Short Story: Pinched Election

As Reg shook the puddle water from his sopping ankles, he cursed the old Prime Minister. It was a short jog from his rickety car to the County Council offices, but he was now wet, cold, and fed up. The summer would have been a lovely time for a by-election, instead he’d spent miserable December days reporting on who would be the politician’s successor. Not to be Prime Minister of course, but the MP for Cholmondeley-upon-Pond.
Being the former Prime Minister’s seat, this by-election attracted many no-hopers and jokers to stand as candidates. During the last election only two years ago, when the MP was PM, it had been a fun prospect. The national media descended on the usually sleepy area, creating a buzz. Their growing frustration at the lack of internet coverage in the local villages had been amusing to witness. Promises made by candidates for the Free Panda Party had been a laugh; in their case they said they’d swap a few members of the Royal family to China to help them fulfil their manifesto. Most importantly though there had been sun and a chance for nice outdoor photographs with all the candidates. This time the photographs were all grainy indoor snaps, the joke parties seemed inappropriate given the former Prime Minister’s condition and the wider media hadn’t turned up. There was little to arouse excitement, even for political junkies like Reg. The incumbent party’s nominee was an anonymous seat filler who had recently resigned their post in the City to pursue more honest work.
Reg sighed as he looked up at the stage. There stood the twelve people who’d filled most of his waking hours for the past fortnight. He guessed he’d only had two free hours that weren’t spent travelling to work, cleaning his clothes for work, scrolling social media for work and eating enough to energise him for work. It really shouldn’t have been this way but his colleague at the Cholmondeley Times quit three weeks ago and the conveyor belt of trainees hired in the meantime couldn’t be relied upon. One even dropped the office camera before they’d reached the story.  The overtiming would be over when this foregone by-election finally ended.
Reg raised his camera to take one last photograph of each candidate before the eager sense of hope vanished from their faces. Only the faces of the three main candidates from well-resourced parties were instinctively recognisable to him. Even though the result was certain, he’d worried that under-reporting any of them would have led to abuse and complaints about bias. He’d met, spoke, and featured the other nine candidates out of courtesy and to help fill more newspaper space with different faces.
“We’ve now got the results for the Cholmondeley-upon-Pond by-election.”
The returning officer’s tannoyed voice rolled throughout the room, ending all private conversations of the factions who filled the sports’ hall. Some tipsy suited men at the back started a low ‘owwwwwww…..’ chant in anticipation of the first result.
“Hey, now enough of that, this is politics, not a pantomime,” the returning officer scolds. “Anyway, let’s get through the results for the thirteen candidates.”
‘Thirteen?’ thought Reg, there were twelve on stage. He scanned the faces to see which acquaintance he’d missed. He couldn’t recollect who.
“Stanley Ramsay, Free Panda Party! 29 votes.”
“Wahey!” yelled the rowdy boys. It wasn’t enough to get the £500 deposit back, but it wasn’t a bad effort for a joke, Reg thought as his ears zoned out the names and numbers for the other no-hopers. He decided to focus all his attention on the favourite candidate, a big cheeked smile across their face, which grew as they heard their ego-boosting vote count.
“18,187.”
That was probably going to be over half of the vote, it was more than all the other results combined so far. The other main parties had done surprisingly poorly, they’d probably lost several thousand votes compared to last time. Perhaps they hadn’t tried very hard. Reg allowed himself to imagine this was a show of reverential respect for the former occupier of Number 10. Still though, he couldn’t help wondering what this new candidate offered, they’d only promised to ‘carry on the legacy of our unfortunate but gallant former leader.’ Reg had compared this candidate’s voting opinions to their predecessor and found they were the same for most issues. Sometimes they even used the same phrases in speeches. Well, the voters had wanted it last time and the old Prime Minister’s strategy wasn’t the thing that people thought was broken.
Reg was aware he resented this candidate after their response to his questions on homelessness. He had been pretty chuffed with his discovery that the homeless population had risen alarmingly according to the local councils. The main reason he’d been pleased was that, for once, he hadn’t learnt of this through his editor shoving a charity press release under his nose, the most efficient means of filling the newspaper and keeping clicks coming to the website. Reg found this through old-fashioned contacts in the council who’d told him they’d seen a 300% increase in registered voters putting their residence down as ‘bench on the High Street’ or ‘field next to that one with the brown cows in Doltlepool.’ The rise was a mystery to local charities, who hadn’t seen themselves overwhelmed by service users. Some suggested to Reg that these newcomers must have bypassed the hostels and slept rough instead.
When Reg had mentioned this to the favourite, they answered: ‘We have taken great leaps in recent decades, but stubborn and persistent poverty still exists. So we need a more targeted strategy for those most in need of help, focusing on tackling the root causes like worklessness and family instability.’
When Reg had pressed as to what this ‘strategy’ involved, the favourite candidate said they would ‘have to speak to their party first.’ Reg wouldn’t let them just defer their answer after he’d put so much work in, so he asked the candidate to explain how they could talk of ‘great leaps’ when the homeless population was growing. The favourite finally came up with a usable quote when they argued back that, ‘the generosity of the Cholmondeley people has probably attracted more homeless here.’ Reg had thrown in one final question by asking if these destitute voters worried the favourite, seeing as their party was not known for its generosity to them. They’d airily said: ‘I will do my best to represent everyone in Cholmondeley.’ This sentiment irked Reg. Of course they couldn’t represent everyone, whoever wins would have to make decisions that hurt some people, that’s what this new job was all about. Reg wanted to say this but knew he needed this more-than-likely-soon-to-be MP to give him quotes for the next three years, therefore he couldn’t ask anything that may have them boycotting the Cholmondeley Times.
The favourite had also been presumptuous to say: ‘I will do my best.’ That was the sort of thing you reserved for a victory speech. But as Reg watched them beaming on stage, listening to more rival names and numbers being read aloud, some not even making double figures, he’d known this confidence was well placed. He readied his camera, zooming in on the rosy expression of the most popular person in a fifteen-mile radius, awaiting the final result that confirmed them an £80,000-a-year job, with entry into a state pension scheme, and free expenses for most of their postage.
“Wendy Walker, Rights Not Charity party,” the returning officer announced before pausing.
For the sixteenth time tonight, Reg cursed someone as his poised hands shook, awaiting the moment of confirmed ecstasy on the leading candidate’s face. The returning officer cleared their throat into the mic, causing a high-pitched whine that made everyone wince.
“20,763.”
The smile slowly drained from the face of the now second placed candidate. It disappeared via the tiniest increments like water through a hairy plughole. The hubbub of the crowd echoed off the pine floor and brick walls. Reg snapped a photo of the unsmiling candidate, who resembled the jilted party at the altar, before jerking his camera from his eye so he could search for his new headline. He couldn’t recall what face he was looking for. He had met Wendy Walker, he had made a point to meet all the candidates. The last fortnight had been such a blur though, no memory surfaced as he studied the faces of the eleven other people on stage. Over the noise, the returning officer declared that Ms Walker was ‘officially’ the new Member for Cholmondeley-upon-Pond.
“Fix! Fix!” the rowdy boys at the back yelled in unison over the ongoing conversations that all began with ‘Who...’, ‘What…’, ‘When…’, ‘Where…’, ‘Why…’ and ‘How…’ Most of the candidates shook hands with one another, collectively congratulating their ability to make a spectacle of themselves, putting their sense of importance and humour to the test. A few tried to shake the hand of the runner-up, but their gestures weren't acknowledged as the no-cigar candidate stared off into space. Eventually a middle-aged woman appeared next to the returning officer and whispered a few words to him that led to her gaining control of the microphone. She was not Wendy Walker; Reg knew he didn’t know that face. The unknown woman approached with a giddy smile, snatched straight from second place’s face.
“Good evening everyone, my name is Mrs Maxwell, not Wendy obviously,” she laughed, pleased but flustered, giving off the impression that the by-election was over and a school nativity was about to start. Reg’s camera was up again, taking photographs of her before quickly turning to capture the befuddled faces of her audience. “I am not going to give a speech in Wendy’s absence, but she just wants to say she’s very thankful for everyone who voted for her and says she will try to serve Cholmondeley-upon-Pond by consulting and listening to what your needs and wants are.” With that Mrs Maxwell disappeared from Reg’s sight as she walked off stage. He dropped his camera around his neck again before dodging between the human obstacles between him and the answer to everyone’s question: “Where is the MP for Cholmondeley-upon-Pond?”


