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The UK's outdated gambling legislation still needs updating.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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The decline of the north's sporting powerhouse

Yorkshire historically acted as a counterweight to the dominance of southern elites, in sport as in politics and culture. Now, things are different.

On a drive between Sheffield and Barnsley, I spotted a striking painting of the Kes poster. Billy Casper’s two-fingered salute covered the wall of a once-popular pub that is now boarded up.

It is almost 50 years since the late Barry Hines wrote A Kestrel for a Knave, the novel that inspired Ken Loach’s 1969 film, and it seems that the defiant, us-against-the-world, stick-it-to-the-man Yorkshireness he commemorated still resonates here. Almost two-thirds of the people of south Yorkshire voted to leave the EU, flicking two fingers up at what they saw as a London-based establishment, detached from life beyond the capital.

But whatever happened to Billy the unlikely lad, and the myriad other northern characters who were once the stars of stage and screen? Like the pitheads that dominated Casper’s tightly knit neighbourhood, they have disappeared from the landscape. The rot set in during the 1980s, when industries were destroyed and communities collapsed, a point eloquently made in Melvyn Bragg’s excellent radio series The Matter of the North.

Yorkshire historically acted as a counterweight to the dominance of southern elites, in sport as in politics and culture. Yet today, we rarely get to hear the voices of Barnsley, Sheffield, Doncaster and Rotherham. And the Yorkshire sporting powerhouse is no more – at least, not as we once knew it.

This should be a matter of national concern. The White Rose county is, after all, the home of the world’s oldest registered football club – Sheffield FC, formed in 1857 – and the first English team to win three successive League titles, Huddersfield Town, in the mid-1920s. Hull City are now Yorkshire’s lone representative in the Premier League.

Howard Wilkinson, the manager of Leeds United when they were crowned champions in 1992, the season before the Premier League was founded, lamented the passing of a less money-obsessed era. “My dad worked at Orgreave,” he said, “the scene of Mrs Thatcher’s greatest hour, bless her. You paid for putting an axe through what is a very strong culture of community and joint responsibility.”

The best-known scene in Loach’s film shows a football match in which Mr Sugden, the PE teacher, played by Brian Glover, comically assumes the role of Bobby Charlton. It was played out on the muddy school fields of Barnsley’s run-down Athersley estate. On a visit to his alma mater a few years ago, David Bradley, who played the scrawny 15-year-old Billy, showed me the goalposts that he had swung from as a reluctant goalkeeper. “You can still see the dint in the crossbar,” he said. When I spoke to him recently, Bradley enthused about his lifelong support for Barnsley FC. “But I’ve not been to the ground over the last season and a half,” he said. “I can’t afford it.”

Bradley is not alone. Many long-standing fans have been priced out. Barnsley is only a Championship side, but for their home encounter with Newcastle last October, their fans had to pay £30 for a ticket.

The English game is rooted in the northern, working-class communities that have borne the brunt of austerity over the past six years. The top leagues – like the EU – are perceived to be out of touch and skewed in favour of the moneyed elites.

Bradley, an ardent Remainer, despaired after the Brexit vote. “They did not know what they were doing. But I can understand why. There’s still a lot of neglect, a lot of deprivation in parts of Barnsley. They feel left behind because they have been left behind.”

It is true that there has been a feel-good factor in Yorkshire following the Rio Olympics; if the county were a country, it would have finished 17th in the international medals table. Yet while millions have been invested in “podium-level athletes”, in the team games that are most relevant to the lives of most Yorkshire folk – football, cricket and rugby league – there is a clear division between sport’s elites and its grass roots. While lucrative TV deals have enriched ruling bodies and top clubs, there has been a large decrease in the number of adults playing any sport in the four years since London staged the Games.

According to figures from Sport England, there are now 67,000 fewer people in Yorkshire involved in sport than there were in 2012. In Doncaster, to take a typical post-industrial White Rose town, there has been a 13 per cent drop in participation – compared with a 0.4 per cent decline nationally.

Attendances at rugby league, the region’s “national sport”, are falling. But cricket, in theory, is thriving, with Yorkshire winning the County Championship in 2014 and 2015. Yet Joe Root, the batsman and poster boy for this renaissance, plays far more games for his country than for his county and was rested from Yorkshire’s 2016 title decider against Middlesex.

“Root’s almost not a Yorkshire player nowadays,” said Stuart Rayner, whose book The War of the White Roses chronicles the club’s fortunes between 1968 and 1986. As a fan back then, I frequently watched Geoffrey Boycott and other local stars at Headingley. My favourite was the England bowler Chris Old, a gritty, defiant, unsung anti-hero in the Billy Casper mould.

When Old made his debut, 13 of the 17-strong Yorkshire squad were registered as working-class professionals. Half a century later, three of the five Yorkshiremen selec­ted for the last Ashes series – Root, Jonny Bairstow and Gary Ballance – were privately educated. “The game of cricket now is played in public schools,” Old told me. “Top players are getting huge amounts of money, but the grass-roots game doesn’t seem to have benefited in any way.”

“In ten years’ time you won’t get a Joe Root,” Rayner said. “If you haven’t seen these top Yorkshire cricketers playing in your backyard and you haven’t got Sky, it will be difficult to get the whole cricket bug. So where is the next generation of Roots going to come from?” Or the next generation of Jessica Ennis-Hills? Three years ago, the Sheffield stadium where she trained and first discovered athletics was closed after cuts to local services.

This article first appeared in the 19 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The Trump era