It’s part of the furniture of British life. The shop on the corner of the street that seems to sell everything: booze, fags, scratchcards, sweets, pet food and hummus. Those crisps you like – Lay’s, not Walkers – in obscure flavours you usually only find on holiday. You might traipse there in your pyjamas when you’ve run out of milk in the morning, or when you’re desperately seeking a sugar hit to ease your hangover. These shops are in the thick of the drama on TV soaps like Coronation Street and Hollyoaks. Back in the real world, there are 49,388 convenience stores across the UK, each with its own story.
On a humid Friday afternoon in east London, I’m sitting outside one such shop eating a warm vegetarian curry. The large cubes of paneer are melting in my mouth and I’m using thepla – a soft Indian flatbread – to mop up the spinach sauce. It’s the quality of meal I’d expect to pay a premium for at a restaurant, or a gentrified street food stall. But it was only £6 from the Londis behind me.
From the outside, Londis N16 looks like any other convenience store. The shop was opened by Karsan and Mahalaxmi Patel in 1979, a husband and wife who immigrated to the UK from Zambia. Now, it’s run by the next two generations of the Patel family, who spent their childhoods living above it. Their selection of homemade Gujarati food has transformed Londis into an attraction, with fashion bible The Face declaring it the capital’s “coolest corner shop”.
I discovered Londis N16 on Instagram. The shop’s profile is a combination of food pictures, irreverent captions and memes. It updates its 7,000 followers on the changing food menu and events like the regular “supper club” – the first of which was in collaboration with Delli, an app where independent food makers can sell their culinary creations. The account is run by Priyesh Patel, 30, son of store owners Anju and Mayank.
Patel says that pulling all this together is a family affair: Anju prepares the food in the on-site kitchen while Mayank works the shop floor. His brother, Alpesh, does all the buying with help from Jay, a family friend. Neelam, Patel’s sister-in-law, is the boss of desserts. Every Tuesday and Friday, customers can sample their freshly prepared vegetarian curries, warm samosas and cauliflower pakoras, garlic and coriander chutney, plus fluffy baked cakes and doughnuts infused with cardamom, pistachio and rose cream.
The decline of convenience stores like Londis has been forecast for decades, as online shopping has grown alongside the major supermarkets opening smaller stores like Tesco Express and Sainsbury’s Local. But, so far, the sector has defied these predictions, with sales surging during the Covid-19 pandemic. When supermarkets ran out of toilet tissue, convenience stores were among the pandemic’s quiet heroes. Now, the cost-of-living crisis has changed the dynamic again. With inflation driving up prices, these shops face the tough reality that many customers are being forced to prioritise value over convenience. With energy prices rising too, can the great British corner shop survive?
When Patel’s grandparents first set up shop in the UK, they had a simple ethos. “They passed on to us that we should be accessible and provide something for everyone in the community,” he says. “As a Londis franchise, we have the perks of a chain but the freedom of an independent shop. We can evolve with the community, because the community is always changing as different people move in.”
The buzz around the homemade food has widened the circle of customers who come into the shop. “We get people from all walks of life,” Patel says. “Locals use the shop for things they need, or because they love my mum’s food. Earlier today, a man came in who was visiting from New York and had been recommended our food by a friend.”
James Lowman, chief executive of the Association of Convenience Stores (ACS), says he has heard many stories like this, where there are queues around the block for freshly baked samosas and specially prepared Turkish, Lebanese or Polish deli food. It’s a triumph of multiculturalism, he thinks, but also a sign that convenience stores are more relevant than ever. “The convenience store sector has consistently grown faster than the grocery market as a whole,” he says.
The number of convenience stores in the UK increased by almost 1,000 over the last 12 months. These range from newsagents and franchises like Londis, to independent greengrocers. The Grocer reports that the total share of food sales in convenience stores rose by one percentage point to 23.4% in 2022, “pinching sales directly from the supermarket sector”. One of the reasons was convenience’s ability to limit “till shock” (where customers accidentally spend much more than expected because they are buying more items and haven’t kept track of the price) and reduce waste. These stores would be an expensive place to do a large weekly shop, but buying little and often can help people be more efficient with what they buy.
