Fear of "super casinos" must not prevent us reforming gambling laws

The UK's outdated gambling legislation still needs updating.

Sir Alan Budd, the distinguished economist who was commissioned by the government to review gambling legislation a decade ago, has described the Blair government’s capitulation to anti-gambling campaigners in the run-up to the 2005 election as “quite shocking”. Budd has rarely commented on casino regulation in the years since he wrote a detailed report for the Department for Culture, Media and Sport in 2002. That publication — known as the Budd Report — recommended that local councils be given the power to decide what gambling activities, if any, would be permitted in their area. The Labour government initially endorsed his recommendations but a subsequent press campaign against so-called "super casinos" led to the Gambling Bill being watered down and the boldest attempts at liberalisation were abandoned.

At a meeting at the Institute of Economic Affairs held to launch the IEA’s review of the 2005 Gambling Act (Seven Years Later: Casinos in the Aftermath of the 2005 Gambling Act), Budd explained that his proposals had not been designed to help the gambling industry, nor to raise extra money for the treasury. The interest of consumers always came first, he said, and their interests were “best left to the market”, albeit within the constraints of what local authorities and the Gambling Commission would countenance.

Reflecting on the government’s panicky response to the Daily Mail’s “Kill the Casino Bill” campaign of 2004-05, Budd accused ministers of “dashing around like frightened rabbits in response to a press campaign”. The government’s climb-down left casinos working in a regulatory environment that was created in the 1960s. The Budd Report set no limit on the number of casino licences that could be issued and would have allowed "resort casinos" of the kind seen abroad which incorporate restaurants, hotels and live music venues. The government later set a limit on such "super casinos" of eight, which was then reduced to one and then, under Gordon Brown, to zero.

Ultimately, casinos and their customers bore the brunt of a government’s pre-election jitters, but whilst the super casino became the symbol of attempted liberalisation, it was always peripheral to the main task of updating the archaic 1968 Gaming Act. In its haste to appease its critics, the government discarded necessary reforms which would have attracted little attention had they not been part of a broader package of deregulation. The casino industry had waited forty years for the gambling laws to be updated, but it never sought the free-for-all that was implied by “unlimited” development.

Sixteen smaller casino licences were created by the legislation but only one has yet been built. Arbitrary planning restrictions, high taxes and regulatory anomalies make it unlikely that more than a handful of new casinos will be built in the years ahead. In total, more than a quarter of the UK’s 202 casino licences are lying dormant. Some towns and cities have more licences than they need while others have none at all. There are, for example, more than twenty casinos in the couple of square miles around Westminster and Chelsea, but go south of the river and you will not find another one until you get to Brighton. The IEA recommends allowing unused licences to be transferred to councils who wish to make use of them. Budd described the think tank’s proposals as “sensible”.

Christopher Snowdon is an IEA Research fellow and author of "Seven Years Later: Casinos in the Aftermath of the 2005 Gambling Act"

The proposed site in Manchester that was announced in 2007 for the UK's first super casino. Photograph: Getty Images
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Over a Martini with my mother, I decide I'd rather not talk Brexit

A drink with her reduces me to a nine-year-old boy recounting his cricketing triumphs.

To the Royal Academy with my mother. As well as being a very competent (ex-professional, on Broadway) singer, she is a talented artist, and has a good critical eye, albeit one more tolerant of the brighter shades of the spectrum than mine. I love the RA’s summer exhibition: it offers one the chance to be effortlessly superior about three times a minute.

“Goddammit,” she says, in her finest New York accent, after standing in front of a particularly wretched daub. The tone is one of some vexation: not quite locking-yourself-out-of-the-house vexed, but remembering-you’ve-left-your-wallet-behind-a-hundred-yards-from-the-house vexed. This helps us sort out at least one of the problems she has been facing since widowhood: she is going to get cracking with the painting again, and I am going to supply the titles.

I am not sure I have the satirical chops or shamelessness to come up with anything as dreadful as Dancing With the Dead in My Dreams (artwork number 688, something that would have shown a disturbing kind of promise if executed by an eight-year-old), or The End From: One Day This Glass Will Break (number 521; not too bad, actually), but we work out that if she does reasonably OK prints and charges £500 a pop for each plus £1,000 for the original – this being at the lower end of the price scale – then she’ll be able to come out well up on the deal. (The other solution to her loneliness: get a cat, and perhaps we are nudged in this direction by an amusing video installation of a cat drinking milk from a saucer which attracts an indulgent, medium-sized crowd.)

We wonder where to go for lunch. As a sizeable quantity of the art there seems to hark back to the 1960s in general, and the style of the film Yellow Submarine in particular, I suggest Langan’s Brasserie, which neither of us has been to for years. We order our customary Martinis. Well, she does, while I go through a silly monologue that runs: “I don’t think I’ll have a Martini, I have to write my column this afternoon, oh sod it, I’ll have a Martini.”

“So,” she says as they arrive, “how has life been treating you?”

Good question. How, indeed, has life been treating me? Most oddly, I have to say. These are strange times we live in, a bit strange even for me, and if we wake up on 24 June to find ourselves no longer in Europe and with Nigel Farage’s toadlike mug gurning at us from every newspaper in the land, then I’m off to Scotland, or the US, or at least strongly thinking about it. Not even Hunter S Thompson’s mantra – “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro” – will be enough to arm myself with, I fear.

The heart has been taking something of a pummelling, as close readers of this column may have gathered, but there is nothing like finding out that the person you fear you might be losing it to is probably going to vote Brexit to clear up that potential mess in a hurry. The heart may be stupid, but there are some things that will shake even that organ from its reverie. However, operating on a need-to-know basis, I feel my mother can do without this information, and I find myself talking about the cricket match I played on Sunday, the first half of which was spent standing watching our team get clouted out of the park, in rain not quite strong enough to take us off the field, but certainly strong enough to make us wet.

“Show me the way to go home,” I sang quietly to myself, “I’m tired and I want to go to bed,” etc. The second half of it, though, was spent first watching an astonishing, even by our standards, batting collapse, then going in at number seven . . . and making the top score for our team. OK, that score was 12, but still, it was the top score for our team, dammit.

The inner glow and sense of bien-être that this imparted on Sunday persists three days later as I write. And as I tell my mother the story – she has now lived long enough in this country, and absorbed enough of the game by osmosis, to know that 17 for five is a pretty piss-poor score – I realise I might as well be nine years old, and telling her of my successes on the pitch. Only, when I was nine, I had no such successes under my belt.

With age comes fearlessness: I don’t worry about the hard ball coming at me. Why should I? I’ve got a bloody bat, gloves, pads, the lot. The only things that scare me now are, as usual, dying alone, that jackanapes Farage, and bad art. 

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 23 June 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Divided Britain