When you buy a London flat, you're not really becoming an owner

The weird reality of leaseholds.

Instead of buying a property, how about renting one? Only this will be a rental deal with a difference: I am going to make you sign a 100-year contract and demand that you pay the vast majority of the rent upfront. If any repairs need doing, of course I’ll arrange them for you. But I’m going to send you the bill. 

You want to argue? If you don’t pay, I am going to rip up the rental contract and you are going to lose all that money you
paid upfront.

Does that sound appealing? It is really just another way of describing leasehold, the form of property "ownership" which is almost universal in apartment buildings in England and yet hardly exists elsewhere on Earth. London boasts some of the world’s highest property prices, and yet many buyers are only vaguely aware that when they buy a flat — whether for £200,000 or £20m — they are not really becoming property owners at all. "But I am the owner," one buyer recently protested to me after seeing himself described as a "tenant" in his deeds. Oh no you’re not, I had to tell him. You’ve got 125 years of happy renting ahead of you. 

Leasehold is the basis of some of the largest private fortunes in Britain. The Duke of Westminster would be just another hard-up English aristocrat had his forbears sold off the freeholds of the properties built on their estate 200 years ago. Selling leases instead enabled the Grosvenor family to take money from the sales and yet continue to retain an interest in hundreds of properties in a prime central London residential district.

Yet leasehold seems increasingly incongruous with the present-day London property market. Billionaires, the representatives of global capitalism, can find themselves the tenants of English aristocrats, or quite possibly the tenants of a fly-by-night company operating from above a chip shop in north London. Freeholds are sometimes worth much less than the value of individual flats, with the result they can end up in the hands of small-time property barons with devious ways of squeezing money from their tenants.

Like all landlord-tenant relationships, that between freeholder and leaseholder is apt to go horribly wrong. And it isn’t just a case of people on the lowest rung of home ownership who find themselves being exploited by unscrupulous landlords. You can find hornets’ nests of anger and resentment in some of the poshest addresses in London.

In one case in Knightsbridge, flat-owners were each sent a demand for £14,000 for "major works" to the roof. If you totted up the contributions which had been asked of all leaseholders, it came to an astronomical sum way beyond anything which might reasonably have been spent on repairing a roof. What the money was really for, the leaseholders later found out, was building an extra two flats on the roof — which the freeholder was then going to sell entirely for his own benefit.

Most disputes between leaseholders and freeholders are for the same reason: excessive service charges. It is all too easy for freeholders to jack up the cost of repairs: add 15 per cent here and 20 per cent there. In some cases the costs end up being ridiculous: the tenant of a one-bedroom flat in Oxford ended up paying £9,300 a year. The value of the flat, as a result of the service charges, had fallen to just £15,000.

But in most cases of excessive charging, fees are pushed up to a level at which the leaseholder might groan yet not be quite moved to complain. Typical is the block of flats where leaseholders found 33 per cent was being added to their building insurance. How would you know you were being overcharged, without shopping around for insurance yourself?

Landlords are not supposed to exploit their leaseholders, and there are provisions in law to prevent them doing so. Leasehold Valuation Tribunals exist in order to settle disputes between the two parties. But in practice few leaseholders get round to challenging excessive charges; indeed, the process of doing so is itself expensive. Most quietly pay up or sell up, knowing that if they kick up a stink it will make it more difficult for them to sell their property.

The Leasehold and Commonhold Reform Act 2002 seemed initially to ring the death knell for leasehold. It enhanced powers that leaseholders already enjoyed: to exercise their collective right to buy the freehold of the buildings in which their flats are situated. In addition, it created a new form of tenure — commonhold — much more like the condominiums common in the US and many other countries. Under commonhold, owners of individual flats would jointly own the entire building. A decade on from the Act, there are still only a dozen commonhold developments in England.

Nor has there been any great uptake of enhanced powers of ‘enfranchisement’ — a term used to describe the joint purchase of a freehold by the leaseholders. One of the reasons for this is that it can take an extraordinary effort to gather the leaseholders and persuade them to agree to exercise their rights. The law requires at least 50 per cent of leaseholders to agree to the action. Knocking on doors is rarely successful: in a typical London block a large number of the leaseholders do not live in their flats. To contact them it may be necessary to trawl through the Land Registry. And even then it is quite likely that you will find flats that are owned by companies registered abroad.