Even in challenging economic times, Lowman thinks people still need the affordable treats that their local shop provides. Customers might not be going out for dinner as much, but they still treat themselves to little luxuries, like fancy drinks and premium chocolate.
Quality is an area where convenience stores can be more competitive with supermarkets. Their fruit and vegetables are often locally sourced and fresh. They’re a place where customers can buy premium products that supermarkets don’t always stock, such as vegan alternatives and international foods like baklava.
McCall’s Organics has been serving customers in the same location for the past 128 years. In the centre of the shop – hidden among the locally grown vegetables, seeds, vegan sausage roll filling and fresh spices – is an original red barrow that was used to wheel produce to and from the market over a century ago. “There is no other independent shop in Manchester where you can buy the variety and quality you can buy here,” shop owner Mark McCall, 59, tells me. Ten years ago, he opened another shop next door, McCall’s Exotics, to expand his offering. How have they lasted so long? He thinks it’s partly down to the growing trend of young people buying food to eat that evening. “Younger generations are more inclined to cook what they see on TV or on their phones,” he says. “Here you can buy ingredients to cook any cuisine you want: Indian, Jamaican, Thai …”
Emmy Tokunaga, 32, has worked in McCall’s for three years. She says that customers have the option to call up and order specific ingredients that they don’t regularly stock. The shop’s product offering is updated seasonally, but also if customers request specific products. “We get to know people and their stories,” she says. “And they ask for certain things, then we can respond to that.” The shop also has a points scheme to give returning customers discounts, plus boxes of mixed seasonal vegetables that can be bought daily for £10.
It’s this type of adaptability that has been central to the story of Britain’s convenience stores, from greengrocers like McCall’s to the classic family-run corner shop. Journalist Babita Sharma, author of the 2019 memoir The Corner Shop, grew up living above stores run by her parents in Reading. Her mother, Prem, and father, Ved, moved to the UK from India in the late 60s and set up shop in 1977. During the energy blackouts, her parents sold paraffin and kept the shop illuminated with candles.
Sharma remembers her parents’ corner shop being a place where all the tensions of the time – racial, political, economic – could be found, but also a sense of community and resilience. In the recession of the 80s, regular customers would be able to put things “on tick” and pay for them later when they had the money. “Corner shops can react so quickly to the needs of the community because there isn’t as much red tape,” she says. “It’s why they’ve managed to stay profitable throughout so many different crises over the decades.”
What does the future look like for Britain’s convenience stores? Grocery delivery apps were touted as a major threat to the sector, but after a series of mergers with Weezy and Gorillas, rapid grocery delivery company Getir announced plans to lay off 2,500 staff, while its smaller rival, Jiffy, ceased deliveries last year. By comparison, convenience stores have managed to stay relevant by offering a wide range of services, from dry-cleaning and key-cutting to energy bill payments, parcel collection and postal services. “They reinvent themselves all the time,” Sharma says. “It’s like the cat that’s got nine lives.”
Now, these shops face another challenge: surging energy costs. Last winter, the UK government provided an energy support scheme for small businesses after the ACS warned that the “emergency” of rising costs would force thousands of corner shops to close. Government support decreased in March ahead of the warmer months, but Lowman says this presents specific difficulties for convenience stores, because they are often “high energy intensive” throughout the year in order to keep fresh produce and refreshments cool in summer. With many shops now paying double what they were before energy prices sharply rose, some may decide that their business model is no longer profitable enough to justify the long hours.
In cities, small local shops are fighting against the slow march of urban gentrification. Ali, who works in Beatles News on Victoria Street in Liverpool, says that inflation has affected footfall in the shop, while rent in the city centre continues to rise. McCall says that his premises are under threat from developers, who want to buy the land from the council to build blocks of flats. “We know we’re not going to be able to stop it,” he says. “Once we’re gone, there will be no other shop like us in central Manchester – and you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.”
If these shops were to become more of a rarity, what would we lose? The average convenience shop customer visits 2.7 times a week and 36% say they know the people who work in their local shop quite well. “There is a real relationship there between businesses and their customers,” Lowman says. “I hear stories about people who come in every day then, if they don’t come in, their relatives are called and it turns out they’ve had a fall or something.” Tokunaga says that two McCall’s customers have moved abroad to Australia and Texas to set up similar shops. They still keep in touch. “Some people come in every day,” she says. “But others move away and then come back after years.”
Sharma thinks the lasting legacy of corner shops is bringing different cultures together in one space, where people can eat each other’s food and have small interactions they wouldn’t otherwise. “Corner shops are born out of every essence of British culture,” she says. “They’re the pulsating heart of a community.”
Perhaps the biggest threat to convenience stores is a declining number of people who want to work in them. McCall says that, even if his premises weren’t under threat from developers, none of his children want to take on the shop and continue its 128-year history, because they’ve seen him working for seven days a week and want to do something different.
Being in the centre of a community can also expose staff to crime, racism and aggressive behaviour. I spoke to Ravi, 29, who is working in Manchester Mini Market on Oldham Street. The shop is a classic British newsagents that has become a local attraction because of its huge selection of cold drinks, with every obscure flavour of fizzy juice imaginable, from watermelon Tango to mojito-flavoured 7up. Local publication The Manc described it as “like Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory, but for pop”. Ravi says that almost every day there is an incident with theft: just yesterday, a man loudly screamed at him and continued abusing shop staff outside once he was physically removed from the premises. This was the second incident in a week.
Shop thefts have almost doubled in the last six years in the UK. The British Retail Consortium estimates that there were 8m “theft incidents” in British shops last year, costing £953m. This paper’s reporting on the UK’s shoplifting crisis found that some shoplifters are using small businesses like “a larder”. The lasting impact of these incidents goes beyond the financial toll: Sharma says that her mother, who recently passed away, “never forgot” the day a man pulled out a knife on her and stole the morning’s takings. “To feel welcomed by the community then have someone destroy that in five minutes, it really stays with you.” On a visit to Liverpool, every convenience store worker I spoke to described theft and disruption as a daily issue. Lowman says many shopkeepers decide that isn’t a lifestyle they want. “There’s a strong personal element to theft,” he says. “Some retailers and shop workers start to think: ‘I can’t do this any more.’”
For a lot of parents who work in corner shops, their dream is for their children to forge careers beyond it. Some 44% of Britain’s convenience store workers are of Asian descent, like Ravi, who moved to Manchester from India. He is working at the Mini Market while studying a master’s degree that he hopes will lead to a career in advertising.
Sharma thinks that immigration policy will determine the future of the corner shop more than any other factor. “Every immigrant community arriving in Britain usually finds themselves working in a corner shop at one stage, from the Indian and Pakistani communities in the 1950s, to more recently Polish people using the opportunities of the EU,” she says, noting that this could change post-Brexit. “As long as the immigration cycle continues in Britain, I think the corner shop will survive.”
Sitting outside Londis N16, as the low hum of urban life happens around us, Patel tells me that his parents have never put pressure on them to continue the shop for another generation. Before the pandemic, he and his brother were doing their own thing: he had recently graduated with a degree in fashion history from Central Saint Martins and was working as a freelance writer while doing shifts at pubs; Alpesh was working as an accountant. When Covid hit, they returned to the shop they grew up in, their roles becoming more serious and regular. Two years on, the younger and older generations are still working together, but each has their own life beyond it. “We work really hard and have a lot of flexibility. That freedom is really attractive,” he says. “I’m not sure what we’ll do in the future but, for now, I’m really happy here.”
