also an important skill. Tony Blair, Margaret Thatcher and even Gordon Brown were good at the courtesies that are essential, if not sufficient, for harmonious parties. When she'd completed her red boxes, late into the night, Thatcher turned to a list of people who, at her insistence, her advisers had recommended deserved a handwritten note.

Cameron needs to improve this aspect of his leadership style. Few if any of the 37 Tory frontbenchers who did not make it into government because of the election result received any communication from him. Three months into his premiership, he hasn't spoken even one word to some of the MPs he didn't make ministers.

2 Cameron seized victory from defeat with his bold coalition deal

If failing to win a majority was his great failure, his boldness on the day after the election was Cameron's great success. He saw the potential in a "change alliance" of the kind that the blogger Guido Fawkes and the think tank head Mark Littlewood had long advocated. He made a "comprehensive offer" to Nick Clegg to form a coalition government that has the potential to change British politics for ever. Appointing a Liberal Democrat to nearly every Whitehall department did two things, one Downing Street insider told me: "It bound Clegg to every tough decision but it also minimised the number of Liberal Democrats who would be outside the tent, pissing in."

The emphasis he had placed as Tory leader on gay rights, civil liberties, climate change and fighting poverty may not have won the election, but it made the Con-Lib deal possible. The offer of a referendum on AV turned the deal from possible to done. Controversy still surrounds the events leading up to that event. Cameron led Tory MPs to believe that he needed to match an offer that Labour had made. Those MPs have subsequently learned that Labour made no such offer. At best, Team Cameron can be accused of not asking enough questions to establish the truth and, at worst, of misleading Conservative backbenchers.

3 In the handling of David Laws's resignation, the two parties bonded

Few early events in the government did more to build trust between the blue and yellow halves of the coalition than the handling of the revelations about David Laws's living arrangements. Over the 24 hours from when the story broke to when the then chief secretary to the Treasury resigned, it was impossible to know which aides were Tory and which were Liberal Democrats. The Downing Street teams almost became one in that moment, every member batting hard for their embattled colleague.

The Prime Minister's warm letter to Laws, accepting his resignation but hoping that he'd make a speedy return, was the culmination of a period that cemented the Clegg-Cameron-Osborne alliance. The overwhelming sense that I get from talking to Tory frontbenchers is that their Liberal Democrat ministerial colleagues are acting as one of the team and are being treated as such. The closeness means that, in reality, there are three parts of the coalition: 1) the almost indistinguishable front benches; 2) the Tory right; 3) the left of the Liberal Democrats who, in their hearts, would still have preferred a deal with Labour.

4 A decision to send inexperienced ministers into unfriendly departments with fewer political advisers

During the opposition years, Cameron made the decision to reduce the number of ministerial special advisers (SpAds). Under Labour there was a suspicion that SpAds had morphed into spin doctors and were an unnecessary burden on the stretched public purse. Remember Jo Moore, who worked for Stephen Byers, and her advice "to get out anything we want to bury" on the day of the 11 September 2001 attacks?

Cameron could and should have revisited this pledge when he and Clegg were junking other manifesto promises. For the sake of two or three million pounds a troop of extra SpAds would have reinforced ministers' attempts to master their departments. The cap on SpAds means inexperienced ministers are having to make historically unprecedented cuts with a bureaucracy that is itself being cut.

Even Cameron has been the victim of this policy and has been unable to appoint some key allies to strengthen his Downing Street operation, although some are being shoehorned into civil service roles. Don't be surprised if this policy is "updated" next month.

5 The appointment of Iain Duncan Smith to think the unthinkable on welfare

Cameron made many fascinating appointments but none was more surprising than the return of Iain Duncan Smith to the front line of politics. Many feared that IDS could not tame the sprawling Department for Work and Pensions, but anyone who has paid any attention to his years in the political wilderness couldn't question his missionary commitment to fight the war on poverty in bold new ways.

George Osborne may not have read the report on overhauling the benefits system that the Centre for Social Justice produced when IDS was its chairman, but it was not exactly a secret that this was the former Tory leader's agenda. IDS has formed an unlikely alliance with Clegg to design a benefits system that rewards low-paid workers. The Deputy Prime Minister, spurred on by his key adviser Richard Reeves, the former head of Demos, may be decisive if IDS is to overcome resistance from Osborne's Treasury in what may become a bloodier battle than the other great blue-on-blue conflict - between the Defence Secretary, Liam Fox, and No 11 Downing Street.

6 The Osborne Budget that did not restructure the tax system

George Osborne won much acclaim from Tory MPs and the right-wing press for his "emergency" Budget. The scale of his deficit reduction plan was certainly ambitious and, because of his candour and boldness, he was voted the country's most popular ever chancellor by one pollster. Over time, however, as the drip, drip, drip of spending cuts has become apparent, approval of the coalition has declined.

Missing from Osborne's Budget was a major plan for growth. The scale of the economic crisis demanded a more profound restructuring of the tax system. Osborne should, for example, have raised "sin taxes" (on pollution, expensive housing and fatty foods) in order to fund lower taxes on jobs and investment. Becoming the party that redistributes from the unproductive to the productive can still be a coalition objective, but if Osborne hasn't acted by the autumn it will probably be too late.

7 The backlash against Michael Gove's cuts is a sign of the unpopularity to come

Michael Gove was widely regarded as one of the Tories' fastest-rising stars when he became Education Secretary, but the man who was an excellent newspaper columnist and innovative thought-leader in opposition proves yet again that a very specific set of skills is needed to deliver a programme in government. The backlash to his bungled announcement of cuts to Labour's bloated school-building programme was a warning to every member of the coalition that public opinion is likely to be far less forgiving when the detail of spending cuts is finally revealed in the autumn.

8 Andrew Lansley's pledge to reform the National Health Service confirms the coalition's hyperactivity

Tory radicals worried that Cameron would be another Blair and that he would minimise the policy reforms that might jeopardise his re-election. David Davis may have called it the "Brokeback Coalition" but, say others, the government looks more like a "breakneck coalition". It is advancing at speed on multiple fronts. Reform of schools, policing and local government was expected. Big cuts to spending were unavoidable. More interesting has been the unexpectedly ambitious proposed reforms to the NHS and the welfare state. Andrew Lansley's conversion to proposing a sweeping reorganisation of the NHS is perhaps the most surprising. The Health Secretary was regarded as the epitome of caution in opposition, but his unexpected pledge to replace English primary care trusts (PCTs still featured in May's coalition agreement) adds another ball to Cameron's extraordinary juggling act.

9 The decision to reverse the Conservatives' prison-building programme

Although the coalition starts with a programme of reforms that should delight every Conservative, the trajectory of the coalition is clear: it is heading leftwards or it is heading for breakdown. The Liberal Democrats have lost so many of their left-wing voters that Cameron has to give them concessions that will prevent defections of MPs and big losses in next year's Scottish, Welsh and municipal elections. Ultimately this may include a non-aggression pact whereby Tory candidates won't threaten vulnerable Liberal Democrat incumbents.

The policy concession that may cause most problems for the Tories isn't Trident or Europe (where backsliding has been marked), but the much more earthy decision to go into reverse gear on prison policy. To be fair to the Tories, the policy is as much Ken Clarke's as it is the Liberal Democrats', but anger stretches from Michael Howard in the House of Lords to the Daily Mail and even the Sun on Fleet Street. You can be sure that the Mail will splash-headline any crime committed by someone they think would have been in jail if the Tory manifesto pledge on prison-building had been executed.

10 Cameron's decision to work shorter hours than his predecessors

If you are a Conservative leader, the highest accolade is to be elevated to a position alongside Margaret Thatcher or Winston Churchill. Cameron may have been in Downing Street barely three months, but the new Prime Minister was recently introduced to readers of the New York Times as being more ambitious than the Iron Lady. Even colleagues are making the comparison. But if the Cameron government is to match Thatcher's ambition, it also needs her work ethic.