Leaseholders who want to buy their way out of the system have to be prepared for a long and expensive battle: under the rules, leaseholders are liable to pay the landlord’s legal costs as well as their own. In one recent case in east London leaseholders succeeded in buying their freehold for £404,000, after suffering years of exaggerated service charges. The overcharging wasn’t quite finished, though: they found themselves having to pay another £169,000 in legal costs.

It is inertia that keeps leasehold going. Perhaps the London property boom will carry on for so long that buyers won’t worry too much about it. When you expect to make tens if not hundreds of thousands of pounds on the value of your lease, you might not care about a service charge that that is hundreds of pounds too high. It might be a different story if prices began to slide and owners were suddenly faced with the prospect of losing money. They might then begin to see themselves for what they really are: just like other tenants, paying through the nose to keep their landlord in fine wine.

This piece first appeared on Spears magazine.

A hotel in Mayfair. Photograph: Getty Images

Ross Clark is a writer for Spear's Magazine

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With the BBC Food’s collection under threat, here's how to make the most of online recipes

Do a bit of digging, trust your instincts – and always read the comments.

I don’t think John Humphrys is much of a chef. Recently, as his Today co-presenter Mishal Husain was discussing the implications of the BBC’s decision to axe its Food website (since commuted to transportation to the Good Food platform, run by its commercial arm), sharp-eared listeners heard the Humph claim that fewer recipes on the web could only be a good thing. “It would make it easier!” he bellowed in the background. “We wouldn’t have to choose between so many!”

Husain also seemed puzzled as to why anyone would need more than one recipe for spaghetti bolognese – but, as any keen cook knows, you can never have too many different takes on a dish. Just as you wouldn’t want to get all your news from a single source, it would be a sad thing to eat the same bolognese for the rest of your life. Sometimes only a molto autentico version, as laid down by a fierce Italian donna, rich with tradition and chopped liver, will do – and sometimes, though you would never admit it in a national magazine, you crave the comfort of your mum’s spag bol with grated cheddar.

The world wouldn’t starve without BBC Food’s collection but, given that an online search for “spaghetti bolognese recipe” turns up about a million results, it would have been sad to have lost one of the internet’s more trustworthy sources of information. As someone who spends a large part of each week researching and testing recipes, I can assure you that genuinely reliable ones are rarer than decent chips after closing time. But although it is certainly the only place you’ll find the Most Haunted host Yvette Fielding’s kedgeree alongside Heston Blumenthal’s snail porridge, the BBC website is not the only one that is worth your time.

The good thing about newspaper, magazine and other commercial platforms is that most still have just enough budget to ensure that their recipes will have been made at least twice – once by the writer and once for the accompanying photographs – though sadly the days when everyone employed an independent recipe tester are long gone. Such sites also often have sufficient traffic to generate a useful volume of comments. I never make a recipe without scrolling down to see what other people have said about it. Get past the “Can’t wait to make this!” brigade; ignore the annoying people who swap baked beans for lentils and then complain, “This is nothing like dhal”; and there’s usually some sensible advice in there, too.

But what about when you leave the safety of the big boys and venture into the no man’s land of the personal blog? How do you separate the wheat from the chaff and find a recipe that actually works? You can often tell how much work a writer has put in by the level of detail they go into: if they have indicated how many people it serves, or where to find unusual ingredients, suggested possible tweaks and credited their original sources, they have probably made the dish more than once. The photography is another handy clue. You don’t have to be Annie Leibovitz to provide a good idea of what the finished dish ought to look like.

Do a bit of digging as part of your prep. If you like the look of the rest of the site, the author’s tastes will probably chime with your own. And always, always, wherever the recipe is from, read it all the way through, even before you order the shopping. There is nothing more annoying than getting halfway through and then realising that you need a hand blender to finish the dish, just as the first guest arrives.

Above all, trust your instincts. If the cooking time seems far too short, or the salt content ridiculously high, it probably is, so keep an eye on that oven, check that casserole, keep tasting that sauce. As someone who once published a magic mince pie recipe without any sugar, I’m living proof that, occasionally, even the very best of us make mistakes. 

Felicity Cloake is the New Statesman’s food columnist. Her latest book is The A-Z of Eating: a Flavour Map for Adventurous Cooks.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad