Chartered Institute of Housing: Spin. Silence. Repeat.

When I was first slapped with a so-called contact management plan—what it really was, was a communication ban—I was shocked. GreenSquareAccord stopped me from emailing staff, blocked me from sharing updates with leadership, and told me that copying in multiple people “muddied the waters.” It was the beginning of an institutional gag order.

And it came from a housing association that prides itself on “listening to the voice of the tenant.” Apparently, that only applies if your voice says things they want to hear.

At first, I thought it was just GSA’s internal tactic. But I soon realised it was part of something much bigger. What started as one housing association’s censorship revealed a culture that runs deeper—into the very institutions that claim to regulate and reform the sector. I’m talking about the Chartered Institute of Housing (CIH).

Time to be heard?

Back when I had fewer scars and a bit more faith, I was contacted on LinkedIn by Alex Gibson from the CIH. She invited me to speak at their Brighton event. At the time, my Housing Sector website was gaining traction. It was clear I wasn’t just ranting—I was raising grounded, uncomfortable, but legitimate questions.

ITV’s legal team had cleared my content and published a story. The Housing Ombudsman had upheld my concerns. I was credible.

So, I was asked to speak. I was also invited to submit a blog for CIH’s digital newsletter.

Then something shifted.

Emails flew between Steve Hayes—GSA’s Comms Director and a former CIH staffer—and Alex Gibson. Emails that only came to light after a Subject Access Request. A meeting was held. My name disappeared. The speaking slot was withdrawn. The blog invite was rescinded. And eventually, I was blocked.

What changed? I’d made the invitation public in a LinkedIn post. That was enough to spook them. Through a subject access request, I later confirmed what I’d suspected: Steve Hayes had leaned on his old CIH contacts. And the CIH folded. A tactic he would also successfully use with Four Million Homes and the local press.

Four Million Homes claims to stand for tenants — but with funding traced back to housing associations, paid for through our rent and service charges, it’s clear who really pulls the strings.

He invoked the threat of legal action against me — though at that stage, it was nothing more than posturing. The same legal action they’d later lose. The same tactics they’d use to drag me back to court, trying to imprison me for breaching undertakings I hadn’t even agreed to. The same actions that led to a House of Commons debate accusing GreenSquareAccord of using SLAPPs—strategic lawsuits to silence public participation.

That was the moment I realised: the CIH doesn’t just fail to hold housing providers accountable. It enables them.

And why?

CIH depends on housing associations for revenue—from event bookings, training fees, speaker slots, and membership subscriptions, many reimbursed by the associations themselves. If providers like GSA stopped paying for CIH memberships and services, CIH’s finances would take a rather large hit.

So when someone like Steve Hayes throws his weight around, CIH listens.

Why? Because it’s in their financial interest to do so.

Let’s be honest: this is pay-to-play accountability.

And when the spin didn’t work, Steve Hayes resorted to lies. He accused me of stalking him at events. He pushed for my arrest. At 1:10 a.m., I was taken from my home and accused of harassment. The charges? Dropped. No evidence. Because there was none.

This wasn’t just spin—it was a coordinated attempt to criminalise a critic.

I don’t expect CIH to put its funding at risk for me. Why would they?

Instead, they continued to platform people like Matt Baird—who praised my work publicly but privately emailed GSA to distance himself, seeking the opportunity to work with GSA. Others said they admired what I was doing—but couldn’t be seen to support it, because it would "impact revenue streams."

This is the culture the CIH has created: say the right things in public, play it safe in private. Platform safe tenants. Celebrate soft voices. Gatekeep the rest.

The filthy lucre.

The Chartered Institute of Housing likes to call itself a charity. But when you look at the money, it starts to look a lot more like a business — and one that a lot of us are unknowingly helping to bankroll.

In the year ending March 2024, they posted a surplus of £2.4 million. That’s not revenue — that’s what they had left over after expenses. Their net assets are pushing £8 million. They’re sitting on £2.9 million in cash, £2.3 million in investments, and they own another £2.3 million in property. Those aren’t the figures of a struggling charity. That’s a well-resourced, well-cushioned organisation.

They pulled in £7.9 million from what they call “charitable activities” — the highest ever. Of that, £3.7 million came from training and conferences. But here’s the thing nobody talks about: a huge chunk of that money starts with residents.

Housing associations pay for CIH memberships, events, and training. And how do housing associations get their money? Through rent. Through service charges. Through public subsidy. So while CIH members — many of them working for the very landlords failing us — get their fees reimbursed, we’re left paying for it indirectly.

They call it charity. I call it clever branding.

Because if residents are footing the bill, but can’t get a seat at the table, then whose charity is it really?

It’s starting to feel like it’s our money — and someone else’s microphone.

The tokenistic tenant.

You know the type: carefully selected, sometimes media-trained, always agreeable. They often class themselves as “informed tenants” — a term that’s disingenuous to every other tenant. They don’t challenge — they validate. They appear on CIH panels, TPAS, housing roundtables. And they say the same things:

“We must do better.”
“We’re listening.”
“Change is coming.”

It isn’t. It hasn’t. And it won’t — until we stop accepting this pantomime.

I’ve met residents who joined these groups genuinely hoping to make a difference. Some still believe they are. But many are just being used — as decoration. As “evidence” of engagement. Meanwhile, their issues go nowhere.

Recently, Alex Gibson unblocked me. No message. No explanation. Just unblocked. Then, when I asked why, I was told I was being patronising.

Another CIH contact stepped in, accusing me of “name-tagging” and “targeting” people. The irony? These are the same people now asking me to email them to arrange a meeting.

If they’re so worried about how they appear online, maybe they should start behaving in a way that actually matches the image they’re trying to project. The image they seem so hellbent on protecting. 

Why would I want a meeting? What haven’t I already said online, in public? 

I replied: if you want a meeting, you send me an email — with an agenda. We have a date penciled it, I’ll let you know if it happens. 

Why the change in tone?

Because they needed the optics.

Unblocking me wasn’t about engagement — it was about plausible deniability. So they could later say, “We didn’t block him. We offered to talk. He didn’t respond.”

It’s not dialogue. It’s a defence.

And this is what the CIH excels at: managing perception, not solving problems.

The whole structure revolves around revenue. And if you’re not helping bring it in — you’re not welcome.

New voices? Only if they can pay.

It’s a closed circuit. An industry within an industry.
Say the right thing — get the invite.
Say the wrong thing — get silenced.
Pay the fee — get a table. Pay a bigger fee — get a bigger, more prominent table.

And tenants are paying for it. Through rent. Through service charges. Through silence.

The CIH has become the gatekeeper of mediocrity. And in doing so, it has lost its moral authority. It’s certainly lost — if it ever had it — the authority to stop me from saying what I believe to be true, to stop me from standing up for the rights of other tenants, or to stop me from tagging people if I think they’ve behaved inappropriately.

Let’s be clear: I’m not funded by them. That means they don’t control me.

I’ve stayed free of their influence. I’ve kept my integrity — and I plan to leave this life with my soul intact.

The Charity Badge

But here’s the kicker: they still hide behind the label of a charity. A not-for-profit.

As if that excuses failure. As if “doing their best” is enough. As if six-figure salaries and bloated conference budgets are acceptable because technically, they’re not turning a profit.

Let me be clear: I don’t care if you’re a charity. I care if you’re effective. I care if tenants see results. I care if we’re getting value for what we pay in.

Right now, we’re not.

So whether it’s GreenSquareAccord silencing dissent, or CIH enabling the culture that makes it possible, the message is clear.

This system isn’t broken by accident. It’s broken by design.

If CIH sets the tone for the sector, then the sector is in serious trouble.

CIH doesn’t just reflect the worst parts of housing — it reproduces them.

The CIH profits from gatekeeping. It organises events where vendors pay to showcase their solutions. If you don’t play the game, you lose access. You’re locked out.

This starts to resemble a closed shop. When the same voices rotate through the same events, roundtables, and awards, it becomes an echo chamber. At worst, it flirts within the bid-rigging territory.

The training it delivers? Often underwhelming. In fact, some of the worst customer service I’ve ever experienced came from CIH-trained staff.

Take GreenSquareAccord. Any staff member can reclaim the cost of CIH membership and training — so effectively, I pay for it. Residents like me are funding professional development that too often delivers nothing in return.

This training is more about optics than impact. A one-day course. Maybe a short assignment. Maybe online. But when staff return to the office, there’s no system in place to apply what they’ve learned. The internal mechanisms don’t allow the ‘training’ to take root.

The housing sector is an incestuous little pool. Everyone knows everyone. Personal relationships blur into professional ones. In a sector this small, it’s understandable — but when things start failing, that closeness becomes a problem.

What we need is fresh thinking. New voices. Real accountability.

Instead, we get the same courses. The same faces. The same rinse-and-repeat routine that CIH and others make millions from.

Let’s talk about “listening to the customer.” Tenants are vocal. We’re already speaking. The problem is, only certain voices get heard. The rest are ignored, filtered, blocked — and worse still, evicted or criminalised.

I don’t care if CIH hosts its next event in the Maldives. First-class flights, five-star treatment. I wouldn’t care — if my home was warm, dry, safe, and affordable.

But when it isn’t — when people are living in damp, dangerous conditions — then every pound spent starts to matter.

If I were a housing association worried about future costs — with my customers experiencing a cost of living crisis — I’d take a very hard look at how much I’m paying to the Chartered Institute of Housing, and ask myself one serious question: is it worth it?