You can’t park here: the big electric lie

£72,000 to you

We’re surrounded by liars and charlatans at the moment, so you almost don’t know where to start really. The Guardian has recently changed its style guide, and is now referring to “climate crisis” and “climate breakdown” rather than “climate change”. This seems sensible, as I believe it was someone in the Bush administration who came up with “climate change” as a way of dismissing the anthropogenic nature of global warming, which the Guardian is now calling “global heating”.

Words are important, of course, and maybe the thinking is beginning to be a bit joined up. But not all the way.

Unfortunately, newspapers need to sell advertising, and in order to do that they need to generate clicks. One of the ways the Guardian does this, believe it or not, is to review new cars (and sometimes bicycles) in its Lifestyle section. Now, your traditional image of a Guardian reader is probably a school teacher or sociology professor in a chunky jumper, someone with a cupboard full of different olive oils and some mouldering bags of brown rice.

Recent cars reviewed in the Wheels section of the Guardian include the Citroen C5 Aircross (£23,000, quite reasonable); the Bentley Continental GT (um, £159,000 – that’s an expensive Volkswagen); the Seat Cupra Ateca (£36,000 – another expensive VW); and the Honda CRV (£28,000, no VW parts involved). So three crossover/SUVs and a luxury coupé. And today: The Jaguar I-Pace, £58,000 worth of electric SUV.

Reviews like this aren’t aimed at Dr Chunky Jumper or Professor Brown Rice. They’re designed to garner page views on the interwebs, with comments often disabled because they’re all essentially the same comment anyway.

But there we are: an electric vehicle, in the same class as a Tesla, or the forthcoming expensive offerings from Audi and Mercedes. Electric vehicles for wealthy people. You might see the odd one around, in addition to the smaller and slightly cheaper offerings from Renault, Nissan, and so on.

But here’s what has been vexing me lately. I was imagining a scenario in which I had an electric vehicle with a range of, say, 280 miles, like that Jaguar. So my regular trips to France, a 560-mile journey, could theoretically be managed on two full charges, but it’s not that simple. First of all, is that 280 mile range with a driver and no passengers and no luggage? What about, say, three passengers, and their luggage? What about three passengers and their luggage in December, in the middle of the night? And let’s also take into account the fact that the last 20% of a charge takes much longer than the first 80%, so that most electric car drivers are going to be managing about 200 miles, then needing to stop for 40-60 minutes to top it up to 80%. A Nissan Leaf, by the way, can manage about 150 miles.

Which means my 560-mile drive to France is going to need two lengthy stops at high speed charging stations.

Fine. That would work, in a world in which I am one of the few people wealthy enough to own an EV with a 280-mile range. Because I could, say, drive to the Channel Tunnel, park in a charging bay for an hour before boarding, then stop again around Reims for another boost. Another 40 minute stop just before leaving the motorway network near Langres, and I could probably be home and dry with charge to spare. And we’ve added a couple of hours to an 11-hour journey, bearable: unless you’re the cat.

Act only according to that maxim whereby you can, at the same time, will that it should become a universal law.[1]

What Kant meant by this, if I may, is that you could only consider an action ethical if it would be okay for everybody to do the same thing.

There are around 100,000 electric vehicles on the road in the UK. But there are about 31 million cars (source). If you go to a shopping centre or the channel tunnel terminal or a motorway service station, you might find 6-12 high speed charging bays. To charge that Jaguar up to 80% in 40 minutes, you need a 100kW point. Let’s say that up to 12 Eurotunnel customers can currently be driving one of these high-end cars.

There’s a reason they’re high end: because it would not be okay, and would not be feasible or practical for too many more people to be driving them. This, for me, violates Kant’s categorical imperative.

The National Grid estimates that EVs will generate an additional 18GW of demand by 2050 (source). That’s 18 billion watts. Or 180,000 cars using 100kW charging bays. Obviously, you could have more cars using, say, domestic supply and charging slowly overnight, but those figures don’t seem to suggest that 31 million electric cars will eventually replace the 31 million internal combustion engine cars on the road. And I wonder who’s going to install all the infrastructure, and then how it will be paid for. Because half of UK households have to park their cars on the street.

At the moment, electric car ownership is subsidised by the taxpayer. So those Jaguar I-Pace and Tesla owners get £3,500 off the taxpayer towards their £60,000 cars, and they get convenient charging bays in prime locations: you know, like disabled people do. I don’t know about you, but that gives me a warm feeling inside.

Can you imagine what happens when “the rest of us” want to drive electric? First of all, the welfare-for-the-rich £3,500 subsidy will disappear. Then the price of charging will go up, to pay for the additional infrastructure, and also there will be a queue. Your long journey will involve several 40-minute charging sessions and several 40-minute waits for a free charging bay. The cat/dog/ferret will absolutely love it.

Can you imagine the rage sessions when people who have been waiting 40-minutes for a bay are gazumped by a recent arrival with a Mercedes EQC and an overdeveloped sense of entitlement?

All of which leads me to the conclusion that this electric car revolution is not going to be a thing. Unless you can afford a £58,000 car.

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April in Paris

April 2018 Paris - 12My wife was running the Paris Marathon, so we were in Paris (and environs) for the weekend. Our place in France is about 5 hours drive from Paris, but B has a cousin who lives in the ‘burbs, and they very generously put us up for the weekend, and ferried us to and from the RER station, so we could catch the train without worrying about parking etc.

The RER was more or less unaffected by the national strikes affecting the SNCF network, so there was no issue getting into town. The RER is a regional network of commuter trains, something like the DLR, I guess, though the trains are long double deckers, so you’re less likely to spend a whole journey on your feet than you are in England.

Saturday was the day for picking up the race number and after we’d done that, we had a bit of a walk around. I didn’t want to queue for anything, or pay for anything, so we did just that, apart from at lunchtime, when I overpaid for an undercooked gluten-free pizza at a restaurant that offered that speciality. (There are a lot of pizza restaurants in Paris, by the way.)

The first spot I was keen to see was the Île de la Cité, for the simple reason that it’s a key location in my favourite Tim Powers novel, Declare. I didn’t have an epiphany, though, so we had a look at the queue to get into Notre Dame Cathedral (these kind of places always make me think of Don DeLillo’s Most Photographed Barn in America* in White Noise) and then crossed the Pont Notre Dame (bloke playing an accordion? Check), passed the Hotel de Ville and walked to look at the Pompidou centre.

It was quiet at first, but as the day wore on, the streets and cafés became a lot more crowded. We’ve always been early morning people, quite out of synch with French habits. It was clear that, even on a Saturday, people didn’t rock into town until lunchtime (even then, sitting down for lunch later than in rural France), and then set out for serious sightseeing and shopping in the afternoon.

I won’t complain too much about the undercooked pizza: it’s by no means the first such I’ve eaten in France, so can’t solely be blamed on the glutard crust, which does typically require a longer cooking time. My other half had a salad that she enjoyed, and at least they did Vezelay gf beer.

After lunch, we wandered around the left bank’s narrow streets, stopping for a Coke when the amount of walking we were doing threatened to ruin the methodical Marathon preparations. 

When we visited Berlin, my phone recorded 60,000 steps for the 3-day stay, and Paris wasn’t quite that extreme. By Saturday’s end, I’d walked 10km, had done nearly 16,000 steps. Given that B does about 1.5 for each one of mine, she was on 24,000. These prosaic details are what such visits are built upon. You either stand around in queues, sit around underground, or put in the miles. I always put in the miles.

Which is what I did on Sunday, with about 5 hours to kill while B ran the race. I checked in on her at 26km (near the Jardin des Tuileries), and then timed my arrival at the finish to coincide with hers. She took it easy, enjoyed the views, and suffered a lot less than she did for the London run last year.

Meanwhile, I walked from the Arc de Triomphe to the Paris Opera, and then down to Les Halles shopping centre. The streets were eerily quiet: a lot of the traffic had been cut off by the street closures, and I guess a lot of people were avoiding the area anyway. By the afternoon, Paris was back to its horn honking, impatient, irrational self as far as traffic was concerned. But I had the pleasure of crossing nearly deserted streets against the lights and enjoying the city as it ought to look more of the time. I’m a big proponent of banning motor vehicles from city centres altogether. There were bikes for hire all over the place, including those Chinese ones that just get left anywhere. I was tempted to download the app and use one, but I felt more confident navigating on foot, and didn’t want some dodgy bicycle hire company having access to my bank account.

I knew I’d need the loo at some point and also that France is extremely reluctant to provide decent public toilets, so my day revolved around arranging a couple of expensive pees. This started with the withdrawal of some cash, which was quite an operation. My wallet was zipped into one of the two rucksacks I was carrying, and I didn’t want to faff around with it while I was at the cashpoint itself, so I did all that down the street and across the road, and then wandered over to withdraw the money. The majority of people around at this time seemed to be shambling wrecks, people who looked through bins and talked to themselves, or yelled incoherently at passers by. This is not to say that Paris has more of a homeless problem than anywhere else. In fact, you can see more street people on a visit to Belfort than I did in Paris.

Two €10 notes weren’t going to get me a wee, so I then had to make change. Once I reached Les Halles, I found the target toilets: 50¢ entry, but nice and clean. Around the corner was a Starbucks, so I went and got myself a big Americano. What was I thinking, going to a Starbucks, underground, in the city of a million cafés? Well. No reason. But I sometimes can’t be doing with the faff of table service, and since I was on my own, I wasn’t obliged to. Also, shipmates, as bad as Starbucks coffee is, the French can’t make a decent espresso either, so let’s not pretend those pavement coffees are worth having. And, no, I didn’t want to sit on my own at a corner café. Instead of meeting an intriguing woman in that romantic setting, I was more likely to be approached by a dreadlocked homeless person.

Having filled up on the Americano, I pissed it away for 50¢, which felt like money well spent.

I then walked down the Seine to kilometre 26, waved at my wife, and then wandered into the Tuileries, waved at the Louvre pyramid, and found a place to sit down to eat some lunch.

I probably went for the second pee too early. But I needed to get across to the Avenue Foch for the fucking finish, so I paid 80¢ for the privilege of pissing near the Place de la Concorde. And set off along the Seine again. The closest I got to the Eiffel Tower was the Palais de Tokyo, from where I set off up the hill and down again to the crowded finish line.

I was there about 20 minutes before my other half. The grass was damp, so I sat on her pre-race jumper, which I’d had permission to throw away if it became too burdensome.

Sunday step total: 21,428

Saturday: 15,994

Total: 37,422

Total spent to pee: €1.30

Sights seen: lots.

Seine-side joggers who were visibly irritated by the presence of Marathon crowds: 3.

*Nobody sees the barn.

Building their way out of a recession

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France seems determined to fund large and small infrastructure projects to build its way out of the recession. So while a lot of the shops are closing down, or look like they’re about to, the roads are being dug up all over the place. There are even rumours that we in Auxelles Bas will be put on the mains drainage system in a couple of years.

In Belfort, the thrust is towards a laudable public transport policy, with buses and hire bikes (no trams, as far as I can tell) to go along with the recent extension of the TGV to the city. There are also road and traffic calming projects out in the villages and suburbs. The French motoring class only have themselves to blame for some of these crazy schemes.

For example, in Giromagny, there’s a long stretch of straight road, speed limit 50 kmh, along which drivers tend to speed, in spite of the fact that people live along there, and there are cyclists, dogs, children, and pedestrians crossing the road to go to the Intermarché. So the planners have put in chicanes, arbitrary stop signs, changed road priorities, etc., just to make it impossible to build up any speed. In Chapelle sous Chaux, for similar reasons, they have chicanes, horrible steep speed bumps, and more work in progress. If only French drivers would take the hint and slow down.

I’ve always thought Belfort was a bit of a dump. A pedestrianised shopping black hole, but the current infrastructure works are revealing some of its beauty.

Across the river, where we don’t usually venture, there’s a charmless Monoprix (though the food hall is worth a visit), and not much else – or so I thought. Actually, there’s what they call la vielle ville, the old centre of town, before ill-fated 1980s infrastructure projects killed it off, so it goes.

Those 80s blocks of flats, conveniently located for the new 4As shopping centre, with its cinema and bowling alley, the health centre, library, and social security building, are now pretty fucking horrible, with the 4As largely deserted and the cinema long closed down. You still go through it to get to the pedestrian zone, where most of the retailers still are, but walking around the old town the other day, I couldn’t help thinking that if I was running Cache Cache or Sephora, or Fnac, I’d rather be over there.

The old town has more attractive buildings, narrower streets, what might be a pretty central square (if it wasn’t also a car park), and lots of restaurants. There is also, it turns out a proper hat shop (I bought a €59 hat, to support the local economy), a children’s book shop, and a few other places to have a browse. In addition, the fortifications, the Lion, and an Italian deli.

It comes down to this. The car is the problem, and has always been the problem, with modern city life. You don’t need a car in a city. They block up the streets, make too much noise, and turn towns like Belfort (and my home town of Dunstable) into ugly monstrosities. Bowing down before the private motorist, town planners from the 60s onwards ripped the hearts out of town centres and created, what? Nothing but an empty shell, a memory of better living.

If you drive to a city, your car should be left on the outskirts. If you live in one, you should walk, bike, or take the bus/tram. If the streets were quieter, if you could cross them without dodging parked and moving cars, they would be a better place to be.

Everybody in a car, and I include myself, is a cunt, just for being there. As you crawl over speed bumps, dodge through chicanes, and stop at arbitrary junctions, it should be obvious to anyone in a car that the problem is you.