New statistics on council tax collection in England have been very revealing. Photo: Getty
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Is council tax going the same way as the poll tax did?

While councils are collecting more council tax than a year ago, arrears are mounting; are we seeing the beginnings of a trend that mirrors that of the poll tax?

In recent days, the Department for Communities and Local Government (DCLG) has released new statistics on council tax collection in England. Covering the period April 2013 to March 2014, it is the first official data which allows us to assess the impacts of the localisation of Council Tax Support (CTS). A headline finding was that while more than £1bn extra was collected, in-year arrears increased by £145m – up more than 20 per cent on the previous year. Using data collected by NPI for the Joseph Rowntree Foundation we have linked these outcomes to the CTS scheme introduced by each council. The findings do not bode well for the future of localised CTS.

From April 2013, local councils across England were given the power to devise their own systems of CTS for working-age adults. It replaced the national system of Council Tax Benefit (CTB) which ensured that the poorest households did not have to pay council tax. The change marked a historic move from a nationally devised system to one of 326 different local schemes in England. Alongside this restructuring, the money provided by central government to fund CTS was cut by 10%. Each council became responsible for devising its own scheme within the reduced budget. The majority of councils chose to pass the cut on to CTS recipients, with the introduction of a ‘minimum payment’, which requires everyone to pay at least some council tax regardless of income, being the most common approach to making up the funding shortfall.

The graph below classifies councils according to the size of the minimum payment each chose to impose, from zero at one end to above 20 per cent at the other. 8.5 per cent is included because it was the maximum a council could set last year and still be eligible for central government’s transitional grant. Each of these groups is then split according to the size of the increase in arrears (between 10 per cent and 25 per cent, 25 per cent to 50 per cent, 50 per cent to 100 per cent).

To see what the graph is showing take, for example, the 97 councils who had no minimum payment. 38 per cent of them saw arrears rise by between a tenth and a quarter, 10 per cent saw a rise of between a quarter and a half while 5 per cent saw a bigger rise still. The other 48 per cent saw either a small rise or a fall. By contrast, among the 43 councils with the largest minimum payments, more than four fifths saw arrears rise by at least a quarter.

(Click on graph to enlarge).

The pattern here is very clear. Councils who chose not to introduce a minimum payment saw a smaller increase in arrears than those who opted for a minimum payment. The larger the minimum payment, the worse the picture becomes. This worsening is seen in both the proportion suffering a rise in arrears (the overall height of each bar) and the average size of the rise (how dark each bar is).

In April 2014, many of the local schemes changed again: 56 councils increased the minimum payment from the year before and a further 15 included one in their scheme design for the first time. In terms of the graph, councils in England are moving to the right. These changes have seen the number of families having to pay council tax for the first time increase by 110,000 to 2.34m. The additional council tax paid compared to the former national system is also higher in the second year at £149, £10 more than in 2013/14.

While councils are collecting more council tax than a year ago, arrears are mounting. The further cuts to CTS made in April 2014, which are not reflected in this year’s data, are likely to see these figures worsen next year. Are we seeing the beginnings of a trend that mirrors that of the poll tax which resulted in growing arrears - and ultimately led to its abolition?
 

Sabrina Bushe is research and communications officer at the New Policy Institute

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Aussies and Kiwis can be “us” to Brexiteers - so why are EU citizens “them”?

Nostalgia for the empire means Brexiteers still see Australians and New Zealanders as "Brits abroad". 

There are many terrible things about Brexit, most of which I counted, mournfully, on the night of the referendum while hiding in a stairwell because I was too depressed to talk to anyone at the party I’d just run away from. But one of the biggest didn’t hit me until the next day, when I met a friend and (I’m aware how ridiculous this may sound) suddenly remembered she was Dutch. She has been here 20 years, her entire adult life, and it’s not that I thought she was British exactly; I’d just stopped noticing she was foreign.

Except now, post-referendum, she very definitely was and her right to remain in Britain was suddenly up for grabs. Eleven months on, the government has yet to clarify the matter for any of Britain’s three million European residents. For some reason, ministers seem to think this is OK.

If you attended a British university in the past 20 years, work in the NHS or the City – or have done almost anything, in large parts of the country – you’ll know people like this: Europeans who have made their lives here, launching careers, settling down with partners, all on the assumption that Britain was part of the EU and so they were as secure here as those with British passports. The referendum has changed all that. Our friends and neighbours are now bargaining chips, and while we may not think of them as foreigners, our leaders are determined to treat them as such. People we thought of as “us” have somehow been recast as “them”.

There’s a problem with bringing notions of “us” and “them” into politics (actually, there are many, which seems like a very good reason not to do it, but let’s focus on one): not everyone puts the boundary between them in the same place. Take the Tory MEP Daniel Hannan. The sort of man one can imagine spent boyhood afternoons copying out Magna Carta for fun, Hannan spent decades campaigning for Brexit. Yet he’s not averse to all forms of international co-operation, and in his spare time he’s an enthusiastic advocate of CANZUK, a sort of Commonwealth-on-steroids in which there would be free movement ­between Canada, Australia, New Zealand and the UK.

When pushed on the reasons this entirely theoretical union is OK, when the real, existing one we’re already in isn’t, he has generally pointed to things such as shared language, culture and war memorials. But the subtext, occasionally made text by less subtle commentators, is that, unlike those Continentals, natives of the other Anglo countries aren’t really foreign. An Australian who’s never set foot in Britain can be “us”; the German doctor who’s been here two decades is still “them”.

There’s a funny thing about Hannan, which I wouldn’t make a big thing of, except it seems to apply to a number of other prominent Leave and CANZUK advocates: for one so fixated on British culture and identity, he grew up a very long way from Britain. He spent his early years in Peru, on his family’s farm near Lima, or occasionally on another one in Bolivia. (You know how it is.) That’s not to say he never set foot in Britain, of course: he was sent here for school.

His bosom pal Douglas Carswell, who is currently unemployed but has in the past found work as both a Conservative and a Ukip MP, had a similarly exotic upbringing. He spent his childhood in Uganda, where his parents were doctors, before boarding at Charterhouse. Then there’s Boris Johnson who, despite being the most ostentatiously British character since John Bull, was born in New York and spent the early years of his life in New England. Until recently, indeed, he held US citizenship; he gave it up last year, ostensibly to show his loyalty to Britain, though this is one of those times where the details of an answer feel less revealing than the fact that he needed to provide one. Oh and Boris went to boarding school, too, of course.

None of these childhoods would look out of place if you read in a biography that it had happened in the 1890s, so perhaps it’s not surprising that they instilled in all of their victims a form of imperial nostalgia. I don’t mean that the Brexiteers were raised to believe they had a moral duty to go around the world nicking other people’s countries (though who knows what the masters really teach them at Eton). Rather, by viewing their homeland from a distance, they grew up thinking of it as a land of hope and glory, rather than the depressing, beige place of white dog poo and industrial strife that 1970s Britain was.

Seen through this lens, much of the more delusional Brexiteer thinking suddenly makes sense. Of course they need us more than we need them; of course they’ll queue up to do trade deals. Even Johnson’s habit of quoting bits of Latin like an Oxford don who’s had a stroke feels like harking back to empire: not to the Roman empire itself (he’s more of a late republican) but to the British one, where such references marked you out as ruling class.

There’s another side effect of this attitude. It enables a belief in a sort of British diaspora: people who are British by virtue of ancestry and ideology no matter how far from these shores they happen to live. In the 19th century, Australians and Canadians were just Brits who happened to be living abroad. What Britain absolutely wasn’t, however, was just another European country. So, in the Leavers’ minds, Aussies and Kiwis still get to be us. The millions of Europeans who have made Britain their home are still, unfortunately, them.

I’m sure these men bear Britain’s European citizens no ill-will; they have, however, fought for a policy that has left them in limbo for 11 months with no end in sight. But that’s the thing about Brexiteers, isn’t it? They may live among us – but they don’t share our values.

Jonn Elledge is the editor of CityMetric

Jonn Elledge edits the New Statesman's sister site CityMetric, and writes for the NS about subjects including politics, history and Daniel Hannan. You can find him on Twitter or Facebook.

This article first appeared in the 18 May 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Age of Lies

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