Abbey Centre: Forestside owners buy Abbey Centre for £59m
The owners of the Forestside shopping centre in south Belfast have bought the Abbey Centre in Newtownabbey for just under £59m.The buyers are the Herbert Group which is owned by Belfast couple Michael and Lesley Herbert.Last year, they also bought the Bloomfield Shopping Centre and retail park in Bangor for £22m.The Abbey Centre was sold by New River Retail, a London-based investment trust.
Allan Lockhart, the Chief Executive of New River Retail said the company had transformed the Abbey Centre into "one of the most successful shopping centres in the region."He added that the deal "also demonstrates the continuing improvement in investor demand for UK shopping centres".The Herbert's built up the UK's largest KFC franchise over 40 years, before selling the chain in 2020.They have reinvested the proceeds into commercial property where they had already significant interests.
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Times
3 hours ago
- Times
The state spends £24,000 a year for every adult. Something's got to give
It's amazing how things change. Just a few months ago Rachel Reeves told us the financial situation was so grim she had no choice but to take the winter fuel payment from all but the poorest pensioners. And now, thanks to Labour, it's all going so well she can afford to give it back. That was, of course, a lie. But it wasn't the big lie. No, the big lie was that the spending review bore any relation to what we will actually spend. The traditional recipe for political success is simple: scrimp, then splurge. Get the pain out of the way after the election, so you can splash out before the next one. • Jobs market is flashing a warning sign to Rachel Reeves That's not the approach Reeves took. She wanted to show she was ending austerity (such as it was). But the finances were desperately tight. Her solution, apart from raising taxes, was to frontload her spending increases and hope something turned up. The result is a spending profile that resembles a child playing a violin: sharp, then flat. Between 2025-26 and 2028-29, day-to-day departmental spending is to rise from £518 billion to £568 billion. Factoring in inflation, that means budgets in the last two years of the parliament will grow by just 1 per cent a year — and far less for most departments, since the overall figure includes 3 per cent a year for the NHS (which is getting more than half of all the extra cash). Will Labour really go into the election amid more 'Tory austerity'? Well, no. It'll want to spend more. Or need to: Reeves's ferociously tight numbers leave no room for downturns, pay strikes, trade wars or shooting wars. Her plans also depend on £14 billion in hazily detailed 'efficiency savings'. And the hoped-for bailout via a mid-term growth bonanza is less likely than ever. But here's the paradox. From the perspective of the Labour Party, most of those working in public services and her own electoral prospects, Reeves isn't spending nearly enough. But from another perspective, the chancellor is spending far, far too much. Public spending is running at 44 per cent of GDP, a historic high. Taxes, too, are historically high, and universally expected to go higher. Not only have we been spending like crazy, not least because of the pandemic, but we've been spending money we don't have — resulting in an annual bill of more than £100 billion just to cover the interest on our debts. These numbers can be hard to put into context. So our team at the Centre for Policy Studies think tank has come up with a different way of looking at it. We estimate that we are now spending £23,757 for every adult in this country: roughly two thirds of the average full-time salary of £37,500. That includes £3,807 on health, £5,817 on welfare and pensions and a shocking £1,955 for that debt bill. Restrict the calculation to those of working age, and spending is north of £30,000 a head. Factor in economic inactivity, and the state is almost certainly spending more than every worker aged 18 to 65 is earning. This is very obviously not sustainable. So how to square the circle? Given the position we're in, shaving departmental budgets just won't cut it, especially when the chancellor claims to have already ruthlessly reviewed every pound they spend (yet somehow set them all the same target for efficiency savings). We need to accept instead that government cannot actually do all the things it tries to. But we already know how hard that will be. If ministers are going to U-turn on the winter fuel payment and wobble on a set of welfare reforms that barely slow, let alone halt, the rise in disability and incapacity spending, how can they possibly tackle issues like the triple lock, social care or special educational needs and disability (Send) costs for councils? That's before even mentioning the NHS. So here are a couple of heretical thoughts. The first is that rather than guaranteeing the level of any individual benefit, we should think in terms of total spend. Let's say we decide that we can only afford to devote 1.5 per cent of GDP to a particular benefit. If more people claim, the totals go down. If people want more cash, they either have to dob in the fraudsters or accept the kinds of policy likely to swell GDP. A gentler version would be to keep benefits from falling, but ensure that they increase only when we can actually afford it. Revolutionary, I know. The second idea is more fundamental: to accept that government cannot actually move the economic needle. If you were listening to the spending review, you would have heard pledge after pledge: billions spent on this, billions on that. But that is not how you get the economy growing. You do that by creating the conditions for individuals and businesses to boost it for you. This may sound like Thatcherite dogma. But it's simple maths. Investment in the UK is roughly 18 per cent of GDP. But the state is responsible for perhaps a sixth of that. Hence Reeves's talk of 'co-investment': using small amounts of state funding to leverage much larger private sums. Or let's look at affordable housing, one of the few areas that did get some cash at the spending review. The government is promising an extra £39 billion over ten years. That's useful. But housebuilders knocked up £46 billion in private sector housing in just the past year — a pretty slow year, at point is that even small increases, or falls, in private sector activity have a far larger impact on the economy, and balance sheet, than the endless initiatives that pour forth from government. Which is precisely why Reeves's jobs tax was so damaging. Generating those increases, or falls, often isn't about money, but common sense. On housebuilding, for example, our system is based on local plans set out by councils. But loads of councils don't have plans in place. And Labour has embarked on a massive local government reorganisation that will delay their publication still further, dooming any hope of hitting its housing targets. It may be anathema to many on the Labour benches, but if the government is to have any hope of avoiding tax rises not just this autumn but for years to come, it needs to do what it finds hardest: clear the obstacles and let the private sector get on with it. The temptation, instead, will be to hammer work, wealth and business one more time. Which will of course make the task facing the chancellor even harder.
Daily Mail
4 hours ago
- Daily Mail
Thames Water investors beg Keir Starmer to step in and save debt-ridden water company from collapsing after clashing with Ofwat over future fines
Investors of Thames Water are begging Keir Starmer to intervene as Britain's biggest supplier crumbles under crippling fines and could be facing collapse. The stricken company is drowning under huge debts and the threat of further fines for pollution incidents. It was hit last month with a record £123 million in fines for sewage spills and dividend payments, by the industry regulator Ofwat. The fine, which is the largest the watchdog has ever issued, follows two 'big and complex' investigations by the regulator. Ofwat said Thames Water would pay £104.5 million for the wastewater breaches and a further £18.2 million for breaking rules on dividend payments. It said the fines would be paid 'by the company and its investors and not by customers'. Investors say that the regulator's unwillingness to go soft on the company over future fines could put it at risk of administration, as they scramble for a lifeline. Now they are pleading with the Prime Minister to compel the watchdog to adopt a more compromising position to its stance on financial penalties. An investor involved in rescue talks said: 'We have had a year of dealing with one of the most intractable regulators I've ever had the misfortune of coming across. 'They have failed in their job. Absolutely, we need intervention from Downing Street.' 'I think what it takes is the government and the regulator coming together - it needs the Environment Department, the Treasury and even Number 10 to say: "What's the least worst outcome here?",' another investor said. It comes just days after Ofwat received a proposal that would provide the water company the capital they desperately need to recover from the billions of pounds worth of fines looming over them. Creditors have said that Thames could be looking at more than £1 billion in further pollution and environmental failings, according to the Telegraph. But the watchdog have been reluctant to grant the request. The regulator's probe into how the company was managing its treatment works and wider wastewater network uncovered a number of failings. Ofwat said these amounted to a significant breach of the company's legal obligations, which has caused an 'unacceptable' impact on the environment and customers. Creditors are preparing a second bid in an attempt to soften Ofwat's stance that could see the company willing to offer more cash and write off a larger sum of debt. A FTSE 100 infrastructure fund warned Ofwat's stubbornness could dampen Labour's attempts to bring in foreign investors for UK assets. They said: 'There is a £500 billion investment that's needed across UK infrastructure that is contingent on stable regulation.' A source close to Thames' creditors said: 'Ofwat is undermining the government's aim to attract private capital and deliver growth and reform across the water sector.' Now with the risk of rescue talks being stalled, Hong Kong's richest man, Li Ka-shing, has demanded to rejoin the auction for Thames after KKR abandoned its bid fore the business earlier this month. However investors fear his links to China will trigger a long and drawn out investigation under the National Security and Investment Act.
