There is a rise of the mini-state resulting from the localisation of parts of the social security system. Photo: Getty
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The dark side of localisation: when boroughs want to keep "council tax tourists" out

For those on a lower income or not working, some boroughs are considerably more welcoming than others.

In the 1949 Ealing comedy Passport to Pimlico, residents of the London borough set themselves up as a separate state with predictably comic results. When Pimlico’s governing committee lifts post-war rationing, shoppers flood to the new dominion only to find themselves trapped when its borders are later closed. As the local policeman puts it to one hapless refugee, “You should never have travelled abroad without your passport, madam”.

You’d think this farce had more relevance in Cold War Europe than Britain in 2014 but a court decision against Sandwell Council last week suggests otherwise. In this case, the local authority had required its residents live in the borough for two years before being entitled to council tax reduction.

Sandwell’s reason for the rule was clear: to protect itself from “benefit tourists”. Interestingly, the council wasn’t referring to non-citizens here but instead, to anyone from out of the borough moving into the area as a result of changes to benefit entitlement. The message to these “visitors” was clear: don’t come to Sandwell without your passport.

The judge in the case was unequivocal in his condemnation of the policy, describing Sandwell as “plunging into unlawfulness”. But this is just one example of the rise of the mini-state resulting from the localisation of parts of the social security system which is creating unfairness all around.

A recent report on the localisation of council tax reduction schemes in London, for example, has shown that hardship depends very much on your postcode. Z2K, the authors of the report, met “Maria”, a woman caring for her disabled son full-time and struggling to stretch her benefits to pay £6 each week in council tax. She lives in Harrow, where charges are among the highest in London. In contrast, her sister who lives a few stops down the Bakerloo Line in Westminster doesn’t pay any council tax at all.

The report also showed that there are huge variations in how councils enforce council tax collection from their poorest residents. How likely you are to be charged for falling into arrears, how much you will be charged, and whether you are likely to have a bailiff knocking on your door all vary dramatically between boroughs. Perhaps most shockingly, the report shows that in 2013/14, over £10m was charged to London’s poorest residents in court charges when they fell behind on payments.

Council tax benefit isn’t the only part of the social security system that has been localised, however. In April 2013, local authorities were also handed control of parts of the social fund, and have since had the unenviable task of providing support to vulnerable people while at the same time the funds for such schemes have been cut.

It’s no surprise, then, that councils have had to put in place various rationing arrangements. The evidence shows that some have simply drawn the criteria for local welfare support so tightly their schemes have effectively withered and died. But others have taken the Sandwell approach, introducing a residency rule on which access to local welfare assistance is conditioned. As a result, in some parts of the country, a woman fleeing across boroughs to escape a violent partner is ineligible for support to set up a home for her and her children.

How much you notice the rise of the mini-state depends disturbingly on how much you earn. If you are in secure employment, getting a decent wage, you might not notice these changes – unless of course you lost your job or got sick. For those on a lower income or not working, however, some boroughs are considerably more welcoming than others. Passport to Pimlico may be hugely entertaining, but the destitution that many are experiencing as a result of the real-life shenanigans of localisation is anything but.

Megan Jarvie is London campaigns coordinator for the Child Poverty Action Group and Lindsay Judge is senior policy and research officer for the Child Poverty Action Group.

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Meet the ex-footballers launching a support network for victims of sexual abuse in the sport

The Offside Trust is set up after hundreds have come forward, and 55 football clubs have been linked to allegations of abuse.

In a sumptuous room inside a luxurious hotel in the centre of Manchester, the country’s media anxiously await the arrival of a man whose story has rocked English football to its very foundations.

Since Andy Woodward went public with allegations that he experienced sexual abuse as a young footballer in the 1980s, the nation’s favourite sport has been left in crisis and, in the process, forced to do some soul-searching.

Following Woodward’s story, a number of his peers have also come forward with tales of unimaginable suffering.

This week, some of those men have joined together to launch the Offside Trust, an independently-run body aiming to provide support to players and the families of those who have suffered sexual abuse in football and other sports.

According to Woodward and his colleagues, the Trust won’t just be a way to help those who have been abused while playing the sport they love, but also represents a direct response to institutions that, in their view, have failed to protect them.

“A number of people who have come forward have indicated that they don’t have trust in the establishment,” says Edward Smethurst from Prosperity Law LLP, a Manchester law firm in charge of administering the trust.

“We are not here to criticise any of the establishment bodies, but we do have to respect the sensibilities and the opinions of the victims.” 

Wearing a crisp blue suit, hair combed neatly into place, Woodward’s composed demeanour masks the tremendous emotional stress he has revealed to the world he had to endure for decades, in silence until now.

Hearing him retell his story time and again, it is evident that, although exhausting, this process of letting the world know the horrors he says he experienced as a boy is both cathartic and a way to help others.

“I’m totally overwhelmed, the emotions are just unreal,” he says. “I can’t believe how many [people] have come forward, but I just encourage more and more [people] to have that strength and have that belief to do it.”

Sitting beside Woodward is Steve Walters – a former football prodigy whose career was cut short due to a blood disorder – who says he fell prey to the same serial child molester as Woodard. The person in question can no longer be named for legal reasons.

Walters tells me how his story has affected every aspect of his life. “It has ruined marriages, the relationship with my children, flashbacks, lack of sleep, panic attacks,” he tells me.

Walters speaks of “injustices” done to him for the past 20 years by those in charge of the sport he once loved. But he also knows how he would like to start turning the page and move on with his life.

“An apology [from Crewe Football Club] would be a start,” he says. “For them to not even put out one small apology, it does hurt.”

Since Woodward’s allegations were first made public on 16 November, 18 police forces across the country are now investigating claims of historic sexual abuse in football.

Every player I speak to at the Offside Trust launch in Manchester describes this as an epidemic, and that, in modern Britain, some children are still at the mercy of paedophiles operating within the sport. 

“I do believe it’s happening,” says Jason Dunford, who also claims to have been abused at Crewe Alexandra. “I believe it’s happening on a lower scale than when we were children, but as a father of a young boy who is around the football industry at the moment, I still have worries.”

Woodward coming forward has had worldwide implications. Walters and Dunford tell me they have been contacted by players as far-flung as South America and Australia who say they have been through the same ordeal as young footballers. The men are adamant this is not a UK problem, but a football one – wherever the game is played.

Woodward is mentally drained. Prior to the interview, he repeatedly tells me how the whirlwind of the last few weeks has affected his health. But he knows that this is his chance, perhaps the only one he’ll get, to help those like him.

“The closure will be when I feel like I’m satisfied that I have done everything I can to help as many people out there as possible,” he says. “People with children in football need protecting.” 

Felipe Araujo is a freelance journalist based in London. He writes about race, culture and sports. He covered the Rio Olympics and Paralympics on the ground for the New Statesman. He tweets @felipethejourno.