The coalition’s confusion over planning

The government clearly can’t decide between localism and economic growth.

One of the many timeless phrases that the current Baron Prescott of Kingston-upon-Hull gave to the nation – and to his opponents in the Tory press – was his 1999 musing on preventing inappropriate housing development. "The greenbelt is a Labour achievement," he said. "And we intend to build on it."

Scoffing aside, actually Prescott had a point.

He wanted to build homes and, as much as was practical, he wanted the building to be in existing urban areas. His idea was simple: to direct the development that the country needed to derelict land that has already been used.

In 2000 Prescott ruled that 60 per cent of all new homes had to be built on previously used land. He added a raft of guidance making it harder for councils to approve greenfield planning applications if there were empty so-called "brownfield" sites available.

The target was exceeded: 80 per cent of new homes were built on brownfield, saving thousands of acres of green fields from the bulldozer.

In deprived areas the rules ensured that developers concentrated on regeneration, not on suburban luxury homes, which contributed to the hollowing out of town centres. Of course, it was far from perfect, but the principle was helpful.

"Enemies of enterprise"

In Wednesday's Budget, George Osborne abolished this target. Councils are now to be free to decide whether regeneration is important to them.

But this doesn't just put Prescott's legacy at risk by sending a signal to developers that the government doesn't mind if they build unsustainable, out-of-town developments. It also goes to heart of the coalition's confusion over planning.

The reality is that the number of planning applications has fallen every single quarter since "localist" planning reforms were instituted by the Communities Secretary, Eric Pickles, in May last year. Applications are 22 per cent down from a year ago.

In addition, council plans for 217,000 homes have been scrapped. Meanwhile, the Treasury witnessed a 0.6 per cent fall in construction GDP at the end of last year when things were supposed to be improving. Growth is being jeopardised.

David Cameron identified planners as "enemies of enterprise" but others have pointed the finger at Pickles. For Osborne, something had to be done.

Fundamentally the government is struggling to decide between localism and economic growth – between giving power to the blue-blooded nimby Tories of the shires, or to the red-blooded capitalist Tories of the city. The latter say deregulate to allow out-of-town superstores, edge-of-town housing estates and new motorways; the former say no to all of these.

So Osborne will have been pleased to read the plaudits from the CBI, hailing his achievement in tackling the "chronic obstacle" of the planning system.

But those businesses hailing it should read the fine print. His announcement on brownfield (just one small but important part of the package) was actually localism dressed up as deregulation. In fact, the move, giving powers to every council to set its own targets, could be exactly what developers don't want, replacing one rule with 400.

It means leafy shire districts opposed to development will be able to set higher targets to block development from going ahead. This development is essential if the next generation is to be able to buy homes in these leafy surburbs.

Give us a grin, Prezza

Meanwhile, the other planning measures in the Budget are either so unclear as to be uninterpretable, or are reannouncements of existing policies. No wonder the Office for Budget Responsibility had to admit it was unable to identify anything in the package which caused it to improve its growth forecasts.

Ultimately, the Budget simply underscores this contradiction between localism and growth – there is no attempt to solve it. The localist reforms to the planning system, viewed largely with hostility by those expected to build new homes, go on.

No doubt Prescott will have a wry smile.

Joey Gardiner is assistant editor of Building magazine.

Joey Gardiner is assistant editor at Building magazine

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How Donald Trump is slouching towards the Republican nomination

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb.

In America, you can judge a crowd by its merchandise. Outside the Connecticut Convention Centre in Hartford, frail old men and brawny moms are selling “your Trump 45 football jerseys”, “your hats”, “your campaign buttons”. But the hottest item is a T-shirt bearing the slogan “Hillary sucks . . . but not like Monica!” and, on the back: “Trump that bitch!” Inside, beyond the checkpoint manned by the Transportation Security Administration and the secret service (“Good!” the man next to me says, when he sees the agents), is a family whose three kids, two of them girls, are wearing the Monica shirt.

Other people are content with the shirts they arrived in (“Waterboarding – baptising terrorists with freedom” and “If you don’t BLEED red, white and blue, take your bitch ass home!”). There are 80 chairs penned off for the elderly but everyone else is standing: guys in motorcycle and military gear, their arms folded; aspiring deal-makers, suited, on cellphones; giggling high-school fatsos, dressed fresh from the couch, grabbing M&M’s and Doritos from the movie-theatre-style concession stands. So many baseball hats; deep, bellicose chants of “Build the wall!” and “USA!”. (And, to the same rhythm, “Don-ald J!”)