Daily Mail
4 hours ago
- Daily Mail
He was chased by dogs, racially abused and faced brutal interrogations, but MELVYN DOWNES reveals how one VERY embarrassing moment almost scuppered his chances to become Britain's first black SAS soldier
Escape and evasion is at the heart of what the SAS is all about. The regiment often operates behind enemy lines so its men are much more likely to be separated from comrades or captured, and need to know how to evade a larger enemy force. This was the climax of the gruelling SAS selection course that had seen many ejected already, for which I – a black, working-class kid – was one of the few survivors. We returned to the freezing Welsh hills where we'd begun the selection process, to be pushed to the edge of our physical and mental capabilities. We were blindfolded and driven to an unknown mountain and moorland spot, handed a sketch map and told to rendezvous with an 'agent' at a particular location. When we reached the first checkpoint, we would be given another location, a mouthful of bread and cheese, and sent on our way. This process was then to be repeated over and over. Each wearing just an old Second World War-style greatcoat and a pair of laceless boots, we were let loose to be hunted by more than 1,000 soldiers who'd been promised a bonus if they captured us. They were accompanied by helicopters and police dog-handlers. The local farmers had been told to inform our hunters if they spotted anyone suspicious on their land. It was only possible to move at night; if you tried during the day you were guaranteed to get caught. And if you were spotted anywhere near a road or a track, you were instantly off the course. So we had to try to navigate over marshes and hills in the dark. If caught, you'd be beasted for a few hours, then released again. On the first night I split up with the man I'd been paired with as we sprinted blindly away from hunters whose torches we'd spotted approaching us. For hours I splashed across streams to throw dogs off my scent. Then I found a ditch, made a tunnel by pulling branches over myself and had lain there through the day lashed by constant rain. By the evening I was hungry, cold and wet and shivering uncontrollably. My legs and arms had been ripped to shreds by thorns. The greatcoat wrapped around my shoulders was so sodden that I doubted it offered any warmth at all, but nor could I contemplate abandoning what was my only piece of outerwear. Then I heard high shrieking yells. The dogs were near again. The hairs on my arm stood on end, my heart pounded. I knew this wasn't real, yet I had persuaded myself it was. That I was being chased, that I might be tortured or killed if I was captured. I'd figured that if I raised the stakes like that, I'd be less likely to throw in the towel when I was tired or hungry or cold or fed up. The barks grew closer, accompanied by the muffled sounds of men talking as they swarmed through the area, their feet bringing them closer and closer to my hideout. I needed to control my breathing and rein in my fear. That way I would be less likely to give off the pungent scent we produce when frightened and which the dogs would pick up. The voices were more distinct now, I heard the dogs panting. Damn, was this the end? I'd chosen a spot so choked with nettles and rotting mulch I was sure nobody would stop to investigate it, but what if I'd made some stupid error that led them to me? My mind cycled through all the possible options. They were just metres away. Twigs snapped, grass tore. My heart started to thump, so I turned my attention to my breathing again. Please, I thought, don't let me be captured. Then the sounds grew more distant, before disappearing. They were somebody else's problem now. A few minutes passed, I dared a glance through the thatch of plants. Night was falling. It was time to move. One, then two, then three and four days and nights went by. It was the last day of this stage. The end was in sight, though we knew that in a sense our suffering had just begun. If we made it through, ahead were countless hours 'in the bag' – meaning the bags placed over our heads before an interrogation process that would test us to the limit and maybe beyond. I'd never felt so feeble or alone. I wasn't sure if I was ready for this. It was a daunting prospect. I knew they'd do everything to break my mind. If they break your body, you can almost always find a way back. If they break your mind you risk being lost for ever. I was contemplating this as I walked in the dark through ragged woodland. I thought I spotted a face leering at me through foliage. There was someone there, a man with wild eyes and sunken cheeks, his skin almost black with dirt. The face broke into a crooked smile. It was Sammy, one of the oddballs on the course, a Marine in his mid-30s – towards the upper age limit – trying to get into the SBS, the Special Boat Squadron. We'd joked that he looked like Krusty the Clown from The Simpsons. He still did, though only if Krusty had spent the best part of a week hiding in a filthy trench while packs of dogs hunted him. I giggled at the thought, then realised I probably looked just as repellent. He came towards me and asked: 'Did you see that farm over there?' 'Yes,' I said. 'What have you had to eat?' 'Hardly anything, just a few roots.' Sammy had an idea: 'Let's go see what food we can find.' He had a point. We didn't know what exactly we were going to face while being interrogated but it stood to reason we'd need as much energy for it as we could muster. He went off to investigate and rushed back a minute or two later with a triumphant smile. Good, he's found some food, I thought. My mind ran away with me; a loaf of bread perhaps, or even brown bananas. I wasn't picky. 'Look at this,' he whispered, brandishing a plastic bottle in my face. Salad cream. I examined the label. 'It's three months out of date. No way am I eating that. I don't want to get ill.' 'Come on, have some!' he insisted. As I shook my head, he picked up a stick and started jabbing it into the bottle, bringing it up coated with thick gobbets of the salad cream. 'This is lovely.' Sammy and I stuck together, right up to when we were stopped by masked men who grabbed us, planted bags on our heads and shoved us on to the back of a truck of horse manure. As more and more candidates were picked up, they were hoisted on to the truck, thrown carelessly so they landed painfully on the blokes below. The truck rattled, our nostrils filled with the stink of excrement and the bodies of men who'd spent days living in the wild. I reminded myself of the instructions we'd been given about what we were allowed to reveal. Name, rank, number. Nothing else. And if we signed any piece of paper put in front of us we'd fail the course immediately. Straightforward enough, you'd think, but when you're exhausted and disorientated and on the wrong end of the tricks of experienced interrogators, it's anything but. After a while we were bundled off the truck and led to the interrogation centre, where our blindfolds were removed. It was dark and I could see very little. But I could instantly feel a change in the air temperature. For the first time in a week, I was warm. Instantly I began to feel drowsy, almost swaying on my feet. Perhaps I dozed while standing there, waiting for my turn, perhaps I didn't; I cannot be sure. I do remember being led into an even warmer office and the way the interrogator deliberately started talking to me in a soothing Canadian accent. I tried to focus but everything in my mind seemed fogged. I began to drift off. I was going deeper into sleep. Then his voice broke into my consciousness again. 'Thank you for telling me about your wife and kid.' I came to with a start. Had I? No, this is a trick. I turned to the man sitting beside him, trying to work out whether I'd really given this information away. This didn't help because he appeared to have turned as silent as Mickey Mouse. The interview ended and I was hauled out, bewildered and not confident I hadn't betrayed myself. I'd learn later that an officer on the course had been persuaded to put his signature on a document. Once he'd crossed that line, he started cheerfully signing paper after paper. That was the end of him. When we weren't being interrogated, we were forced to sit blindfolded in a stress position, cross-legged, back upright, with our hands on our heads. If at any point you slumped, or fell asleep, a guard would be on you in seconds, slapping you to bring you back up. Before long, every limb was filled with excruciating pain, our discomfort made worse by strobe lights flashing in our eyes and white noise blasting in our ears. Occasionally a cup of water would be brought to our lips to sip. We had to p*** where we sat. Sometimes they strode over and started beating us. The worst was a guy who seemed to enjoy it. Finally, I was brought into an interview room, where they told me to strip naked. There was a bloke I'd seen before and a new inquisitor, a good-looking blonde woman. I couldn't help but notice how tight her black top was. They made me open my legs, touch my toes, pull my butt cheeks apart. It was nasty, humiliating, though nothing I couldn't cope with. Then the interrogation began. To begin with it was standard good cop, bad cop, switching between threatening me and offering hot food and a shower if I signed the piece of paper they slid across the table to me. I imagined standing beneath a cascade of warming water that soothed my aching limbs and washed off the dirt that encrusted every inch of my skin. My hand twitched. My God, it was tempting. It couldn't hurt, could it? With an effort I dragged my mind back to the room and shook my head. 'No,' I said, smiling. My sense of reality felt frayed. But I had one thing to hold on to. It would soon be over. I knew that in July it got light at about 4am. I also knew the interrogation phase usually finished at around 11am. And that would be it, I'd have done it. I was sure I'd seen a glow of light through my blindfold and that an entire rotation had passed since then. This was the last block of four hours I needed to survive. The woman leaned across the table. Something in her face changed, her eyes filled with malice. She pointed to my penis. 'Pull your foreskin back.' I did what I was told. 'Now pull it forward.' I obeyed. She repeated the instructions. Baffled, I carried on. Then she sneered: 'Are you w****** over me, you disgusting n*****?' Right, I thought, this is the game, is it? To be honest there was no word she could say that I hadn't heard as a black kid growing up on a council estate in Stoke-on-Trent. Her insults took a more demeaning turn. Then, somehow, as she edged that bit closer to me, and I saw her chest in my eyeline and smelled her perfume, I imagined her naked. It was just for a fleeting second, but it was enough. Blood rushed to my penis; it jerked upwards. Oh, God. She noticed immediately and did her best to control her reaction. A smile flashed across her face, then after a brief struggle, she laughed. And I did too. It was all so ridiculous. And yet it could mean me failing the course, even at this late stage. We'd been told we had to take it all seriously. The idea that this might be the reason I got chucked off felt cosmically unfair. And yet, I wondered, maybe it was a weakness in me they'd managed to find. That's what they were here to do. Panic mounted in me. As I contemplated this, she managed to master herself. 'Get that black b****** the f*** out of here!' I was blindfolded, dragged out and thrown on to concrete by a man screaming obscenities in my ear. I heard the hiss of a hose and suddenly a high pressure jet of icy water slammed into me. The jet was so strong it lifted my blindfold and to my horror I saw it was still dark. I'd convinced myself it was about 8am but it was still the dead of night. My miscalculation devastated me. There were still hours to go. The finishing line was in sight but I was so tired, so addled, I came closer in those moments to quitting than at any other point of the course. I saw no way I could go on. It was precisely at that moment I heard one of our guys being pulled past me, sobbing like a baby. I heard some shuffling and pushing, then sensed that whoever he was had been placed in the stress position. He's in a worse state than me, I thought. I wonder who it is? That's when I got an unmistakeable whiff of salad cream. It could only be Sammy. I thought of his funny sad face, his clown's tuft of filthy hair. For the second time in 30 minutes I found myself giggling. Somehow, this was exactly what I needed. No matter how bad I was having it, it was nothing compared to what he was going through. It wasn't much, but it was enough to get me through the last stretch of the ordeal. And then it really was over. Just a handful of us had passed. We were told the news in a cold hangar in the same flat, emotionless way all information had been delivered to us over the past weeks. There were no congratulations, no pats on the back. I looked around at the handful of other soldiers, including, I was pleased to see, Sammy, who'd made it. Every single one of them looked crazy, their eyes enormous and spaced-out, their cheeks hollow. These defeated, wasted blokes were unrecognisable from the strong, healthy specimens who'd started the course. And yet they were the ones who had passed. I was too broken to react immediately. It was only later that I felt my spirits soar as, in front of the clock tower at the regiment's headquarters in Hereford, we were given the sand-coloured berets we'd worked so hard for. I'd made it. The black working-class kid was in the SAS, one of the first British-born black men to join. It was a dream come true.
