Thinking clearly about superinjunctions

Do not be carried away by the current media frenzy.

Yesterday evening there appeared on Twitter an account which purported to disclose the details of various supposed "superinjunctions".

None of the apparent revelations seemed to be in the public interest. Instead, it seemed a depressing publication of personal information, which, whether true or false, was a needless intrusion into the private lives of those involved. One basis of a civilised and liberal society is that information that only concerns the private lives of those involved should remain privy to them, unless there is a public interest to the contrary. Everyone needs a private space, even celebrities and politicians.

At closer look, some of the examples were, in fact, based on quite normal injunctions which had been reported in the media; a couple of examples were based on current rumours and educated guesswork; and a couple were so unlikely that they appeared to be fabricated. Overall, it looked like a hoax account insofar as it claimed to be giving out reliable information on "superinjunctions". The only slightly interesting point was the number of media and legal twitterers who were suddenly looking at the account not really knowing what could -- and should -- be done with these trivial and personal allegations. Such observers were right to be concerned: one false move could well have been a contempt of court or a fresh defamatory publication.

The background to all this is that the word "superinjunction" now has a special and exciting quality. This is strange as, in one important way, "superinjunctions" do not really exist. What the High Court can offer are injunctions: court orders directed at parties so as to prevent certain specified courses of action. A "superinjunction" is just a normal injunction but with strict terms, and it is not an entirely new legal creature. Strict injunctions are as old as the equitable jurisdiction of the High Court.

Not even in colloquial terms is there an agreed description of what is a "superinjunction". The best practical definition is that it is an injunction, the terms of which mean that disclosure to a third party that the injunction even exists would itself be a breach of the injunction. Sometimes such court orders are entirely proper. In the criminal and human rights context, the analogous "Mary Bell" orders prevent disclosure of details which would point to the identity of a former criminal. In the civil context, such strict injunctions are granted in rare cases where the type of legal right being protected -- confidentiality, legal professional privilege, private information -- is such that the right would itself be lost if the existence of the injunction was revealed.

Unless the contention is that the courts should never protect such legal rights -- thus effectively rendering the law protecting confidentiality, legal professional privilege, private information as having no practical effect in certain rare situations -- then there is a role for so-called "superinjunctions", though they should only be granted sparingly and always for good reason.

It should also be noted that "superinjunctions" are exceptional in libel claims, and when one hears a pundit casually conflate the two issues -- for example, the notorious Trafigura superinjunction was not granted in respect of libel -- then it is usually a sign that the pundit does not actually know what he or she is talking about. Similarly, injunctions where the names of one or more of the parties are simply anonymised are not "superinjunctions" as the fact of the injunction is usually public.

So why is there this current frenzy about "superinjunctions"? Why is the tabloid media desperately seeking to discredit "superinjunctions" in theory and, as far as they dare, in practice? The reason is partly that such court orders undermine a certain unattractive approach to reporting celebrity news. It is also partly because court orders actually work. Unlike with "phone-tapping" and data privacy laws, robust editors and their lawyers cannot blithely disregard the risk of the legal consequences of a breach of an injunction.

But one suspects the primary reason why the tabloid media are now so anxious to undermine the whole notion of "superinjunctions" is that the European Court of Human Rights is expected to hand down its decision in the Mosley case later this week.

The issue in this potentially highly significant case is whether the UK should make it a requirement that before the mainstream media can irrecoverably publish private information, they should first notify the individuals concerned. This sensible and fair approach is deeply opposed by the mainstream media, as the alerted individuals may well immediately apply to the High Court for an injunction to protect their right against private and personal information being wrongly publicised. However, if such injunctions can be discredited in the "Court of Public Opinion" then it is less likely that any adverse judgment in the Mosley case will gain traction.

Ultimately, personal privacy is as much a basic human right as freedom of expression. Neither has an inherent priority over the other. The courts rightly do not presume in favour of one or against the other when the two appear to conflict. "Superinjunctions" are granted in individual cases where the rights of the individuals involved appear to the Courts to warrant an interference with free speech. One hopes that they are not granted too lightly and that, if so, there can be reform as to how the Courts approach such applications.

But we must be wary of the tabloid media seeking to entice us into a frenzy or latter day witch-craze against "superinjunctions" being granted at all. The tabloid media had no proper regard for the basic laws protecting human privacy in the phone-hacking scandal, and so one should be sceptical of their protestations now.

 

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

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.)

Getty
Show Hide image

Love a good box set? Then you should watch the Snooker World Championships

The game relies on a steady arm, which relies on a steady nerve. The result is a slow creeping tension needs time and space to be properly enjoyed and endured. 

People are lazy and people are impatient. This has always been so – just ask Moses or his rock – but as illustrated by kindly old Yahweh, in those days they could not simply answer those impulses and stroll on.