Blair talked of the scars on his back sustained through trying to reform Britain's public services. Effective reform is only 10 per cent inspiration, but 90 per cent perspiration.

Will Cameron have the Thatcher-like resilience to survive the bureaucratic backlash that awaits his government when the cuts start to bite? Will he have Thatcher's work ethic, either? She spent most evenings working on government papers and her family life suffered because of it.

Cameron, it seems, doesn't arrive at his desk in No 10 until 8.30am and has left by 7pm. Away from that desk, he may be working privately, but he certainly finishes earlier than his Downing Street predecessors. An inattention to detail has long worried some of his aides. A failure to master briefs was evident in the election debates and also in his accurate but ill-chosen remarks about Pakistan. It's not enough to get the big judgements right if you get the details wrong. Government really is that unforgiving.

Tim Montgomerie is the editor of ConservativeHome.

Tim Montgomerie is the editor of the ConservativeHome website.

This article first appeared in the 09 August 2010 issue of the New Statesman, The first 100 days

Charlie Forgham-Bailey for the New Statesman
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"I teach dirty tricks": the explosives expert who shows armies how to deal with terrorists

Sidney Alford used to blow things up in his garage. Now his expertise is helping save lives.

“I’ll fetch the hammer,” says Sidney Alford, leaving me in a laboratory filled with mysteriously named drawers and small bottles with skulls on their labels. When he has fetched it – “it’s a jeweller’s hammer, given to me in Paris by a friend of Salvador Dali” – the 82-year-old plans to tap gently on a small mound of white powder called triacetone triperoxide, or TATP, better known as the explosive favoured by Isis in their suicide belts and homemade bombs. Because of its instability and destructive power, its nickname is “Mother of Satan”.

Tapping it with a hammer is enough to make it go bang.

Directing me to stand by the door, he searches for ear plugs before stuffing some paper in his ears – “I’m quite deaf, you know,” were almost his first words to me that morning – and begins to tap the Mother of Satan. On the fourth tap, it explodes in a genteel fashion with a flash and a pop. Its sensitivity to percussion is one of the reasons that jihadi bomb-makers suffer so many workplace accidents. “See,” Alford says. “You’d be OK walking, just don’t fall over or get shot.”

I have wanted to meet Sidney Alford ever since I heard about him from the investigative journalist Meirion Jones, who once uncovered a British man who sold £50m-worth of fake bomb detectors in Iraq and other countries. (The fraudster, James McCormick, was jailed for ten years in 2013.)

Giving a presentation to students, Jones mentioned that he could prove the gadgets were useless – just black boxes with radio aerials sticking out of them – because he had taken them “to a guy the BBC uses for explosives, who has a quarry in Somerset where he blows things up”. I decided then and there that I was very interested in being in a quarry in Somerset where someone blew things up. Maybe I would even get to press the button.

There was a less childish reason for visiting, too. Sidney Alford’s life story is interwoven with one of the technologies that defines the modern world: explosives. We fear explosives – suicide bombs, car bombs, bombs on aircraft – but we also need them, for everything from realistic film scenes to demolition. (Alford has a letter from Stanley Kubrick thanking him for his help on Full Metal Jacket.) Surprisingly, the best way to defuse an explosive is often with another explosive, something that Sidney’s company, Alford Technologies, has pioneered.

In other words, if you want to make something go bang – or, just as importantly, stop something going bang – he is the man to talk to. Quite loudly.

***

The first explosive materials Alford ever saw were fragments of bombs and V2 rockets left over from the German shelling of London. Born in 1935 in the suburb of Ilford, he moved with his family to Bournemouth when the Second World War broke out. When he returned, he found rich pickings in his battered neighbourhood in the form of magnesium incendiary bombs, which he filed down and turned into fireworks.

I ask him if, like my own father, he ever frightened his teachers with nitrogen triiodide, an unstable explosive compound that schoolchildren used to make themselves and set off in lessons to terrify unwary members of staff in the era before health and safety. “Oh yes,” he says. “I put it under my French teacher’s chair.” A pause. “He’d been in the army, so he didn’t make a fuss.”

Alford went to a grammar school, where he was an undistinguished pupil, angry that the headmaster wouldn’t let him learn German (rather than Latin) so he could speak to the Jewish child refugees he knew. But he was always interested in chemistry, and “by the fifth form, I’d recruit classmates to make bigger bangs”.

A chemistry degree came next, followed by a series of odd jobs, including diet research and studying the brain, an MSc in the science of environmental pollution, and two business associations with men he now characterises as “bad sorts”, who ripped him off.

By this time, he had moved to Ham, in west London, and had begun to take his chemistry experiments more seriously. It was the early 1970s, and the IRA’s bombing campaign had come to England. How could these weapons be neutralised, Alford wondered? Was it better to encase suspect packages in “blast containers”, or use shaped charges – typically, small cones that focus explosive energy into a point – to disrupt their ability to go off?

A brief digression on explosives is necessary here. When you think of something going bang in a spectacular fashion, that’s a detonation. “Detonare,” says Alford at one point during my tour of the quarry, relishing the Latin. “Like thunder.”

High explosives such as TNT, nitroglycerin or Semtex can be detonated by administering a violent shock to the main charge using a small amount of relatively sensitive and violent material in a metal capsule. This creates a hot shock wave, which sweeps through the substance faster than the speed of sound.

Old-fashioned gunpowder, house fires and your car’s internal combustion engine go through a different process, known as “deflagration”, where the chemical reaction moves through the molecules much more slowly. This burning is usually less dramatic and easier to manage. (Alford hates the term “controlled explosion”, reasoning that an expert should always control their explosions. If they fail, it’s a cock-up.)

The theory goes, then, that if you attack a munition just hard enough to ignite its contents but without causing a violent shock wave, it will deflagrate but, on a good day, it will not detonate. “Yes, it might make a massive fireball, but I’ve done it in jungles under a tree,” says Alford. “[With deflagration] the tree may lose most of its leaves, but with detonation, there is no tree.”

In the 1970s, he set up a makeshift laboratory in his suburban garage. There, he would experiment with making explosive charges, using measured quantities of material in different casings. He would leave his car engine running so any bangs could be plausibly written off as backfiring.

This cover story clearly didn’t wash with the neighbours, though, as first the police and then MI5 – “the most gentlemanly man” – came round to see why exactly a chemistry graduate they had never heard of was blowing stuff up in his suburban garage. When he explained himself to the security services, they put him in touch with the Ministry of Defence, and he was offered a contract.

***

Alford Technologies has a slogan: “For when you can’t afford to fail”. It also has an office in a business park outside Trowbridge in Wiltshire, but the real action happens at its testing ground, a former quarry amid the rolling hills of the Mendips, not far outside Bath. It feels like a cross between a scrapyard and a building site. “Here’s the bottom half of a Soviet mine, which we use as a brazier,” says Alford at one point, prodding it with a toecap.

Soldiers from various armies come here to learn about explosives and how to render them harmless. It’s vital work: last year in Iraq and Syria there were dozens of car bombs, with a single one in Baghdad claiming 250 lives. In Manchester this year an Isis-inspired jihadi killed 22 concert-goers and injured 250 with a backpack bomb apparently built from instructions found
on the internet.

Learning to counter such threats means understanding them; jihadists and other terrorists might have access only to basic materials, but many also display great ingenuity. When I ask why Alford has a packet of Tampax in his lab, he says the tampons can be dipped in liquid explosives and turned into cartridges: “I teach dirty tricks so they don’t get caught out by them.”

Sidney Alford’s contributions to the world of explosives rest on an unlikely substance: water. When he first began tinkering in his garage in the 1970s, engineers had already worked out a rough-and-ready way of disabling improvised explosive devices (IEDs). They used a gun barrel loaded with a blank cartridge to fire a jet of water that broke through the explosive’s casing and disrupted it. However, a sufficiently strong casing – say, one made of steel – could defeat this method.

In a low outbuilding in the quarry, Alford shows me his answer to this problem. Within a shaped charge, the force of a small explosion collapses a metal cone, turning it inside out and extruding it into a long, thin rod that shoots out at high velocity, about five times faster than a bullet.

The young chemist had an idea: why not combine the water from the older gun-barrel method with the accuracy and force of the metal jet in a shaped charge? In Alford inventions such as the Vulcan and the Pluton, the explosive charge shoots a targeted jet of water at high speed and with incredible accuracy.

Ho ho, you’re thinking. Water! Very scary. This is broadly what I thought until I saw one of Alford’s smaller shaped charges in action. After the demonstration with the hammer, he put on a pair of sturdy boots instead of brogues and we hopped into a small four-by-four to get to the base of the quarry. “Should I take my safety glasses?” I asked, even though we would be inside an old reinforced lookout hut salvaged from the Maze prison in Northern Ireland. “Oh no,” replied Alford. “If it goes wrong, it will kill you. No need to waste a perfectly good pair of glasses.”

The Vulcan is about six-inches long, with a case of grey plastic, and loaded with 30g of plastic explosives with a cone of water held in front of it. The explosive is “about two toasts’ worth of butter,” said Alford’s project manager, Matt Eades, who served in the Royal Engineers for 25 years.

Alford placed the charge above a 10mm-thick steel plate using the aluminium-wire legs as a tripod, inserted an electric detonator into the Vulcan, and we retired to the hut, whose thick, double-glazed windows gave a good, if smeary, view of the sandpit. “If you write a nice, ingratiating article about me you can press the button,” said Alford.

I pressed the button.

There was a significant bang, making me glad of my ear defenders, but the plume went straight upwards. When we ventured out to the sandpit, Alford practically skipped up the side and fished out the metal plate, now with a clean-edged circular hole punched straight through it.

This practical demonstration had followed a whirlwind tour of the various Alford Technologies products and a brisk explanation of the theory of explosives. Alford clearly enjoys naming his creations: the Vulcan sits in his display alongside the Krakatoa and the Vesuvius, which can also be used for bomb disposal and demolition. The BootBanger is so called because “it bangs car boots” while the Van Trepan cuts a neat, round hole in the top of a larger vehicle. The Bottler is not only shaped like a bottle, but named for the Australian slang “that’s a bottler”, which Alford translates as “the cat’s whiskers”.

Even the Dioplex, a linear charge that creates a chopping blade, has a story attached: “I thought it was a do-it-yourself device, but I thought ‘do it oneself’ sounded better. So: ‘Do It Oneself Plastic Explosive’.”

One of the things a trip to the quarry teaches me is that the ways in which humans try to kill and maim each other are nothing if not inventive. The company sells a version of a Bangalore torpedo, an old invention used by Alford’s own father when he fought in the First World War. This is a modular tube you can push underneath barbed wire, blowing it apart to clear a path for infantry. A stronger version was needed, Alford says, because of the advent of razor wire. “Barbed wire was soft steel, designed to keep in cows. Razor wire was designed to cut you.” The new Alford Bangalore Blade torpedoes through the wire coils, severing them using four aluminium cutters and creating an unobstructed 10m route through.

The Breacher’s Boot is a door-shaped panel filled with water, used to punch through walls in hostage situations. “It gives a ‘kick’ to the wall, so bits of it will fall down. You don’t want to use shaped charges then,” he says. “If there’s a person on the other side of the wall, you’d cut them in half. And if you simply used a mass of high explosive, the concrete would fly almost horizontally.”

A similar idea lies behind the Alford Strip, a sticky rope of explosives and tamping material used in terror arrests, where the police would once have used a sledgehammer to open a door, but are now much more worried about booby traps. You run the 25mm- or 42mm-long plastic extrusion down a door, window or wall and then lay a length of det cord far enough away from it to put service personnel at a safer distance.

