There were dog fighting pits in Westminster, and elsewhere, to which the admission was not very easy, for only known persons were allowed to enter. ……there’s next to nothing of this now, unless it is in private among the nobs.
Henry Mayhew
CHAPTER 9 MOBILE BREIFING
James Lancaster would have run if there weren’t so many bloody people pretending to be busy. “Excuse me. Thank you. Thank you excuse me.” The usual crowd queuing by the photocopier and coffee machine. He’d have to see if they could move into a side office. But it was only recently they’d been moved out of a side office to make way for someone’s desk. There were too many people here “Excuse me.” Perhaps if they gutted Number 10 and made it open plan like the offices along Whitehall.
“Ah James.” Smiled the Deputy Prime Minister. “There you are. All ready are we?”
“Yes Sir.” The Deputy PM should have said “Sir James”, not just James. But Sir James Lancaster had never quite achieved the gravitas to be “Sir”. Perhaps if he looked older? Dyed his temples grey?
“Good.” The Deputy PM walked forwards knowing that the door to Number 10 would open as he got there, the Constable outside would be saluting. Knowing news men on the other side of Downing Street would catch every second for posterity, or at least the evening news if he did something stupid. Knowing the car door would be opened for him and knowing James would get in on the other side of the limo and open his lap top.
The DPM smiled self confidently as the car started . He nodded to the constables at the gates of Downing Street, but he didn’t wave to the small crowd of tourists. The Monarch did waving. Politicians didn’t. He settled back in the cloth seat, (not leather because it might offend bloody vegetarians.) “So James. What’s the briefing?”
“Well Sir. This is the company your going to see at Britton Ferry.”
“Now that’s the place between the M4 and Neath isn’t it. Used to be that big scrap yard along the bank, you could see it from where the M4 crossed the river.”
“I believe so Sir.”
“Awful bloody place. ”
“Better not say that Sir. It’s now a high tech facility making these underwater windmill things. Tidemills.”
“Yes.”
“This part is all about the benefits of tidal power Sir. Government policy here. The Friends of The Earth here, and Greenpeace.”
“They’re all on board for this are they?”
“Mostly Sir. The tidemills are underwater so they cant spoil views like windmills. They may stop coastal erosion if sited properly. The tides are predictable, not like the wind. They don’t produce carbon dioxide or any pollutants. Well, probably no pollutants. They cost more to build than windmills, but that could come down with mass production. Also wind farm sites with easy access are used up, so it may be a case of helicopters dropping windmills on mountain tops, versus a barge dropping these things on the ocean bed. And, although the cables are waterproof, and therefore more expensive per meter, they don’t need pylons or poles to carry them and there’s no problems with paying for the land, or rights of way or anything.”
“But at the moment they are more expensive.”
“Yes Sir. But the price should come down soon and be more competitive.”
“And what else. You said probably no pollutants.”
“Yes Sir. There is a slight risk of the lubricating oil leaking out, but its water soluble, bentonite slurry. There’s some possibility of it suffocating sponges and anemones.”
“Suffocating bloody sponges?”
“Yes Sir, afraid so. And of course the revolving blades may hurt large fish. Apparently small ones are just pushed aside by a bow wave as the blades go round.”
“By larger fish, do you mean whales?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Are we going to have bloody sliced up whales being washed ashore?”
“Probably not often. I believe they have a likelihood of one large cetacean every seventeen and a half years.”
“Bloody statisticians. Suffocating sponges we can ignore, but not shredded whales.”
“No Sir.”
“Whales in Wales. God.”
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