“The last couple of years have been the most challenging but most satisfying I have experienced,” the soon-to-be-former Prime Minister stated to the packed House of Commons. He’d met the eyes of colleagues staring down at him. His seat wouldn’t fit behind the dispatch box from where he’d delivered previous speeches. Instead, his chair backed onto an empty bit of green leather further along, his feet protruding over the red lines into territory where he was technically not allowed to speak from.
“I regret I must stand down my position,” he said slowly nodding his head, on the verge of tears. “This is not the end of me… in politics but…” He paused his speech but still bobbed his head as he searched for more eyes in his smartly dressed audience. After many seconds of silence, the other MPs stood to applaud the seated Prime Minister, tears flowed down his cheeks.
The video faded to black.
Reg closed YouTube before it used more phone data. He returned his attention to the ward receptionist still printing out a visitor pass. He bit his tongue to prevent himself asking, ‘are you nearly done?’ He’d driven as quickly as he could across six miles of Cholmondeley’s county to a hospital in a neighbouring town. It gave him time to argue with his editor over the phone as they’d collectively tried to work out what had happened. Reg wished he stood up to his editor more, she exploited his story hunting addiction to the point that he worked criminally long weeks. He should just say no, she had no leverage over him, if he left there’d be no reliable space filler in the newspaper. But he struggled to say no, partly because he felt like he had to be a ‘good team player’ no matter how heavy the order - that, plus a baseless faith that the next story would be his biggest. This time he could be right.
Reg’s editor found out that at twenty-three years of age, Wendy Walker would be the new Baby of the House. She’d watched Wendy’s video interview on the Cholmondeley Times website and talked Reg through it as he drove. In her opinion, Wendy hadn’t given off the impression of youthfulness, she spent her entire time in an armchair and with enormous bags under her eyes. Reg had recorded this interview and he now gradually recalled how disengaged he’d been during it. After doing nine interviews in a day, all of his thoughts had been of his bed. He remembered giving up thinking of any probing questions after hearing Wendy talk breezily about how most of her policies would come from consultations with her constituents through assemblies, to see what they really thought about the economy, recycling, potential wars, and so on. The only thing she promised to do without asking anybody first was to always vote in favour of enhancing human rights for people struggling mentally or physically. Despite his autopilot reporting job, Mrs Maxwell assured him that Wendy would be happy to speak to him again, passing on Wendy’s thanks for the opportunity to persuade a few more members of the electorate to vote for her.
Reg’s editor couldn’t see much evidence of Wendy’s campaign online, where did her support come from? As much as it pained Reg to think it, they couldn’t have all been Cholmondeley Times readers. He tried to recall anything about Wendy, but all he could picture was curly dark hair like a mistreated ball of yarn. He hoped the video of Parliament he’d just seen would give him more of an idea about Wendy. Mrs Maxwell had asked him to watch it before seeing the new member for Cholmondeley.
The former Prime Minister’s resignation was a moment he remembered; he’d watched it live on television along with the rest of a teary-eyed nation. Even the PM’s fiercest opponents and backbenchers cried as they saw this relatively young man struggle to come to terms with his spinal injuries sustained during a friendly game of rugby. After returning from hospital, he tried to resume his position as Prime Minister but, in the end, had decided to resign in order to focus on his health. His final promise in office was to wiggle his big toe by Christmas. That was two months ago. Reg remembered most of what had happened but felt a need to watch it again in full, hoping it would reveal hidden details about Wendy Walker. He saw nothing that made him any the wiser to who she was.
The receptionist passed the lanyard to Reg and gave him the go-ahead to enter the ward. The room was clean and blue but gave off the smell of stale urine. Reg scrunched his nose as he searched for bed 15. Rounding a corner, he spotted the tangled dark hair in a hospital bed. Wendy was as pale as a plug socket, extenuating the frailness of her skinny body. She faced away from Reg as he approached her, speaking to a woman with greying shoulder-length hair, a tanned suit with a cream turtleneck sweater and sporting a golden Phoenix broach. They were still in conversation when Reg reached the foot of Wendy’s bed. He caught their excited conversations about train journeys to London before he quietly cleared his throat and introduced himself.
“Wendy Walker?”
A huge toothy grin spread across the bed-ridden MP’s face as she turned to face Reg.
“Ah, you must be the newshound!”
Reg jumped as the older woman burst into sound, a loud voice of received pronunciation somehow even posher than her appearance.
“Errr…yes,” Reg stumbled as his ears adjusted to being spoken to in such a manner. He noticed the champagne glass in the woman’s hand and the half-empty bottle next to Wendy’s bed. He didn’t spot a second glass. “I’m from the Cholmondeley Times.”
“But of course you are, Maxwell said you were en route. I’m Emily and this, well you know who this is,” she said turning to Wendy.
Reg actually knew more about ‘Emily’ than he did Wendy, finally recognising her as the Lady of Lothianshire who owned Cholmondeley Hall, the largest estate in the county. Three months before, she caused a local outcry when she’d announced the grounds would be closed to visitors. Reg had made a story based on a press release from the estate and some tweets from disappointed people who’d had plans.