Down in the quarry, having punched through one square steel plate, we now try ten taped together versus a 40g load of explosives and a copper cone. The result: a 2m-high flash and the same clean hole – although the jet doesn’t make it through all ten plates. It stops at seven.

This isn’t an error: the shaped charges can use copper, water, aluminium or magnesium, depending on the force and space needed. Magnesium is incendiary; water and aluminium might be chosen because they lose velocity very quickly. You cut through what you want to cut through, without damaging either the structural integrity of the object surrounding it or innocent bystanders.

This precision is particularly important in demolition work. Last year, Alford Technologies took over the contract to break up Didcot Power Station, slicing through steel beams to dismantle the decommissioned building. It was called in after a terrible accident on 23 February 2016, when four workers employed by a respected firm, Coleman and Company, were killed while trying to lay charges inside the structure. “There was this crash – I looked over my shoulder and saw the boiler coming down,” one of the survivors, Mathew Mowat, told the Birmingham Mail. “We ran in self-preservation – then there was a loud bang and a massive cloud of dust, we couldn’t see much for a few minutes.”

It took months to recover the bodies of all four missing men, who had to be identified from dental records and tattoos.

***

Over an Eccles cake in the main office, Alford tells me about some of his other jobs, including cutting up sunken ships in the Persian Gulf during the “Tanker War” of the mid-1980s, between Iran and Iraq, and joining a mission to retrieve £40m in gold bars from HMS Edinburgh, which sank in 1942 off the coast of Norway. (It was carrying 4,570kg of Russian bullion destined for the western allies.) The ship had been designated a war grave to stop it being plundered, and an air of mystery hung over the whole salvage project. Alford was told not to mention that he was an explosives expert.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, his work – and his anti-authoritarian streak – has caused conflict. “I’m doing things government departments ought to be doing,” he tells me in the car on the way to the quarry. “I’m in the anomalous position of someone who is quite admired, but also quite despised. Civil servants hate my guts.” When he was 40, he says, he asked for a formal job working with the department of defence, “and was told I was too old to have new ideas”. He set up Alford Technologies in 1985, and it now employs six people. The latest set of accounts at Companies House value the firm’s net worth at £2.3m.

Although Alford is scrupulously careful when handling explosives, he loathes health-and-safety culture. As we tramp round the quarry, he indicates a sign next to a pond, reading “Deep Water”, and tuts theatrically. He voted for Brexit to give the establishment a kick, not thinking it would actually happen.

It is a source of great chagrin that the government breathes down his neck, regulating what compounds he can keep and how he can keep them. “You have to have a licence for every substance,” he tells me in the car. “I’ve got them all. Well, it might be different if I wanted to go nuclear.”

 In 1996, he decided to make a stand against the pettifogging bureaucracy that, as he saw it, interfered with his work. Spooked by the thought of Irish republican terrorism, the regulators had insisted that he had to put a lock on his explosives store. “I told them that if the IRA really wanted to get my explosives, they would kidnap one of my family.” (He has two sons with his Japanese-born wife, Itsuko; the elder, 46-year-old Roland, now runs the business.) Besides which, he didn’t see why he should put an alarm on his few kilos of various explosives when the farmer next door had tonnes of ammonium nitrate fertiliser, a key ingredient in the IRA’s bomb-making.

The stand-off broke when his request to renew his explosives licence was turned down; soon after, the police came to raid his stores. He had tipped off a friendly journalist, however, and the visit was captured on camera and written up first in the local paper and then the Daily Mail, where Christopher Booker took up the cause of a Englishman’s inalienable right to keep high explosives in his shed. “I felt morally obliged to be prosecuted,” he says now.

The court case, documented in the newspaper clippings, sounds like a mixture of deadening legal procedure and high farce. At the magistrates’ court, Alford and a friend pursued and rearrested the next defendant, who tried to do a runner; when his case was kicked upwards to Swindon Crown Court, he turned up in an armoured Daimler Ferret, posing for photographs with his head poking out of the top, white hair tucked into a helmet. He was eventually charged with possessing explosives without a licence and fined £750, with £250 costs. The judge ordered the police to give him his licence back, but ticked him off for using the court system for political purposes.

Listening to this story, it becomes clearer why Alford never ended up in the warm embrace of an official government role. He offered his ideas to the Ministry of Defence, but he shows me a letter from April 1977, where an unlucky official reveals that he is “regarding your correspondence with diminishing enthusiasm”. Still, he is sanguine. “Most of my enemies have now gone to the laboratory in the sky, or retired,” he says. “I’m glad I didn’t work for them. Would I have fitted in? Probably not.” In any case, he has had some official recognition, receiving an OBE in 2015.

***

Alford’s work is used in war zones including Afghanistan, but also places like Cambodia, which are still riddled with unexploded ordnance from previous ground wars. Over the years, he has visited that country and Laos several times to practise new ways of dealing with old bombs. (The company produces a more affordable version of the Vulcan for non-military use.) He first went to Vietnam during the war; the last person, he says, to get a Japanese tourist visa into the country in the 1950s. The company’s brochures show smiling locals posing next to the sleeping monsters they have had to live alongside for decades.

But Iraq, too, is in dire need of methods to deal with cheap, homemade explosives. After Matt the Ex-Army Guy and Alford have demonstrated how to blow a door off its hinges, cut through a 50mm steel bar, and turn a fire extinguisher inside out – “that is unzipped in all known directions, it is a former IED,” says Alford, Pythonesquely – they show me the Bottler and the BootBanger.

They drag beer kegs into the boot of an old blue Nissan Almera, explaining that these were a favoured IRA device: who questions a few beer kegs in the street? First, they stick a Bottler between the front seats, showing how you would disrupt any electronics without setting the vehicle on fire – which would destroy forensic evidence. “They’d usually use a robot,” explains Matt. “And the robot usually leaves [the area], because they’re expensive.” A six-wheeler bomb disposal robot costs around £750,000.

We retreat again to the hut. I must be looking increasingly nervous, because Alford tries to reassure me about the building’s structural integrity: “If it tips over, it will take two weeks to get you out. But they’ll know where to find your body.”

As promised, the explosion is focused – and controlled, in the Alford-approved sense of the word. The windscreen is peeled back, lying on the roof, but the fuel tank didn’t ignite and the back windows are intact. “I know it might look like a mess,” says Matt, “but this would be classified as a result. You use a smaller bit of explosive to get rid of a larger one.”

Finally, it’s time for the big one. Matt slides the BootBanger, shaped like a suitcase, under the back end of the car. It has a curved sheet of 400g of plastic explosive through the middle, sandwiched by water on both sides and encased in nondescript grey plastic.

Now this is a bigger bang. I suddenly see the point of all those “Blasting!” warning signs that surround the quarry. If you drove past and heard this, you’d think the Russians had invaded. As an orange-red flame flashes and a deep, throaty boom fills the quarry, the beer kegs are fired out of the back of the car, pinwheeling 20 feet in the air and coming to rest yards away. Debris rains down on the roof of the hut. I swear I can hear the plinking sound of metal cooling. The car is now missing its back windscreen, and is, it’s fair to say, probably never going to pass another MOT. Nevertheless, it is still recognisably car-shaped; the skeleton is undisturbed.

Unfazed, Alford hurries to the car, and plucks a piece of paper from the boot, clearly left there by a previous owner. It is undamaged.

And then it’s time to rejoin the real world. As he drives me back to Bath, I ask Alford what it feels like to do what he does. He has saved possibly hundreds, maybe thousands of lives. “Yes, but in an already over-populated world,” he sighs.

I know he doesn’t mean it callously; he just doesn’t want credit for what, in his eyes, is barely a job at all. The schoolboy who wanted to make a bigger bang got his wish. 

Helen Lewis is deputy editor of the New Statesman. She has presented BBC Radio 4’s Week in Westminster and is a regular panellist on BBC1’s Sunday Politics.

This article first appeared in the 09 August 2010 issue of the New Statesman, The first 100 days