The release of Donald Trump’s 2025 financial disclosure has laid bare the mechanics of an empire sustained not by steel or concrete, but by the licensing of a name. Among the assets: royalties from a Bible endorsed by the former president, residual payments from the 1990 film “Home Alone 2: Lost in New York” (in which he famously appeared), and a line of fragrances. For a man who once promised to revive American manufacturing, the filings tell a different story: one of branding, not building.
Unions and workers’ groups have long questioned the economic model of the Trump Organization. The disclosure, which covers the year ending 2025, shows revenue streams flowing from deals struck in the years before and after his presidency. These include licensing agreements for Trump-branded hotels in countries like Azerbaijan and Indonesia, and a new income stream from an NFT collection – digital trading cards that sold for $99 each. The total value of the assets is not fully disclosed, but the pattern is clear: Trump’s wealth relies on the monetisation of his celebrity, not on tangible production.
For the average worker in the Midlands or the North, this reinforces a familiar sense of disconnect. While factory closures and wage stagnation persist in towns like Hartlepool or Burnley, the super-rich float on an economy of symbols. A Brand Finance report last year estimated the value of the Trump name at between $1.5 billion and $2.5 billion – a sum that dwarfs the annual budget of many local councils.
Critics point to a troubling lack of transparency. The disclosure, filed with the Office of Government Ethics, lists broad ranges rather than exact figures. Trump’s stake in a social media company (Truth Social) is valued at “over $50 million”, but the real numbers remain opaque. Compare that to a steelworker in Rotherham, whose payslip is a matter of public record for HMRC, yet whose livelihood can shift with the whims of global trade policy.
Union leaders have seized on the news. “This is the reality of the modern economy,” said Frances O’Grady of the TUC. “A handful of individuals profit from their own image, while millions see their real wages stagnate. The government needs to look at how we tax licensing income, and how we protect workers from the volatility of a branding-based economy.”
The disclosure also raises questions about conflict of interest. Trump’s continued involvement in his business empire while campaigning for a return to office has been a persistent issue. His financial ties to foreign firms – including deals in Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates – have drawn scrutiny from ethics watchdogs. In a statement, Trump’s team dismissed the concerns as “more witch-hunts”. But for voters in towns where the local factory has closed and the high street is shuttered, the distinction between a witch-hunt and a fair question can feel thin.
The contrast could not be starker. While Trump’s finances rely on turning his name into a commodity—via Bibles that sell for $59.99, or perfume that retails at $75—the cost of living crisis continues. Energy bills in the UK have risen 18% since 2023. Food inflation still hovers at 5%. And the government’s own data shows that more than one in ten workers are in insecure employment.
The lesson of the 2025 disclosure is this: the economy that works for Trump does not work for most people. It is an economy of licensing, of royalties, of rents extracted from the past rather than investments in the future. For the left, it is a case study in what happens when the value of work is replaced by the value of fame. For the right, it is simply the market at work. But at the kitchen table, where the price of bread and the strength of the pound are daily concerns, it feels like a different world entirely.
As one shift worker in Doncaster told me: “He made that money on the telly. I make mine on a lathe. And that’s the difference between us.”