A grizzled man in camouflage pants and combat boots, whose T-shirt – “Connecticut Militia III%” – confirms him as a member of the “patriot” movement, is talking to a zealous young girl in a short skirt, who came in dancing to “Uptown Girl”.

“Yeah, we were there for Operation American Spring,” he says. “Louis Farrakhan’s rally of hate . . .”

“And you’re a veteran?” she asks. “Thank you so much!”

Three hours will pass. A retired US marine will take the rostrum to growl, “God bless America – hoo-rah!”; “Uptown Girl” will play many more times (much like his speeches, Donald J’s playlist consists of a few items, repeated endlessly), before Trump finally looms in and asks the crowd: “Is this the greatest place on Earth?”

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb. Only a minority within a minority of Americans, it was assumed, could possibly be stupid enough to think a Trump presidency was a good idea. He won New Hampshire and South Carolina with over 30 per cent of the Republican vote, then took almost 46 per cent in Nevada. When he cleaned up on Super Tuesday in March, he was just shy of 50 per cent in Massachusetts; a week later, he took 47 per cent of the votes in Mississippi.

His rivals, who are useless individually, were meant to co-operate with each other and the national party to deny him the nomination. But Trump won four out of the five key states being contested on “Super-Duper Tuesday” on 15 March. Then, as talk turned to persuading and co-opting his delegates behind the scenes, Trump won New York with 60 per cent.

Now, the campaign is trying to present Trump as more “presidential”. According to his new manager, Paul Manafort, this requires him to appear in “more formal settings” – without, of course, diluting “the unique magic of Trump”. But whether or not he can resist denouncing the GOP and the “corrupt” primary system, and alluding to violence if he is baulked at at the convention, the new Trump will be much the same as the old.

Back in Hartford: “The Republicans wanna play cute with us, right? If I don’t make it, you’re gonna have millions of people that don’t vote for a Republican. They’re not gonna vote at all,” says Trump. “Hopefully that’s all, OK? Hopefully that’s all, but they’re very, very angry.”

This anger, which can supposedly be turned on anyone who gets in the way, has mainly been vented, so far, on the protesters who disrupt Trump’s rallies. “We’re not gonna be the dummies that lose all of our jobs now. We’re gonna be the smart ones. Oh, do you have one over there? There’s one of the dummies . . .”

There is a frenzied fluttering of Trump placards, off to his right. “Get ’em out! . . . Don’t hurt ’em – see how nice I am? . . . They really impede freedom of speech and it’s a disgrace. But the good news is, folks, it won’t be long. We’re just not taking it and it won’t be long.”

It is their removal by police, at Trump’s ostentatious behest, that causes the disruption, rather than the scarcely audible protesters. He seems to realise this, suddenly: “We should just let ’em . . . I’ll talk right over them, there’s no problem!” But it’s impossible to leave the protesters where they are, because it would not be safe. His crowd is too vicious.

Exit Trump, after exactly half an hour, inclusive of the many interruptions. His people seem uplifted but, out on the street, they are ambushed by a large counter-demonstration, with a booming drum and warlike banners and standards (“Black Lives Matter”; an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe, holding aloft Trump’s severed head). Here is the rest of the world, the real American world: young people, beautiful people, more female than male, every shade of skin colour. “F*** Donald Trump!” they chant.

After a horrified split-second, the Trump crowd, massively more numerous, rallies with “USA!” and – perplexingly, since one of the main themes of the speech it has just heard was the lack of jobs in Connecticut – “Get a job!” The two sides then mingle, unobstructed by police. Slanging matches break out that seem in every instance to humiliate the Trump supporter. “Go to college!” one demands. “Man, I am in college, I’m doin’ lovely!”

There is no violence, only this: some black boys are dancing, with liquid moves, to the sound of the drum. Four young Trump guys counter by stripping to their waists and jouncing around madly, their skin greenish-yellow under the street lights, screaming about the building of the wall. There was no alcohol inside; they’re drunk on whatever it is – the elixir of fascism, the unique magic of Trump. It’s a hyper but not at all happy drunk.

As with every other moment of the Trump campaign so far, it would have been merely some grade of the cringeworthy – the embarrassing, the revolting, the pitiful – were Trump not slouching closer and closer, with each of these moments, to his nomination. 

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism