“Ludo Boche,” she said, pointing a glossy pink fingernail in Ludo’s direction. The noise died down.
“Minister, where does nuclear energy figure in this new policy? Is nuclear good or bad? And what does this mean for the plans for a nuclear power plant at Newton Bardon?”
It was a good question, and one I had written down on my notepad. Bonus: it saved me asking it. I still had one question left, and I was determined to ask it. No one wanted to be the reporter who failed to ask a question at a press conference on a story as big as this. Carstairs nodded, indicating she would take Ludo’s question.
“Obviously, many people would like us not to use nuclear energy at all,” she said. “I have some sympathy with this view, and I’m sure we will eventually transition away from it completely as new, competitive technologies emerge. But where we do use nuclear—let me be very clear about this—it should be British-owned and British-built, and provide jobs for British people.”
Carstairs was now well beyond the usual government talking points. This amounted to a wholesale gutting of her cabinet colleague Bob Wynn-Jones and his dodgy Belarusian business deal.
“So, is the Leicestershire plant on or off?” Ludo said, asking the sensible follow-up question. I felt oddly proud of him. He couldn’t have been to too many press conferences. They could be terrifying early in your career. It was like being a newly minted Roman senator on the day they decided to kill Caesar. At first, you’re hovering at the back, unsure what’s going on. But you soon realise you’re going to have to plunge the dagger in yourself eventually, otherwise your career and reputation are toast. It’s only then you realise that everyone else is hacking away at the emperor’s body so enthusiastically that they’re never going to stop to give you the knife. You have to jump in there and grab it yourself.
“Individual projects and investments will go to an independent panel, the make-up of which is yet to be decided,” Carstairs said. “But all funded projects must be British-owned and -operated.”
I jumped in to ask the last question on my page.
“Minister, this has essentially been an energy policy announcement. Why are you making it and not the energy secretary? Where is Bob Wynn-Jones? And what does this say about his political future?”
“I’m the minister responsible for climate change,” she said. “OK, that’s enough questions. Torsten will give a copy of the press release with all the details. Shall we get some pictures?”
Just like that, it was over. Carstairs turned her attention to the camera guy and the photographer, and the press pack dispersed across the platform of the rig to make phone calls and brief their bosses back in their newsrooms. Ludo was buried in his fancy-schmancy Dictaphone, saving the audio file of the press conference. I took a moment to process what Carstairs had just said, working out my angle. Could a British government genuinely be taking net zero seriously? Incredible, if true. But something feltoff. My journalistic radar was pinging. I wandered over to Ludo.
“What did you think?” I said.
“She appears to have lopped off the energy secretary’s bollocks and turned them into a very haute couture pair of earrings.”
“She’s certainly emptied his inbox for him.”
“Quite.”
“Why, though? Why her? And why now?”
Ludo shrugged.
“Bit of good press before a likely reshuffle?”
That was plausible, up to a point. But this kind of announcement required cabinet approval. Where were the other ministers, muscling their way into photos to share the glory? This didn’t pass the sniff test.
“Maybe,” I said.
Ludo and I wandered off in separate directions and made our phone calls to our newsrooms. JT wanted five hundred words for the website, a page lead for the morning paper, and an analysis piece looking at all the unanswered questions. Cathy and the team would chase up comments from the opposition, oil and gas companies, and environmental groups and keep an eye on Greta Thunberg’s socials. When we’d finished the call, I opened WhatsApp and sent VladPop a message.
Sunny:Why is Carstairs making energy announcements if Wynn-Jones has the PM’s full support?
He replied almost instantly.
Vladimir Popov:How are my little lovebirds enjoying their island honeymoon?
This was the text message equivalent of the dead cat strategy: if you don’t like the topic up for discussion, throw a dead cat on the table so everyone talks about the dead cat and not the thing you don’t want them talking about. I wasn’t falling for it.
Sunny:Unless I hear something very convincing to change my mind, I’m going to write that Bob Wynn-Jones is about to be sacked.
It took VladPop a little longer to reply this time.
Vladimir Popov:You must write as you see fit. I would not seek to unduly influence a member of the fourth estate.
That was as good as confirmation. A second later, another message arrived.
Vladimir Popov:Come and see me in the constituency office when you’re back in London on Friday morning.
