Britain's 200 wealthiest people "are together worth £318.2bn"

Sunday Times Rich List says worth of country's super-elite has increased eightfold since 1989.

Today's annual Sunday Times Rich List gives an eye-opening insight into the fortunes of Britain's super-elite.

The list is topped by Alisher Usmanov, 59, who was born in Uzbekistan and owns iron ore producer Metalloinvest. He is worth an estimated £13.3bn.

He is replaces steel tycoon Lakshmi Mittal (£10bn), who has dropped to fourth place behind media mogul Len Blavatnik, who sold his £2bn stake in Russian oil and gas company TNK-BP in March, (£11bn) and Sri and Gopi Hinduja (£10.6bn). Two more oil tycoons - Roman Abramovich (£9.3bn) and John Frediksen (£8.8bn) - are fifth and sixth.

The list shows how international Britain's elite are - the highest ranked billionaire born in Britain is the Duke of Westminster in eighth place, who has amassed £7.8bn from the London property market. And as the BBC's business reporter Anthony Reuben notes: "New money has replaced old, but not much of it has been earned in Britain."

Beyond the individual entries, though, the real story is the growing wealth of the super-rich has outpaced economic growth for everyone else. 

In 1989, when the list began, the Queen's £5.2bn assets were enough to clinch her the top shot. The combined wealth of the top 200 people in the 2013 list is £318.2bn - eight times what it was a quarter of a century ago.

The average salary of a full-time worker in the UK is currently £26,500.

Alisher Usmanov and his wife arrive at the opening of the Bolshoi in 2011. Photo: Getty

Helen Lewis is deputy editor of the New Statesman. She has presented BBC Radio 4’s Week in Westminster and is a regular panellist on BBC1’s Sunday Politics.

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For the first time in my life I have a sworn enemy – and I don’t even know her name

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

Last month, I made an enemy. I do not say this lightly, and I certainly don’t say it with pride, as a more aggressive male might. Throughout my life I have avoided confrontation with a scrupulousness that an unkind observer would call out-and-out cowardice. A waiter could bring the wrong order, cold and crawling with maggots, and in response to “How is everything?” I’d still manage a grin and a “lovely, thanks”.

On the Underground, I’m so wary of being a bad citizen that I often give up my seat to people who aren’t pregnant, aren’t significantly older than me, and in some cases are far better equipped to stand than I am. If there’s one thing I am not, it’s any sort of provocateur. And yet now this: a feud.

And I don’t even know my enemy’s name.

She was on a bike when I accidentally entered her life. I was pushing a buggy and I wandered – rashly, in her view – into her path. There’s little doubt that I was to blame: walking on the road while in charge of a minor is not something encouraged by the Highway Code. In my defence, it was a quiet, suburban street; the cyclist was the only vehicle of any kind; and I was half a street’s length away from physically colliding with her. It was the misjudgment of a sleep-deprived parent rather than an act of malice.

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

I was stung by what someone on The Apprentice might refer to as her negative feedback, and walked on with a redoubled sense of the parental inadequacy that is my default state even at the best of times.

A sad little incident, but a one-off, you would think. Only a week later, though, I was walking in a different part of town, this time without the toddler and engrossed in my phone. Again, I accept my culpability in crossing the road without paying due attention; again, I have to point out that it was only a “close shave” in the sense that meteorites are sometimes reported to have “narrowly missed crashing into the Earth” by 50,000 miles. It might have merited, at worst, a reproving ting of the bell. Instead came a familiar voice. “IT’S YOU AGAIN!” she yelled, wrathfully.

This time the shock brought a retort out of me, probably the harshest thing I have ever shouted at a stranger: “WHY ARE YOU SO UNPLEASANT?”

None of this is X-rated stuff, but it adds up to what I can only call a vendetta – something I never expected to pick up on the way to Waitrose. So I am writing this, as much as anything, in the spirit of rapprochement. I really believe that our third meeting, whenever it comes, can be a much happier affair. People can change. Who knows: maybe I’ll even be walking on the pavement

Mark Watson is a stand-up comedian and novelist. His most recent book, Crap at the Environment, follows his own efforts to halve his carbon footprint over one year.

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood