Kemi Badenoch’s pledge to scrap non-crime hate incidents (NCHIs) under a future Conservative government is more than just a good policy — it’s a necessary one.
While some critics have grumbled about the pace of Badenoch’s policy announcements, this one is well-targeted, if poorly timed. The very idea that police time is spent recording “hate incidents” that aren’t even crimes is as absurd as it sounds — and it’s not just a hypothetical issue. Real people have faced real consequences. From schoolgirls being flagged for saying a classmate “smelled of fish”, to a pensioner being visited by the police after beeping her car horn at another car for taking ages at a petrol station, the effect of these non-crime logs is plain to see.
But how did we get here?
The roots of NCHIs trace back to the tragic, racially motivated murder of Stephen Lawrence in 1993. In the aftermath, then Home Secretary Jack Straw commissioned a public inquiry that resulted in the 1999 Macpherson Report. Among its recommendations was a redefinition of a “racist incident” to include both crimes and non-crimes — anything perceived as racist by the victim or “any other person.” A vague standard, open to wide interpretation, but introduced with the intent of tackling underreporting and systemic bias. Unfortunately, it was also a recommendation ripe for abuse.
New Labour didn’t immediately implement this specific proposal. But fast forward to 2014, and under a Conservative-led coalition, the College of Policing took it upon itself to issue national guidance urging all police forces to begin recording non-crime hate incidents. A Labour-originated idea, cemented by a Conservative government, and institutionalised by a quango few people would have heard of: the College of Policing.
And that’s where the real problem lies.
The College of Policing isn’t just a dusty back-office training provider. It is a sprawling, influential body that sets the rules of engagement for frontline policing, and it does so with barely any democratic oversight.
Officially launched in 2012, replacing the equally unloved National Policing Improvement Agency, the College has steadily expanded its influence over the past decade. Today, it employs more than 860 staff and burned through £75 million in 2022 — 23 alone. Its remit? Well, according to its own “About us” page, it exists to support “police officers and staff; researchers, academics and learning providers; the international policing community; and the public.” In other words, everyone and no one. A mission statement so vague it could belong to any public body, anywhere.
NCHIs are the visible symptom of a wider trend: the rise of an unaccountable administrative state
But what is of substance — and what should worry us — is the very real effect this organisation has had on policing culture. It was the College that formalised and embedded the recording of NCHIs. It is the College that has defended the practice time and again, even in the face of ridicule, outrage, and legal challenge. And it is the College that has done more to institutionalise an ideological agenda into policing.
To make matters worse, this is the quango with more equality, diversity and inclusion (EDI) officers than any other, with 27 roles in 2023. In addition, it published a language guide in 2021 that leaned heavily on Stonewall talking points. And it has operational independence — meaning ministers can’t direct it and voters can’t boot it out.
So if Kemi Badenoch is serious about ending the recording of non-crime hate incidents, the College of Policing can’t be left intact. Not in its current form, and arguably not at all. If she wants to get rid of the disease, she can’t just treat the symptoms.
But scrapping the College doesn’t mean leaving policing rudderless. The core responsibilities — like national training standards, performance evaluation, and professional development — can and should be brought back under direct ministerial control, either within the Home Office or under a streamlined, statutory body with greater accountability to Parliament. Other sectors manage training and regulation without sprawling, ideologically driven quangos — so why not the police?
But this goes deeper than budgets and bureaucracy. NCHIs are the visible symptom of a wider trend: the quiet rise of an unaccountable administrative state. One where policy isn’t debated in Parliament but cooked up in meetings between mid-level managers, EDI consultants and activist groups. One where your rights can be curtailed based on perception alone. One where the loudest offence-takers get to define what is hateful, even if no real crime has been committed.
That’s why we at the TaxPayers’ Alliance have launched Britain’s Quangos Uncovered. Because for all the attention on politicians, the real drivers of policy are often hiding in plain sight — inside arm’s-length bodies that have quietly accumulated power and autonomy while escaping scrutiny. Some quangos perform vital functions and need reform. Some can be folded back into central departments. But others, like the College of Policing, have strayed too far from their original mission and need to go.
Kemi Badenoch has taken a great first step by pledging to scrap non-crime hate incidents, but headline pledges aren’t enough. If she wants to protect free speech and restore trust in policing, she must also dismantle the very institution that institutionalised NCHIs in the first place: the College of Policing.
