Have you ever hit “publish” one second too early and instantly regretted it? Now imagine that button released the entire economic blueprint for a nation’s budget forty minutes before the Chancellor even stood up to speak. That’s exactly what unfolded last week in Britain, and on Monday morning the man at the top decided the honorable thing was to fall on his sword.
Richard Hughes, chair of the Office for Budget Responsibility, tendered his resignation after what he called a “technical but serious error” turned the Autumn Budget into unplanned market mayhem. In a letter that reads like it was written with a very heavy heart, he told the Chancellor it was time for him to step aside so the institution could move forward.
A Forty-Minute Mistake That Shook Markets
Picture the scene. It’s Wednesday afternoon. Traders, journalists, and opposition MPs are glued to their screens waiting for Rachel Reeves to deliver Labour’s first Budget in fourteen years. The OBR’s all-important forecast document – the one that tells everyone whether the numbers actually add up – is supposed to drop the moment she starts speaking.
Except it dropped early. About forty minutes early, to be precise.
Suddenly the full economic and fiscal outlook was live on the internet. Bond traders didn’t wait for polite explanations – they started trading. Gilt yields jumped, then fell, then jumped again as the markets tried to digest hundreds of pages of data without the Chancellor’s comforting commentary to go with it.
“The inadvertent early dissemination of our Economic and fiscal outlook on 26 November was a technical but serious error.”
– Richard Hughes, in his resignation letter
In the space of one accidental click, years of carefully choreographed Budget theatre collapsed. The OBR’s reputation for iron-clad independence and impeccable timing – built over fifteen years – took a serious dent.
Why Does Timing Actually Matter So Much?
You might think forty minutes is neither here nor there. In most jobs it isn’t. But Budget day runs on military-level precision for very good reasons.
The Chancellor gets to explain the story first. She sets the narrative, highlights the choices, and – crucially – markets hear the political reasoning alongside the raw numbers. When the forecast lands first, traders see only cold data. No context. No reassurance. Just numbers that can be interpreted in the worst possible light.
I’ve covered enough Budget days to know the choreography by heart. The OBR document is embargoed until the moment Reeves starts speaking. Journalists get it at H-hour minus sixty minutes, but under strict rules – no phones, no leaving the lock-in room. The idea is everyone reacts at the same time.
When that synchronized clock breaks, advantage shifts to whoever has the fastest connection and the sharpest algorithms. Ordinary investors and, frankly, democratic accountability get left behind.
What The Leaked Forecast Actually Said
While the early release caused chaos, the substance of the forecast wasn’t exactly earth-shattering – at least not compared to the headlines we’d already seen.
Growth projections were revised down slightly for next year. Inflation looked stickier than hoped. Borrowing was higher than the March forecast, though still within the Chancellor’s newly flexible fiscal rules. The big tax rises and spending commitments were certified as meeting her mandate – just about.
In other words, if everything had gone to plan, markets would probably have taken it in their stride. The problem wasn’t the message. It was the messenger – or rather, the timing of the delivery.
- Growth forecast for 2025 cut to 1.1% from 1.9%
- Inflation not returning to 2% target until 2027
- Headroom against fiscal rules measured in billions, not tens of billions
- Public sector net borrowing higher than previously expected
Perfectly defensible numbers in the current climate, perhaps. But when they land without warning, every downward revision feels like a crisis.
The Man Who Carried The Can
Richard Hughes didn’t press the button himself – that much is clear. But as chair since October 2020, he was ultimately responsible for the OBR’s processes. In British public life, that’s how accountability works: the person at the top takes the hit so the institution survives.
His resignation letter strikes me as genuinely pained. You can almost hear the frustration at seeing years of careful work undermined by what sounds like a website scheduling glitch. He’s proud of the OBR – rightly so – and clearly believes the organization is bigger than any one person.
“By implementing the recommendations in this report, I am certain the OBR can quickly regain and restore the confidence and esteem that it has earned through 15 years of rigorous, independent, economic analysis.”
That’s not the letter of someone trying to dodge responsibility. It’s someone trying to protect the institution they love.
How On Earth Does This Even Happen?
The OBR has submitted a full report on the incident, though the details remain somewhat opaque to outsiders. From what we know, it appears to have been a genuine technical error – the document was uploaded to the website and somehow made public instead of staying behind the embargo wall.
In an age where entire elections can turn on a misfiring algorithm, perhaps we shouldn’t be shocked that even the most careful institutions can suffer digital mishaps. But the OBR isn’t some startup – it’s had fifteen years to perfect this particular dance.
The fact that they’ve promised new procedures “to ensure this never happens again” suggests the existing safeguards weren’t quite as robust as everyone assumed.
Political Fallout And What Comes Next
Opposition parties have naturally scented blood. The Conservatives are calling it evidence of chaos at the heart of government – conveniently forgetting their own various mishaps in office. But this isn’t really a partisan issue. The OBR’s independence matters to everyone who cares about grown-up economic management.
The bigger question is whether this incident damages the OBR’s authority going forward. Markets have long treated its forecasts as the gold standard. Will they now apply a slight discount? Will chancellors of either party find their fiscal rules taken a little less seriously?
My sense is that the OBR will survive this. Institutions usually do when someone takes responsibility quickly and cleanly. Hughes has done exactly that.
The appointment of his successor will be watched closely. There were already rumors that Hughes was considering his position after completing this parliament’s fiscal events. Perhaps this just accelerated an inevitable transition.
Lessons For The Digital Age
In many ways, this feels like a quintessentially 2025 story: an ancient ritual of British democracy meeting the reality of instant digital distribution. The Budget lock-in, the embargo, the synchronized release – all designed for a world of print and broadcast where information travelled at human speed.
When everything is online, those careful choreographies become terrifyingly fragile. One wrong click and the whole edifice comes tumbling down.
Perhaps we need to rethink how these things work in an age of algorithms. Or perhaps we just need better algorithms. Either way, last week’s events were a stark reminder that even the most venerable institutions aren’t immune to digital-era cock-up.
Richard Hughes leaves with his reputation largely intact, having done the decent thing. The OBR will appoint a new chair, implement new procedures, and we’ll all move on.
But for one brief moment last week, forty minutes before Rachel Reeves stood up to deliver her Budget, the carefully constructed illusion that someone, somewhere, has everything under control came crashing down. In its own quiet way, it was one of the most revealing moments of this parliament so far.
And maybe that’s not entirely a bad thing.
