Pupils punished for incorrect uniform due to cost pressures, charity warns
Nearly two in five (38%) parents said they struggle to pay for the school uniform their child needs, according to the poll for The Children's Society.
The survey, carried out by Censuswide in June, found 42% of parents said school uniform was not more affordable this year (2024/25) compared to the previous academic year (2023/24).
It comes as the Children's Wellbeing and Schools Bill, which is currently being considered in the House of Lords, includes a proposal to cap the number of branded uniform items schools in England can require.
The survey found 44% of parents said their children have faced negative outcomes for wearing the incorrect uniform, or for not having a required item, as the uniform is unaffordable.
Around one in eight (12%) said their child had received a detention for uniform breaches, while 9% had been placed in isolation, and 8% had been excluded.
The poll found 15% of parents said their child had not been able to participate in lessons and 12% were not able to participate in extracurricular activities due to incorrect uniform.
Mark Russell, chief executive at The Children's Society, said: 'Punishing children for circumstances outside their control is deeply unjust.
'Every child should be able to attend school without fear of detention, isolation, or exclusion because of uniform costs their families cannot afford.'
Nearly four in five (78%) parents believe there should be a specific limit on the number of branded uniform items that schools can require, the survey found.
The charity is calling on the Government to implement proposals set out in the Children's Wellbeing and Schools Bill to introduce a limit of three branded items of school uniform to help families.
Mr Russell added: 'At a time when many families are already struggling to afford the basics, we can't let the cost of school uniforms make life even harder for children.'
Pepe Di'Iasio, general secretary of the Association of School and College Leaders, said: 'The experiences reflected in this survey are worrying, and demonstrate just how tough the financial position is for some families who face having to make impossible decisions.
'Most schools – in our experience – are acutely conscious of cost pressures on families and work hard to support the many children in our country who live in difficult financial circumstances.
'We support the Government's intention of limiting the cost of uniforms – though we think this would be better achieved with a monetary cap rather than specifying the number of branded items that are allowed.'
Ahead of the committee stage debate on the Bill in the House of Lords on Thursday, schoolwear retailers have repeated warnings that the proposed cap of three branded school uniform items could increase costs for families.
Matthew Easter, chairman of the Schoolwear Association, said: 'We have repeatedly tried to engage with ministers in a constructive way to warn of the risks of this policy backfiring – harming the very families it's meant to help, and putting small community businesses and local jobs at risk.
'A blunt, one-size-fits-all cap will only drive-up costs and reduce access to essential support.'
Education Secretary Bridget Phillipson said: 'School uniforms can create a sense of community and belonging for children but they shouldn't cost the earth.
'Through our Children's Wellbeing and Schools Bill we are capping the number of costly branded uniform items – putting money back into the pockets of working families as part of our Plan for Change.
'Whilst it might upset those who profit from branded items, it's clear from the Children's Society research that we have the backing of parents. It means schools can continue to benefit from a cohesive uniform, while parents can shop where suits their budget.'
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Like many island-nations in the Pacific, Tuvalu is devoutly Christian. Every evening, 15 minutes are reserved for prayer time. By the side of a road that runs along the airstrip, I chatted with a police officer who had asked me to stop and wait. She told me that there are 132 police personnel in the country, and the last notable crime took place in 2015, when a drunk motorcycle rider ran over someone who was sleeping the night at the airstrip. Sleeping at the airstrip used to be common practice and continues to be permitted; since the accident, cars and mopeds have been banned. Night descended quickly and by 7pm it was dark. Back at the lodge, the plastic chairs of the restaurant were occupied by a couple from Peru, two college students from Hong Kong and an Indian sexologist. 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'Statehood is a fiction, a legal fiction that we came up with,' says Sumudu Atapattu, the director of the Global Legal Studies Center at the University of Wisconsin-Madison law school. In this century, as the climate crisis will scramble the commonly understood meanings of nationhood and sovereignty, the world is going to have to come up with, in Atapattu's words, 'a new fiction'. Digital statehood is an attempt at this redefinition, but at this stage the details are unknown. Recent bilateral agreements with New Zealand and Australia provide residential visas to a few hundred Tuvaluans each year to move to those countries, but a far greater number of locals aspire to emigrate than the 355 who receive these visas every year. In June, when applications opened for the first time for 280 Australian visas to be allocated to Tuvaluans, more than 8,000 people applied. But at the current rate, it will take more than 30 years for everyone to leave Tuvalu, by which time Funafuti, according to government estimates, might be underwater. Grace Malie grew up in Fongafale. For high school she moved to Vaitupu, the largest atoll of Tuvalu, where just over 1,000 people live. Students from all the other islands attend Motufoua secondary school while living with local families in Vaitupu. Malie told me she learned the local dances, faatele in Tuvaluan, from all the eight inhabited islands of Tuvalu, each of which has distinct linguistic dialects and customs. Later, she went to study at the University of the South Pacific in Fiji, moved back to Fongafale, and worked briefly as an assistant to Kofe. In 2023, at the age of 24, Malie visited Cop28 in Dubai as a youth delegate. 'I find it kind of hard to accept when I ask people where they are from, and they say, 'New York', and I say, 'The big city!'' she told me. 'But when I say, 'I'm from Tuvalu', they're like, 'Where?', and I say, 'In the Pacific', and they're like, 'Where?', then I say, 'You know Australia? Hawaii? Yeah. Somewhere in between there.'' Malie said that the people she was talking to probably couldn't even imagine what Tuvalu looks like. Malie appreciated how Kofe's speeches were changing that. But she was also disturbed by the image of the virtual islet where Kofe was standing in the 2022 video. 'The visuals are for people who are not living here to be able to see, and for us, it is like …' Without finishing that sentence, Malie popped her eyes and retreated into her chair behind outstretched hands. Was it scary to watch? I asked. 'Yes,' Malie said. 'It brought the reality closer to home.' I met Malie shortly after she had returned from Cop28 with her friend Tamala Pita, who was sitting with us at the restaurant of Filamona Lodge. As youth delegates, Malie and Pita told me, it was exhausting to talk about erosion, submersion, migration and weave it together with their personal experiences. 'It was emotional,' Malie said. 'You are talking about losing your home to these strangers, and you think about what you are saying, and you start crying, it is just emotionally draining.' Both Malie and Pita broke down several times during the nine days in Dubai; they consoled each other and were consoled by youth delegates from other developing nations. Both were stunned by the excessive, needless use of indoor lighting and air-conditioning. Pita said: 'There were lights on the floor of the metro station! I was like, do you really need that?' Whenever Malie is away, she is always thinking of returning. I asked her what she misses when she is travelling. 'Ohh,' she said, letting her shoulders droop. Then, with a burst of energy: 'Everything! Being able to sleep with your door open, the wind coming into the house, there is no homelessness here, there is no stress.' Many houses in Tuvalu have openings on all sides, with sloping roofs made of thatch or corrugated iron. Generally, the house is one big hall, where the family sleeps on mattresses on the floor. The bedding is rolled up and put in a corner in the morning, and the hall becomes the living room. What is it like to consider, I asked Malie, that Tuvalu might become uninhabitable in her lifetime. 'We need to convey that possibility, but we also want to try to make sure that doesn't actually happen to us,' she said. It is a difficult balance. Tuvalu is walking a fine line: to get the attention of the world, it must publicise its own disappearance, while doing everything it can to survive. The government of Tuvalu is reclaiming land on the lagoon side, with funds from the UN. That gives Malie hope. So does her religious faith. 'We always have journalists coming up and talking about these scientific facts, but then we have to remain true to our fight and our cause and our people, and we have remained resilient and remained hopeful,' she told me. 'We've said this so many times, but the motto of Tuvalu is 'Tuvalu mo te Atua', which means, Tuvalu with God.' Until recently, Tuvalu was best known for its fortuitous top-level domain – .tv. In 1995, a government office in Fongafale received a fax, informing them that Tuvalu's country code on the world wide web had been assigned. The government officials gathered around the fax, one recalled in 2019, and wondered: 'What the hell is this internet thing?' Before long, video platforms wanted URLs ending in .tv, and Tuvalu cashed in. Every streaming company running a website address that ends in .tv, from Amazon to Apple to Hulu to Twitch, pays a licensing fee. Last year, it contributed more than $10m to the country's $80m revenue. Besides the licences for tuna fishing in its territorial waters, which amount to about $35m, .tv is Tuvalu's second-largest source of income. Before it became independent in 1978, Tuvalu had been under British rule for almost a century. When independence was looming, it was important to Tuvaluans to not be merged with the Gilbert islands, which became Kiribati. Tito Isala, a septuagenarian with curly white hair, who was part of the committee that negotiated the terms of independence in the 1970s and lived with his wife a few houses down the road from my lodge, told me that Kiribati, which has a surface area of 300 sq miles, would have 'swallowed little Tuvalu'. They decided to become an independent country comprising nine atolls, eight of which were inhabited, and adopted the name Tuvalu, which in Tuvaluan means eight standing together. Today, Fongafale, on its less than one sq mile of land, houses more than 6,000 people, and offers them few services. There was no ATM in the country until a few months ago. There are no barbershops; people cut their own hair or wait till their next visit to Fiji. A small garden run by a Taiwanese aid agency is the only source of fresh produce. A bag of vegetables can be bought once or twice a week, at $13 each. Locals catch fish in the lagoon, which is the only source of fresh meat in the country besides pork; neither is available in plenty. The population is sustained by imported food. A supermarket, a warehouse really, near the north end of the airstrip, accounts for more than 70% of the country's imports. It sells butter manufactured in California, Japanese washing machines, and sofas of unspecified origins; this is also where everyone buys vegetables, grain and meat. Sacks of rice are piled in one corner. Imported, processed food has disturbed the diet. A quarter of Tuvalu's population has diabetes. Tuvalu, according to the UN, is among the world's least-developed countries. On the northern end of Fongafale, just before the point where Kofe made his famous address, there is a huge garbage dump – among the tallest structures on the island – which sometimes combusts spontaneously. On the southern end is a rusted warship, and the stony beach is covered in broken glass and plastic bottles, torn clothes and washed-up Blundstone boots. People who live here feel deeply connected to the place, but even they concede that to see how beautiful Tuvalu is, one must get out of Fongafale, and go to the outer islands. 'Too many people live here, that's the problem,' Lotoala, the motel owner, said to me. One evening in the balcony next to my room, I asked Lotoala what he thought about the threat posed by the climate crisis to Tuvalu. 'Do you mean that the islands might drown?' he asked me. When I said yes, he responded: 'I don't think it will happen.' With a boyish, confessional smile, he added: 'People don't like you when you say that. But I don't think it will happen.' He knew that when the tides run high, around March every year, water seeps through the ground in Fongafale. 'But it only happens at that one place,' he said. 'It has been happening there since I was a kid.' Lotoala believes that it will be 'hundreds' of years before the islands are fully submerged, but he knows that it will become increasingly difficult to continue to live here. 'This is what I tell my children: you have to think about moving, about being flexible, you have to have that mindset, you should not get stuck here.' The idea of submersion is not convincing to all the locals. They have seen the erosion of Fongafale before their eyes and are acutely aware of the changing climate, but at the same time, they have also seen atolls grow and gain ground. Tito Isala dismissed all talk of a digital future with a wave of his hand: 'It is defeatist, hopeless.' Nor was he excited about the idea of Tuvaluans settling on foreign shores. 'We do not want to relocate,' he said. 'Where are we going to go? New Zealand?' Isala said. 'How do they treat the Māori?' He gave me another hypothetical. 'America? Who wants to deal with their Trumps and Bidens?' Isala opened an iron chest in his living room and pulled out a large, laminated, navigational map of Funafuti. He unrolled it on the top of the trunk. 'The islets make the shape of a human face in profile; we are here, at the back of the head,' he said, pointing to Fongafale. 'Here we have lost land.' Then he pointed to the chin on the map, at an islet of Funafuti called Motuloa. 'Motuloa has grown its landmass,' Isala said. The local understanding of the adaptability of the atolls is backed up by some scientific data. When Malie had told me submersion 'is a possibility', she wasn't simply dismissing the projections of sea level rise by the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change. 'The signs are very clear, especially from the IPCC reports,' Malie said. 'But then you have other science, which is uncertain, which says it [submersion] might happen, it might not happen.' This 'other science' is mainly based on the work of Paul Kench, a coastal geomorphologist who has studied shoreline changes in the Maldives, Fiji, the Marshall Islands, the Great Barrier Reef, Kiribati and Tuvalu. Kench studied coastal changes and physical geography of islands at the University of Auckland, then did his PhD at the University of New South Wales, where his dissertation was on atolls in the Indian Ocean. When we spoke on Zoom, Kench was in Singapore, where he is a professor in the department of geography at the National University. Kench has amassed a significant body of work to show that rising sea level does not necessarily mean the submersion of low-lying atolls. The projections of Tuvalu's disappearance assume that atoll islands are static structures. Kench's work shows that they are instead dynamic entities that are constantly transforming themselves, even gaining landmass. Using data from aerial images going back to the second world war, Kench showed that in the past four decades, while sea level rose in Tuvalu twice as fast the global average, total land area slightly increased, by 2.9%. The greatest gains were made by the islands of Vaitupu and Nanumaga. Fongafale itself had gained 4.6 hectares in the past four decades, even as the locals were watching both tips of the islet being eroded before their eyes. In 2018, Kench published another paper with two other researchers, which is the most comprehensive analysis of Tuvalu's coastal changes. The paper showed that 73 of the 101 islets analysed had accreted surface area amounting to 80.7 hectares. The remaining 28 had eroded, losing 7.24 hectares in total. These changes happen through a combination of factors. The reef is continuing to produce sediment, Kench told me, and the waves are continuing to deposit crusts of reef that break away from the vast rim. Kench's work has been used by conservative thinktanks and climate change deniers – or what Kench refers to as 'that idiotic part of society' – to raise doubts about sea level rise. 'You can't control it,' Kench said, with the weariness of a man who has for years been dealing with such misinformation. 'You can't control what those maniacs do.' Kench does not dispute that sea levels are rising and that this is a result of human-made climate breakdown. But he maintains that when it comes to atoll islands, 'a lot of the gloom and doom scenarios are based on emotive, or intuitive, reasoning.' When I asked Kofe about Kench's work, he said that the government finds it 'inconclusive'. Kench can appreciate the tricky spot Tuvalu finds itself in, but he feels his work could have been used differently. 'We got a lot of criticism,' he said, 'because it didn't really show what they wanted it to.' The government of Tuvalu accused him, Kench told me, 'of undermining Tuvalu's international negotiations'. He was surprised by the vehemence of the reaction. 'They could have said, 'We are going be living here in our country, but our lands are changing around us in ways that we are only starting to understand, and we are going to need a lot of help.'' But that does not make for, Kench admitted, 'a sexy headline'. Kench emphasised to me that he was not an expert on habitability. 'Land is only one part of that metric,' he told me. 'I stick to my lane.' But he is astonished by how little attention has been given to the physical islands amid the rising sea. 'Over the last 30 years, agencies have been very happy to spend hundreds of millions [of dollars] in measuring sea level rise,' Kench said. 'But they've spent zero on actually measuring the thing that they keep saying is going to disappear because of sea level rise.' I went to see Fualifeke, a tiny islet at the top of the forehead on Isala's map, which has gone through a strange mutation over the past few decades. While its shore had been severely eroded on the lagoon side, it had gained almost the same amount of ground on the sea side. Getting to the outer islets is not easy. There are no boats waiting in the lagoon to ferry you about. A day before the trip, I had to find someone with a boat and then hope for good weather. Lotoala set it up. But on the day we were supposed to leave, he told me that though we had the boat, the man who had promised to take us couldn't be found. We decided to go for a few hours anyway. It was a burning hot afternoon, though the temperature was only 30C. It was not the sticky heat of New Delhi, where I lived for a decade in summer temperatures of over 40C, but equally sapping. Sun shone in a blue sky; clouds streaked the horizon. We poured water on the aluminium surface of the boat for a few minutes before sitting down. There was no padding on the seats, and the bare surface would have scalded the skin. When we were done dousing, Lotoala sat on the bow, his cousin at the stern. I was joined in the middle by the students from Hong Kong and Krishna, the Indian sexologist. The lagoon water was comparatively placid, but our small boat was soon seesawing as it moved across patches of emerald and cobalt water. When frigate birds flew by the boat, my co-passengers hooted with excitement. When we reached the islet after about half an hour, there was one house, a few hundred coconut trees and a dazzling bank made up of what looked like white gravel, but turned out to be tiny, pearly bits of coral reef. We swam in some shallow patches of water but only for a few minutes. The heat was exhausting. I saw the Hong Kong students clamber out of the warm water, squinting. The bleached reef was impossible to stand on without footwear. We all walked into the trees to find sand and shade. Everyone took long breaths and drank from a tank that collected rainwater. Lotoala climbed a sloping trunk with a big knife and tossed down green coconuts. Each of us had many coconuts. We poured cool, sweet water into our mouths, then cut them open to scrape out the flesh inside. We sat down, facing the sea, and Lotoala happily pointed out where the shape of the island had changed. He said that the area covered by chip stones in front of us was not there until a few years ago. 'It just happens,' he said, enjoying the incomprehension on my face. The previous day, we had talked about the projections of Tuvalu's submersion: 'I don't know if it will,' he said. 'You can never be sure about nature.' On our way back, no one spoke a word, the heat had drained us. I could easily recognise Fongafale from miles away, with a dark trail of smoke rising from the garbage dump, into the blue sky. When we came back to the lodge, Lotoala told me that when he was growing up, the heat wasn't this bad. He was wagging his finger at the airstrip, which was baking under the sun without a patch of shade. 'We used to play there in the afternoons.' The heat is worse on Fongafale than perhaps any other islet of Funafuti, he said, primarily because of the airstrip: no other atoll has so great an area of asphalt exposed to the sun. Everyone complains passionately about the rising temperature. When I took a walk one afternoon, the heat pinned me down within minutes and seemed to rise out of the ground. The sun was directly above, shadows were small, and Fongafale had the look of a ghost town. People had receded indoors. Hapless tourists stood by the side of the road waving at the occasional passing moped, requesting a lift to their accommodation. When I crossed the white-hot airstrip, where Lotoala used to kick a football at this hour, I wondered if the rubber soles of my sandals were sticking to the ground. In the restaurant at the lodge, Lotoala found me gulping down water and sweating profusely. He laughed heartily when I explained, and said: 'Boss, you do not take a walk at 2pm!' The heat, Lotoala believes, might make it impossible to live in Funafuti long before water takes over the land. His mother, sitting nearby, nodded in agreement. I had arrived in Tuvalu at the time of a national election, hoping to find the usual ferment around the time of voting. But the election means a lull in Fongafale. The ferry to the outer islands wasn't running, the government building was empty, and there were no rallies or speeches. Tuvalu has no political parties. The cabinet is made up of two representatives from each of the eight inhabited islands, who vote for a prime minister among them. All candidates had returned to the islands, and the sofas in the lobby of the government building, which has decent internet, were occupied by kids spending their afternoons playing games on their smartphones. While voting was ongoing at different community halls in Fongafale, a group of young men were downing cans of Filipino beer in a yard by a small house. I joined them. They were a boisterous bunch, who had attended high school or university in New Zealand and Australia. When I told them I was from India, they wanted to know how to pronounce the names of some Indian cricketers who had recently toured Auckland and Sydney. It delighted them that I could name the cricket grounds in those cities; one of them, who had studied in Brisbane, broke out in a little dance when I said: 'the Gabba!' With glazed eyes, they told me about the tall buildings, the glittering streets, the nightlife. Everything about those cities gladdened them and they spoke of their time there with longing and excitement. They wanted to go back, but they weren't sure how. Unlike Lotoala, who runs his own lodge, or Grace, who works with the government, these men, like many others in Tuvalu, hear the siren song of the great cities of Oceania, which present them with opportunities for a life that is not accessible to them in Fongafale. This yearning exhibits itself in the thousands of people who apply each year for the Pacific Access Category visa which has granted 75 Tuvaluans residential rights in New Zealand each year since 2019. In 2023, Tuvalu signed the Falepili Union treaty with Australia, which stipulated 'a special human mobility pathway for citizens of Tuvalu' to migrate to Australia and millions of dollars in aid; in exchange, Tuvalu must consult on defence and security matters before engaging with other nations. When signed, in November 2023, the treaty was seen as an overture by the United States to counter China's investments in the Pacific states, like Vanuatu. But the part of the treaty that most concerned locals was that Australia will award 280 Tuvaluans residential visas every year through a ballot system, and the beneficiaries will receive the same health, education, housing, and employment rights enjoyed by Australian citizens. Additionally, Tuvaluans will retain the ability to return to their home country. It has been publicised as a 'climate visa' by the international press, but the reasons for the widespread appeal of immigration are also economic. When I called Lotoala in August, he told me that he wasn't among the Tuvaluans who had applied for the Australian visa, but he wasn't surprised that every third person in Tuvalu wants to 'have this opportunity'. 'I have a business,' he told me. 'I can work here and feed my family and live a comfortable life. But maybe 1% of people here, 100 families, can afford such a life. What we earn is not what normal people earn. Most people have no way to make money. Most work you can find pays A$5 per hour.' Lotoala mentioned that over the past months, tourists from the US and Europe have expressed to him their shock at the prices of daily essentials in the shops. 'Even we feel the pressure every now and then,' he added. 'Life here can get very tough.' Lotoala said that more and more people are feeling 'stuck' in Tuvalu. Moving to Australia, or New Zealand for that matter, seems like a way out. 'If I didn't have a business, I'd take my family to Australia, find a job and level up from there,' he said. 'It is like a new opportunity, to build a new life.' Listen to our podcasts here and sign up to the long read weekly email here.
Leader Live
2 hours ago
- Leader Live
Students receiving eagerly anticipated A-level results
Students across England, Wales and Northern Ireland are receiving grades to help them decide whether to progress to university, an apprenticeship or work. Last year, 27.8% of UK A-level entries were awarded an A or A* grade – the highest proportion outside the pandemic-affected years of 2020-22. The Covid-19 pandemic led to an increase in top A-level grades in 2020 and 2021, with results based on teacher assessments instead of exams. In 2019 – the last year that summer exams were taken before the Covid-19 pandemic – 25.4% of UK A-level entries were awarded top grades. Leaders in the education sector have warned of the possible continuation of 'stark' divides in A-level results between different regions across the country because of the legacy of the pandemic and socio-economic factors. The Education Secretary has said she will not 'stand by and accept the entrenched inequalities' that blight the life chances of many young people. The Government's plans for turning around the attainment gap between white working class children and their peers is due to be set out in the autumn. Students who are receiving their A-level and level 3 vocational and technical qualification results were in Year 8 when schools closed because of the pandemic. This cohort of school and college leavers received their GCSE results in 2023 – the first year that grading was returned to pre-pandemic levels in England. In Wales and Northern Ireland, exam regulators returned to pre-pandemic grading in 2024 – a year later than in England. Pepe Di'Iasio, general secretary of the Association of School and College Leaders (ASCL), said A-level grades have returned to a 'consistent standard' since the pandemic and he would expect that to 'broadly continue' this year. But Mr Di'Iasio told the PA news agency: 'Unfortunately, we also expect to see the continuation of persistent inequities in terms of performance gaps between different regions and students. 