“Nice to meet you again Reg,” a still beaming Wendy said as he took a seat next to her bed.
Memories of their initial meeting came back to Reg as Wendy started to answer some questions on the record. The conversation hadn’t changed much since last time. Wendy repeated her promise to use local public consultations like polls and citizens’ assemblies to help her decide how to vote in the Commons on things like taxes, benefits, and subsidies. And she doubled down on saying her only steadfast commitments would be on mental health support and human rights, especially for disabled citizens.
The words washed over Reg as he tried to remember other details about that meeting. Wendy had been sitting. In an armchair. In a red-bricked semi-detached house. Reg recalled thinking that was odd, most candidates would prefer to be anywhere but their own house, that’s far too much transparency to show your voters before even being elected.
Reg rolled through his standard questions, holding back the ones he really wanted to ask. Why are you in hospital and who are your supporters? Reg stuck to the mantra to never ask the hard questions first; if the interviewee didn’t like them, they could stop the interview and you’d be left with nothing. They carried on until Reg felt like he’d got enough information to start putting Wendy on the spot.
“Ms Walker, I can’t actually remember seeing you on the campaign trail, did you have a chance to meet any of your supporters before the vote?”
“Well, I’m one here,” Lady Emily butted in. Reg noticed she’d refilled her champagne glass, which she held out for him. “I completely forgot to offer you some, young man.”
“I’m okay thank you, I have to drive back to the office,” Reg declined, struggling to conceal his judgement. “I didn’t actually ask what your relationship is with Ms Walker?”
“Emily is my great-aunt, although honestly she has been more like a mother since I moved to Cholmondeley.”
“Oh, but you don’t live at Cholmondeley Hall but in the village?”
“No, no,” the Lady slurred slightly, “we needed to make space at Cholmondeley for four-thousand of the people who voted for her.”
“I’m…I’m sorry, what were these four-thousand people at your estate for?” Reg’s mind flooded with questions, irritated that he’d missed something on his own news patch. “But… why did you really close it? Were you having a huge party or something?”
“Calm down, young man, we just needed sufficient time for them to register to vote,” Lady Emily said. Her tipsiness brought out further layers of poshness. “Most of them resided in the caravans outside and didn’t enter the hall but we had sufficient facilities to care for the ones who required the assistance.”
“Assistance, how do you mean?” Reg asked, looking between the loose-tongued Lady and the more coherent Wendy.
“Well, I’d say about a third of them did need regular medical and physical help,” Wendy said, “although seeing as how there were quite a few trained carers staying there too we thankfully avoided any emergencies.” Her smile had faded as if unsure this was the kind of information Reg wanted.
“Wait, who were these four-thousand people?” asked Reg. He shook his head as if to untangle his own confusion.
“My great niece’s supporters of course, they came from across the land, not at the same time naturally, just as soon as it became obvious the old Prime Minister was on his last legs.” Lady Emily added, apparently oblivious to the tastelessness of her final phrase. Reg let himself wonder whether he could use it as an online headline to stir up the comment section.
“And why have they come to vote here?” Reg enquired.
“Well, I think a lot of them are angry that the Prime Minister’s party is cheating the community out of representation,” Wendy said tentatively. “At least that is the argument I saw circulating in WhatsApp conversations.”
Reg didn’t know where to begin with that last statement, so he just looked between both Wendy and Lady Emily, hoping one would say ‘yes we know this is all very strange.’
“Not all 20,000 in the same WhatsApp group of course, we broke it up by NHS Trusts, charities, veterans’ associations, and campaign groups mostly, just so that it didn’t get too overwhelming.”
Reg’s head began to feel like it was collapsing in on itself, the more information he heard the more lost he felt. What kind of story was he about to write here? Meet the new MP for Cholmondeley or the first draft of the Great Conspiracy of Cholmondeley?
Reg probed into the practicality of how somebody not from Cholmondeley could vote in Cholmondeley. It emerged he had been oblivious of the thousands of people who claimed residence in different parts of the constituency over the last couple of months. They’d not come for work or pleasure but to register their voting address. They’d stayed in or on a property belonging to fellow Wendy supporters and took receipt of a postal vote.
Wendy started to enjoy revealing a few of the details, revelling in the joy of pulling off this bloodless and just about legal coup. She was particularly proud of getting support from thousands of overseas armed services personnel who had registered anonymously in a place that they just said they lived in. Oddly enough they had to sacrifice the least, just having to endure the tedious admin of getting a postal vote. Their sacrifice was small but done in order to back Wendy who’d promised to fight for the interests of many of their former colleagues, those who had given a physical or mental chunk of themselves for their country.
“I must thank my cousin in the Home Office, she let slip that the PM was packing in. He only dragged on so that the party could transition power behind the scenes,” Lady Emily guffawed. “It granted us sufficient time to spread the word around, apparently scores of people didn’t like him saying, ‘I can’t represent the country like this.’”
“Wait no,” blurted Reg, as he tried to fight this bewildering tide of information, “surely that would have been leaked to the press.”
