City & Guilds was founded in 1878 to teach tradespeople their trades. Bricklayers. Cobblers. The kind of men and women who made things with their hands and needed a certificate that said they could. A hundred and forty-seven years later, it still presents itself that way — a charitable institution, a ladder, a public good.
The ladder has an executive floor. Kirstie Donnelly, Chief Executive, and Abid Ismail, Chief Financial Officer, sat on it. According to an internal investigation reported by The Guardian on June 15, 2026, the two of them arranged bonuses for themselves — millions of pounds worth — without the authorisation or knowledge of the people whose job it was to authorise and know.
That last clause deserves a slow reading. Not disputed authorisation. Not a procedural shortcut. The investigation found the bonuses were paid without anyone above them being asked, or told.
City & Guilds is a registered charity. In England, a charity's trustees are not ornamental. They are the legal stewards of the money. They answer to the public, to the Charity Commission, and to the original purpose of the institution — which is not the enrichment of its senior officers. When money moves out of a charitable organisation into executive pockets without the trustees knowing, there is a word for that. The word is not “oversight lapse.”
Donnelly drew a total remuneration of £1.3 million in the year ending August 2023, per the organisation’s own filed accounts — a figure that was, when it surfaced, already remarkable for a charity of this type. The investigation reportedly found that even that number does not capture everything that moved.
Consider what City & Guilds spends its money on when the executives are not spending it for them. It funds apprenticeships. It runs assessments for electricians, plumbers, and care workers. Its learners are not people with options stacked in their favour. They are people trying to get a first qualification, or a better one, in industries that will not wait for them to fail twice.
There is a particular flavour of theft — and I will let the investigators choose their own nouns — that involves taking from institutions built for people who have less. It is not more dramatic than other kinds. It is just harder to dress up. A hedge fund executive who skims from partners is stealing from people who were already rich. An executive who redirects charitable funds into her own account is stealing from the plumber who needed the credential to get the job.
No criminal charges had been filed as of the date of the Guardian report. Both executives had left the organisation. The Charity Commission confirmed it was aware of the matter.
On the wall of City & Guilds’ London headquarters, there is a royal charter dated 1900. It authorises the institution to promote “the advancement of technical education.” It does not mention the advancement of executive compensation. The charter is still there. The money is not.