'This is a product of longstanding socio-economic factors which require a much more concerted society-wide effort to fix.' He added: 'The legacy of Covid is part of this picture, with the disruption caused by the pandemic likely to have had the greatest impact on students from disadvantaged homes. 'Schools and colleges have put huge efforts into supporting these young people, but without sufficient Government action to help them, and in the face of an extremely difficult situation caused by funding and teacher shortages. 'The current Government has made the right noises but unfortunately this has so far not been matched by the improved investment in education which is so clearly required.' Lee Elliot Major, professor of social mobility at the University of Exeter, said: 'We must brace ourselves for stark divides in A-level results this year — not only between state and private schools, but also between London and other regions such as the South West and North East. 'In recent years, the gap in top grades — As and A*s, the passports to the most selective universities — has grown alarmingly, undermining efforts to widen access. 'These inequities are being driven by a toxic mix of the cost-of-living crisis, rising poverty, persistent school absence, and the long shadow of Covid. 'Unless we act, we risk locking in generational divides that will shape life chances for decades, with all our social mobility indicators now flashing red.' For many students, receiving their exam results on Thursday will also bring confirmation of university places. Last week, Jo Saxton, head of Ucas, suggested a record number of 18-year-olds could be successful in securing their first-choice university on results day. British universities are keen to recruit UK students because there is more 'uncertainty' around international students, she suggested. On the day before A-level results day, a PA sample of 129 of the UK's largest higher education providers showed there were 22,518 courses with vacancies for undergraduate students living in England on the Ucas clearing site – which matches applicants to university places yet to be filled. As of Wednesday afternoon, 18 of the 24 Russell Group universities, which represent some of the most selective UK institutions, had vacancies on courses for English residents – a total of 3,492 courses between them. Clearing is available to students who do not meet the conditions of their offer on A-level results day, as well as those who did not receive any offers. But prospective students who have changed their mind about what or where they wish to study, and also those who have applied outside the normal application window, can also use clearing. In England, T-level results will also be received by students on Thursday. Speaking on A-level results day, Ms Phillipson said: 'Every young person should have the opportunity to achieve and thrive. 'This Government won't stand by and accept the entrenched inequalities that continue to blight the life chances of too many young people, especially those from white working class backgrounds who have long been overlooked. 'We're already taking decisive action and making encouraging progress.' She added: 'Today is a time for celebration as young people up and down the country collect their exam results. 'Whether A-levels, T-levels or technical and vocational qualifications, I wish everyone the very best of luck, and offer my heartfelt thanks to the fantastic teachers, staff and parents who've supported them to this milestone.' Kevin Latham, research and policy manager at the Sutton Trust social mobility charity, told PA: 'Year 8 is a crucial time in educational and social development, and the effects of school closures during lockdown are ongoing.' He said he would be 'surprised' if there is significant improvement in attainment gaps between the South East and North East of England. 'By the time students get to their A-levels, years of disadvantage are already baked in for pupils in areas of high deprivation,' Mr Latham said. Sir Ian Bauckham, chief regulator at Ofqual, England's exams regulator, said: 'Ahead of students receiving their results we would like to recognise the valuable contributions made by their teachers who have put so much work into getting students to this important day. 'Exam results can change people's lives, and underpinning these defining moments is a well-regulated system of widely recognised and valued assessments and qualifications.' Scotland has a different qualification system and students received their results on Tuesday last week. Figures released by the Scottish Qualifications Authority (SQA) showed that 78.4% of those sitting National 5 exams passed with grades A to C – up from 77.2% last year. For Highers, 75.9% passed with the top bands, up from 74.9% last year, and for Advanced Highers 76.7% of students achieved A to C grades, up from 75.3% last year.
