An uncertain future for Britain's charity shops

The humble charity shop will be hit by further financial burdens thanks to the government's new business rates scheme.

We’ve all got a local charity shop. Like the bank, the post-office or the news agents, they’ve become a staple of the British high street ever since the first one was set-up by Oxfam in 1947. It’s easy to take these unassuming shops for granted. Quietly, they chug-along in the background, minding their own business, recycling and re-selling unwanted possessions; but unlike other high street institutions, these small establishments are exceptionally important to our communities.

Last year alone, charity shops raised over £220m for their parent charities, which funded a variety of vital projects, from medical research to local community care work. Staffed by over 160,000 volunteers nationwide, who benefit from social-interaction and retail training, charity shops also prevent a huge amount of rubbish entering the waste stream through encouraging re-using and recycling. But as of this month, charity shops will have a tougher time remaining on our high streets, thanks to the government’s new business rates retention scheme.

Designed to create a direct link between business rates growth and the amount of money available for councils to spend on local services, the business rates retention scheme will allow local authorities to retain 50 per cent of all business rates revenue from their area – an increase of 25 per cent.  The scheme’s focus on economic growth is a concern for the National Council for Voluntary Organisations, who warns that it will “potentially stunt the growth of local community action”, as councils withhold discretionary rate relief payments.

At present, organisations occupying a building solely for charitable purposes are entitled to 80 per cent mandatory rate relief, funded by central government. Local authorities can then choose to grant the remaining 20 per cent rate relief at their discretion. But once underway, the new scheme will require councils to fund 75 per cent of all discretionary relief payments. For local authorities, already feeling the effects of budget cuts, it would be self-defeating for them to grant discretionary rate relief which they must fund substantially from their own resources, especially when they have the chance to earn more revenue from businesses paying rates.

Councils have already begun to grant less discretionary rate relief because of pressures on budgets, according to Wendy Mitchell, head of policy and public affairs at the Charity Retail Association: “Rate relief to charity shops is important, as any reduction in relief impacts the amount of money that goes to the parent charity. So it’s important that relief is given in recognition of the social and philanthropic benefits to services – local hospices for example.”

Not only does this new legislation create further financial burdens for a sector already feeling the effects of the recession, but the government’s lack of consideration for charities contradicts their ‘localism’ ethos. Outlining their desire for a rejuvenated high street last July, communities secretary Eric Pickles, and former minister for high streets Grant Shapps, asserted: “Shared and public spaces are vital ingredients. Creative thinking is needed so these spaces can become the focal point for the social interaction that is the epitome of the high street experience – an area that is enjoyed by all members of the local community.”

Charity shops are exactly the kind of spaces where community interaction takes place; where volunteers meet with members of the public and where social interaction and community-cohesion is encouraged. It is totally counter-intuitive, therefore, to create a scheme which makes it tougher for charity shops to survive on our high streets. Although, as Wendy Mitchell asserts, the charitable sector “understands that local authorities are under a lot of economic pressure”, it is nonetheless important for the government to recognise the importance of relief payments to charity shops; and in turn, the importance of charity shops in creating a community-focused high street.

A dramatic example of what may happen to charity shops is being played out in Wales: proposals from an independent business review want to reduce the amount of mandatory rate relief for charities from 80 to 50 per cent, and restrict the premises charity shops are able to occupy. The plans have been vehemently opposed by the Charity Retail Association, who submitted a petition of 22,600 signatures to the Welsh government in January. “Charity shops are being looped in with chicken shops and betting shops, and their wider context is being forgotten,” says Mitchell. “Our petition shows that most people do use them, they are popular, and we need to make sure that that voice is heard. These shops raise money for a huge range of worthwhile causes.” According to Mitchell, if the changes are accepted it will force charity shops to close, creating more empty shops on Wales’ already abandoned high streets.

Though no decision has yet been made regarding cuts to mandatory rate relief in Wales, it provides a stark vision of what could happen if attitudes towards charity shops remain unchanged. Incentivising councils to focus on economic growth rather than charities, the business rates retention scheme ultimately puts at risk the very organisations that contribute most towards the government’s idyll of a community-focused high street. And, more dangerously, should these small but mighty fundraising establishments be forced out of our town centres, it will be the more vulnerable members of our communities who will suffer most.

Oxfam worker looks for clothes that have been sold via their online store at the Oxfam online hub warehouse in Portishead, England. Photo: Matt Cardy/Getty Images
Getty
Show Hide image

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