“They weren’t his exact words,” Wendy said, “but he as good as said it. We boiled it down for people we knew, they passed it on to people they knew, we told them to keep quiet about it so that we could find a way of making him eat his words. Why does this man need to have a fully working body to be in Number 10? He doesn’t have a head injury keeping him from making decisions or anything.”
Wendy’s words burnt with an unrestrainable energy, which Reg hadn’t allowed himself to contemplate from this young, sick woman stuck in a hospital bed. As he’d listened to all of this shadowy vote manipulating, he’d just wanted to say: ‘this isn’t fair.’ And yet the sight of this woman, younger than him, had held his tongue, clutched by the same sense of awkwardness that kept him from asking what her condition was.
“What did you think of the Prime Minister’s resignation speech?” asked an unsmiling Wendy.
Having a question thrown at him took Reg aback, he had not prepared, despite the warning from Mrs Maxwell. He saw the verbal tightrope between himself and her desire to ever give him an answer again. He needed this woman to give him answers for three more years.
“It was a very emotional speech, it was upsetting to see the man completely lose faith in himself.” He didn’t mention the tear he shed watching the standing ovation. Wendy gave a gentle nod of acknowledgement. Reg hoped his answer was diplomatic enough.
“I get it. Accepting life won’t be the same again, especially after something sudden like an SCI. But this Prime Minister, you know how privileged he is. Money, ministerial perks, access to incredible care. What message does that send to the rest of us if all he can do is quit? We had to put that right somehow.”
Reg nodded along, unsure of what he could say and hoping Wendy would just keep talking until she made more sense.
“Do you know how many people are classed as ‘disabled’ in this country?” asked Wendy.
“Errr…I… don’t know,” Reg said. The pressure made him aware of screws tightening around his head and made him consider whether he’d ever induced such an effect on anyone.
“How many MPs are disabled?”
“He’s not going to get it Wendy,” Lady Emily said, now looking annoyed with Reg for his knowledge gap. “There are five, young man.”
“Five,” echoed Wendy. “Disabled people make up 22% of this country but only 0.7% of our political representation - if you don’t count the House of Lords, which you shouldn’t.”
This righteousness made Reg a little uneasy. His profession demanded he hear every side and when he heard someone dismiss something, it primed him to be defensive for the dismissed party, in this case the House of Lords. But he prevented his instinct from butting in and instead took a breath — what did Wendy and her supporters want?
“Do you feel like the old Prime Minister let you down?” Reg said as steadily as he could, worried his question may sound stupid.
“He is officially a part of the community,” Wendy sighed bitterly. “He could have stood up for our needs in the country’s most powerful office; he didn’t. He could have shown the world that I can no longer run but I can run a country; he didn’t. Even if the burden of being Prime Minister and adapting to his new body was too great, he could have stayed on as an MP or at least insisted his party put forward another disabled candidate; he couldn’t even do that.”
A stillness came across their section of the ward, broken by occasional beeps that pinched the air. Reg had no response to this resentment for a man he’d assumed was universally admired, spoken of in reverence for his willingness to show his raw emotions to the nation.
“Do you not think it would have been too difficult for a newly disabled person to adapt to their new situation?” Reg said, trying to be as delicate as possible.
Wendy sighed, clearly disappointed by Reg’s insistence on finding criticisms for what she’d done. He, in turn, was annoyed that she was annoyed by his reasonable question. He assumed Wendy’s campaign hadn’t endured much scrutiny from the press or non-supporters. As a candidate, she’d probably only spoken to rooms where most people agreed that she was right. He feared both she and Westminster were not prepared for one another.
“Well, I expect my gaucher’s will get worse, but I still need to stick my neck out. I have a friend who will stand in for my work when I can’t,” Wendy said, a thin crust of politeness barely covering her bubbling irritation. “Of course, I can afford to pay her, even with my student debt I don’t need £80,000 a year.”
“Only because you’re rent free my dear,” the Lady of Lothianshire laughed, her voice now fully slurred.
“But wait, your friend can’t vote for you in the House,” Reg pounced.
“I know, bullshit isn’t it?” Wendy scowled. “Thankfully aunt Emily has a second-home close to Westminster, so even if my condition is terrible, I can be wheeled into the Commons to give an aye or nay.”
Reg sighed as he heard this brave suggestion but wasn’t sure whether he admired Wendy for it or considered her naive. He’d need to keep himself alert to his MP’s fluctuating health and crowd-sourced opinions for the next three years. He already felt exhausted.
Reg gave Wendy licence to tell him anything else on her mind as his inquisitive energy faded. Wendy voiced frustrations at the prospect of always having to physically be in a place to say a simple aye or nay, despite the damage it could do to her health. She promised to introduce a private members’ bill to allow for job sharing by MPs. Wendy envisioned how it could open Parliament up to so many people, not just the likes of herself. Reg could only nod along, wishing he had wrapped up earlier. He had three years to get to know Wendy and he just needed to drive home, file his article for the Cholmondeley Times, send a copy of his interview to the Press Association and fall asleep in any spot that would take him.
At last, Reg hauled himself up and shook the hand of the new MP and her aristocratic and possibly alcoholic aunt. Wendy had recovered her smile after enjoying her chance to paint an image of the future where she could right some ‘bullshit’ wrongs.
“It was nice to speak to you again Reg and I hope to see you again at my Friday surgeries.”

Media saturation of Greta Thunberg could undermine her Climate Change aims

On Tuesday, Stella Creasy MP called on the Government to support the set up of a Citizen's Assembly, one of the key aims of Extinction Rebellion. The Walthamstow MP pointed to the success of Ireland's Citizen Assembly in allowing the country to become the first to divest from fossil fuels because it 'hears the views of everyone, not just the activists, everyone.'

Not only did major news organisations not report this but Extinction Rebellion did not even retweet her speech in Parliament, one directly supporting their aim of not 'leaving the public out on the streets but by bringing them into an actual Citizen's Assembly.' Instead their social media kept focus on the activists; with updates about arrests, George Monbiot clips and Greta Thunberg telling politicians off for not doing enough.

Greta Thunberg is of course right that not enough has been done but the generalness of her speeches perpetuate the dangerous myth that lumps all politicians together as being equally responsible for the climate crisis, Parliamentary voting records show otherwise. This logic can lead many to conclude that the only option is further civil disobedience to bring about systemic change. Creasy and other MPs are making this call for change within Parliament itself but mainstream media and activists outside are not doing enough to press this advantage by helping get the Citizen's Assembly onto the news agenda. This is urgent because as the Easter holidays are up and activists drip back to daily life, it's back to Brexit-Only-News- yay! While Greta Thunberg has successfully reignited the issue occasionally with school strikes, her young-person-making-inspiring-speeches appeal can easily lose its real world impact like "The Girl Who Silenced the World for 5 Minutes." Severn Cullis-Suziki's speeches couldn't stop the stupid ages of the 1990s, Greta Thunberg won't stop the #AgeOfStupid if no Parliamentary change is made beyond a few conversations with Michael Gove.

Why is the systematic change of a Citizen's Assembly important? Because it tries to take everyone's view into account. If drastic climate policies were quickly adopted by the Government and measures imposed on people's everyday lives, what then? Major inconvenience for millions of people, who may quickly reach for their Gilet Jaunes and thus civil disobedience resumes but in the opposite direction. Going green is inevitably inconvenient but it can be made bearable by putting the right measures in place and the places to find these compromises can come from a Citizen's Assembly.

