Privacy, the public interest and "a woman called Imogen Thomas"

The significance of the <em>CTB v News Group</em> injunction.

The first sentence of yesterday's privacy ruling by Sir David Eady in CTB v News Group Newspapers made it clear which way the rest of the judgment was going to go.

While the others who were to be named in the judgment were accorded the usual judicial courtesy of being introduced as Mr This or Ms That, no such respect was accorded to Ms Imogen Thomas, the second defendant. Instead, she is introduced with the dismissive "a woman called Imogen Thomas".

But worse was to come for Ms Thomas. For, even though there had been no cross-examination of the claimant's evidence, and even though her lawyer stressed that she denied asking the claimant for any money (see paragraph 17), Mr Justice Eady said it "appeared strongly" that Ms Thomas was blackmailing the claimant (paragraph 9).

This was a remarkable observation, not least because it was a suggestion of criminal liability. Not even the claimant's lawyers had made the allegation against her.

Today, rival tabloid newspapers to the newspaper defendant have splashed on this "Blackmail" point with photographs of Ms Thomas. Her reputation appears to have been questioned by our most famous libel judge on the basis of untested -- and denied -- evidence. Even by itself, this is an extraordinary development.

So why was it done? Why did Mr Justice Eady use the absolute privilege of a judicial statement to make such an observation on a defendant in a case before him? Well, partly he did so because he could. The evidence of the claimant seems to have been detailed and compelling, and it appears to have been based in part on text messages. Although Ms Thomas appears to have made a bare denial, she did not submit evidence to controvert the claimant's evidence. On the balance of the evidence placed before him, it was entirely open to Mr Justice Eady to form the view he did for the purpose of the interim injunction until trial.

However, more importantly, such a finding by the court provided part of the public interest in maintaining the injunction. The private lives of the claimant and his family were engaged; and so any interference with this right had to be in the public interest.

It was not enough to assert a right to free expression. In cases such as this, the court has to balance the public interest in freedom of expression against the public interest in the privacy of individuals. Here, the court found that, on the basis of the (untested but not uncontroverted) evidence of Ms Thomas's conduct, and on other evidence, that there was no public interest in publication of details of the claimant's private life. Instead, the public interest was in ordering that the private information should not be published and that the claimant's name not be made public.

This whole exercise is perhaps artificial: the widely-suggested claimant in this action is merely a couple of mouse clicks away. But, as paragraphs 27 and 28 of the judgment makes clear, the fact that some information is supposedly in the public domain does not mean that the parties to whom the court order is addressed can escape. This creates the rather unhappy consequence for the newspaper defendant of carrying the legal costs of fighting the case, while not commercially benefiting from the "kiss and tell story".

This and other cases are steadily making such traditional "kiss and tell stories" more difficult and costly. This is not necessarily a bad thing; if there is no public interest with an interference with someone's private life, then it is hard to justify the press intrusion and public humiliation. Indeed, a respect for personal privacy and an avoidance of humiliation are marks of a civilised society. And, in this case, the newspaper did not even try to argue there was a public interest.

Supporters of privacy law will emphasise that, unlike libel, the "public interest" is built into the DNA of privacy law. There should never be any privacy injunction if the public interest in publication outweighs the need to respect privacy. The lack of a public interest defence that has long marred libel law should thereby not be a problem with privacy law.

That said, the future for privacy law is uncertain. The courts do not want their orders to be futile, and so widespread internet publication of personal details may mean that injunctions are not granted too readily. The tabloid press may convince politicians that there should be new privacy legislation that is not so focused on injunctions (though the "phone-hacking" scandal shows how little the tabloids care for general statutory protections).

There is currently a battle for primacy in Fleet Street over the jurisdiction of the High Court and the freedom of the press to do what it likes with private information. It is not certain who, if anyone, will win this particular battle: not all conflicts have a tidy resolution. But in the meantime, the commercial basis of the traditional "kiss and tell story" will need to be reassessed, and it is difficult to see why that is a bad thing.

 

David Allen Green is legal correspondent of the New Statesman and a media lawyer.

David Allen Green is legal correspondent of the New Statesman and author of the Jack of Kent blog.

His legal journalism has included popularising the Simon Singh libel case and discrediting the Julian Assange myths about his extradition case.  His uncovering of the Nightjack email hack by the Times was described as "masterly analysis" by Lord Justice Leveson.

David is also a solicitor and was successful in the "Twitterjoketrial" appeal at the High Court.

(Nothing on this blog constitutes legal advice.)

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Is there such a thing as responsible betting?

Punters are encouraged to bet responsibly. What a laugh that is. It’s like encouraging drunks to get drunk responsibly, to crash our cars responsibly, murder each other responsibly.

I try not to watch the commercials between matches, or the studio discussions, or anything really, before or after, except for the match itself. And yet there is one person I never manage to escape properly – Ray Winstone. His cracked face, his mesmerising voice, his endlessly repeated spiel follow me across the room as I escape for the lav, the kitchen, the drinks cupboard.

I’m not sure which betting company he is shouting about, there are just so many of them, offering incredible odds and supposedly free bets. In the past six years, since the laws changed, TV betting adverts have increased by 600 per cent, all offering amazingly simple ways to lose money with just one tap on a smartphone.

The one I hate is the ad for BetVictor. The man who has been fronting it, appearing at windows or on roofs, who I assume is Victor, is just so slimy and horrible.

Betting firms are the ultimate football parasites, second in wealth only to kit manufacturers. They have perfected the capitalist’s art of using OPM (Other People’s Money). They’re not directly involved in football – say, in training or managing – yet they make millions off the back of its popularity. Many of the firms are based offshore in Gibraltar.

Football betting is not new. In the Fifties, my job every week at five o’clock was to sit beside my father’s bed, where he lay paralysed with MS, and write down the football results as they were read out on Sports Report. I had not to breathe, make silly remarks or guess the score. By the inflection in the announcer’s voice you could tell if it was an away win.

Earlier in the week I had filled in his Treble Chance on the Littlewoods pools. The “treble” part was because you had three chances: three points if the game you picked was a score draw, two for a goalless draw and one point for a home or away win. You chose eight games and had to reach 24 points, or as near as possible, then you were in the money.

“Not a damn sausage,” my father would say every week, once I’d marked and handed him back his predictions. He never did win a sausage.

Football pools began in the 1920s, the main ones being Littlewoods and Vernons, both based in Liverpool. They gave employment to thousands of bright young women who checked the results and sang in company choirs in their spare time. Each firm spent millions on advertising. In 1935, Littlewoods flew an aeroplane over London with a banner saying: Littlewoods Above All!

Postwar, they blossomed again, taking in £50m a year. The nation stopped at five on a Saturday to hear the scores, whether they were interested in football or not, hoping to get rich. BBC Sports Report began in 1948 with John Webster reading the results. James Alexander Gordon took over in 1974 – a voice soon familiar throughout the land.

These past few decades, football pools have been left behind, old-fashioned, low-tech, replaced by online betting using smartphones. The betting industry has totally rebooted itself. You can bet while the match is still on, trying to predict who will get the next goal, the next corner, the next throw-in. I made the last one up, but in theory you can bet instantly, on anything, at any time.

The soft sell is interesting. With the old football pools, we knew it was a remote flutter, hoping to make some money. Today the ads imply that betting on football somehow enhances the experience, adds to the enjoyment, involves you in the game itself, hence they show lads all together, drinking and laughing and putting on bets.

At the same time, punters are encouraged to do it responsibly. What a laugh that is. It’s like encouraging drunks to get drunk responsibly, to crash our cars responsibly, murder each other responsibly. Responsibly and respect are now two of the most meaningless words in the football language. People have been gambling, in some form, since the beginning, watching two raindrops drip down inside the cave, lying around in Roman bathhouses playing games. All they’ve done is to change the technology. You have to respect that.

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war