Most British people believe climate change is real, the problem is they don't know how to stop it and feel powerless as a result. As Ireland has shown, experts and 'ordinary people' can actively engage with an issue, have informed discussions and work out solutions together to discover where people's priorities really lie and do so without splitting the country into absolutist camps. Also people with big carbon footprints like drivers, frequent fliers and gas boiler users maybe willing to make changes as many did with the installation of solar power panels and the ill-fated yet good-intentioned drive for diesel. People can change not only through incentives but by knowing their needs have been part of a direct form of democracy before necessary legislation is passed.

Citizen Assembly's admittedly doesn't make for exciting stories, try watching a whole session on Ireland's Citizen's Assembly YouTube page. I've even had to use a clickbait headline about someone else to make it in anyway appealing. Yes it is duller than hearing impassioned speeches from an inspiring teenager and seeing people get arrested but if it gives the means for everyone to get active in going greener, that's all activists like Greta and Extinction Rebellion can ask for and do.

Adam Page's Portfolio of Science stories

Here is just a glimpse of some of the incredible work being done by scientists in Cambridge:

A Cambridge University spin-out has created a device that uses a simple blood test to trace the progress of cancer and Alzheimer’s Disease. The technology – which the company says is as easy to use as a coffee maker – detects proteins which can show the stage of disease in real-time.

 

Cambridge University’s Department of Applied Mathematics and Theoretical Physics are uncovering the mysteries of deserts and avalanches:




Scientists at the Babraham Institute have found a new way to spot the early signs of dementia:

 


A life-saving screening programme for men over 65 has reached its one millionth scan, potentially saving over two hundred lives in the region:




Nano Scientists at the Cavendish Lab have found a new way to mass-produce materials that can instantly change colour:



Conservationists in Cambridgeshire are calling for urgent action to protect Britain’s wildlife – after a report revealed one in ten species were threatened with extinction. The State of Nature report found that since 1970 over half of UK species has seen population decline:




The Cambridge Science Centre offers a glimpse of their next big exhibition to pull in the crowds over the summer season. Looking into the mysteries of the human body – it will take visitors on a journey into life itself:

Best of my Cambridge TV Interviews

These are some of my best examples of extended interviews and studio based work for Cambridge TV. These include interviews with academics, entrepreneurs and even a personal hero of mine. But first we'll start with the evening news...



Newspaper The Cambridge Independent launched in 2016 and I spoke to it's owner Edward Iliffe and managing director Ricky Allen...



My final interview on behalf of Cambridge TV News, which looked into how election results could be swung by the weather...



Cambridge Satchel Company founder Julie Deane OBE was commissioned by the British Government to do a report into self-employment. I spoke to her about her findings...



Waterscope is a company set up by Cambridge University students that's trying to find a way to make it easier for communities in the developing world get hold of safe drinking water...



10 million bibles were printed in Britain during the First World War and Christianity played a key role in the arguments of the pro and anti war movements. Two Cambridge University scholars have embarked on a 2-year project across Europe to find out more about the word of God in times of War...



Interview with the Newnham College Principal Professor Dame Carol Black about the role Newnham plays at the University of Cambridge and about her career...



In the run-up to Cambridge's Festival of Ideas I spoke to Dr Kristina Spohr and Professor David Reynolds ahead of their lecture into Cold War diplomacy...

UK's First Sake Brewery to open in Cambridgeshire

The first Sake brewery in the UK is set to open here in the county – after winning the approval of local councillors. The Japanese company Dojima will be investing around £9million in the business on the estate grounds of Fordham Abbey near Ely. They say their venture should lead to thousands of litres of freshly brewed Sake and over a hundred new jobs for the area.

 

But before building can begin, the owners held a Shinto ceremony...

Artist Impression by Kay Pilsbury Thomas Architects

New brain labs open at Addenbrooke's Hospital

New laboratories pioneering research into neurological disorders have been opened at Addenbrooke’s Hospital.The modernised John Pickard Neurosurgical Laboratories will be extending their ground-breaking work into brain tumours. Today a family who’ve raised hundreds of thousands of pounds to support the service witnessed the naming of one lab after their daughter.

 

Red Wellies set up in memory of Lisa Wiles

Indus Valley was farming rice earlier than thought

Researchers have found that farmers in India were cultivating rice centuries earlier than previously thought. A study by Cambridge University found that agricultural techniques developed in the Indus civilisation produced large yields and varieties of food. The team will now be looking at how the farmers were able to cope with climate change.

 

Pakistan Monument History of Pakistan by 100HOST.COM