Nowadays, that is no longer so. Twitter, YouTube and listicles reflect a desire for complex and involved issues, expansive and nuanced sports – what we might term quality – to be condensed into easily digestible morsels for effort-free enjoyment.

There is, though, one notable exception to this trend: the box set. Pursuing a novelistic, literary sensibility, it credits its audience with the power of sentience and tells riveting stories slowly, unfolding things in whichever manner that it is best for them to unfold.

In the first episode of the first series of The Sopranos, we hear Tony demean his wife Carmela's irritation with him via the phrase “always with the drama”; in the seventh episode of the first series we see his mother do likewise to his father; and in the 21st and final episode of the sixth and final series, his son uses it on Carmela. It is precisely this richness and this care that makes The Sopranos not only the finest TV show ever made, but the finest artefact that contemporary society has to offer. It forces us to think, try and feel.

We have two principal methods of consuming art of this ilk - weekly episode, or week-long binge. The former allows for anticipation and contemplation, worthy pursuits both, but of an entirely different order to the immersion and obsession offered by the latter. Who, when watching the Wire, didn’t find themselves agreeing that trudat, it's time to reup the dishwasher salt, but we’ve run out, ain’t no thing. Losing yourself in another world is rare, likewise excitement at where your mind is going next.

In a sporting context, this can only be achieved via World Championship snooker. Because snooker is a simple, repetitive game, it is absorbing very quickly, its run of play faithfully reflected by the score.

But the Worlds are special. The first round is played over ten frames – as many as the final in the next most prestigious competition – and rather than the usual week, it lasts for 17 magical days, from morning until night. This bestows upon us the opportunity to, figuratively at least, put away our lives and concentrate. Of course, work and family still exist, but only in the context of the snooker and without anything like the same intensity. There is no joy on earth like watching the BBC’s shot of the championship compilation to discover that not only did you see most of them live, but that you have successfully predicted the shortlist.

It is true that people competing at anything provides compelling drama, emotion, pathos and bathos - the Olympics proves this every four years. But there is something uniquely nourishing about longform snooker, which is why it has sustained for decades without significant alteration.

The game relies on a steady arm, which relies on a steady nerve. The result is a slow creeping tension needs time and space to be properly enjoyed and endured. Most frequently, snooker is grouped with darts as a non-athletic sport, instead testing fine motor skills and the ability to calculate angles, velocity and forthcoming shots. However, its tempo and depth is more similar to Test cricket – except snooker trusts so much in its magnificence that it refuses to compromise the values which underpin it.

Alfred Hitchcock once explained that if two people are talking and a bomb explodes without warning, it constitutes surprise; but if two people are talking and all the while a ticking bomb is visible under the table, it constitutes suspense. “In these conditions,” he said, “The same innocuous conversation becomes fascinating because the public is participating in the scene. The audience is longing to warn the characters on the screen: ‘You shouldn't be talking about such trivial matters. There is a bomb beneath you and it is about to explode!’”

Such is snooker. In more or less every break, there will at some point be at least one difficult shot, loss of position or bad contact – and there will always be pressure. Add to that the broken flow of things – time spent waiting for the balls to stop, time spent prowling around the table, time spent sizing up the table, time spent cleaning the white, time spent waiting for a turn – and the ability for things to go wrong is constantly in contemplation.

All the more so in Sheffield’s Crucible Theatre. This venue, in its 40th year of hosting the competition, is elemental to its success. Place is crucial to storytelling, and even the word “Crucible” – whether “a ceramic or metal container in which metals or other substances may be melted or subjected to very high temperatures,” “a situation of severe trial”, or Arthur Miller’s searing play – conjures images of destruction, injustice and nakedness. And the actual Crucible is perhaps the most atmospheric arena in sport - intimate, quiet, and home to a legendarily knowledgeable audience, able to calculate when a player has secured a frame simply by listening to commentary through an earpiece and applauding as soon as the information is communicated to them.

To temper the stress, snooker is also something incredibly comforting. This is partly rooted in its scheduling. Working day and late-night sport is illicit and conspiratorial, while its presence in revision season has entire cohorts committing to “just one more quick frame”, and “just one more quick spliff”. But most powerfully of all, world championship snooker triggers memory and nostalgia, a rare example of something that hasn’t changed, as captivating now as it was in childhood.

This wistfulness is complemented by sensory pleasure of the lushest order. The colours of both baize and balls are the brightest, most engaging iterations imaginable, while the click of cue on ball, the clunk of ball on ball and the clack of ball on pocket is deep and musical; omnipresent and predictable, they combine for a soundtrack that one might play to a baby in the womb, instead of whale music or Megadeth.

Repeating rhythms are also set by the commentators, former players of many years standing. As is natural with extended coverage of repetitive-action games, there are numerous phrases that recur:

“We all love these tactical frames, but the players are so good nowadays that one mistake and your opponent’s in, so here he is, looking to win the frame at one visit ... and it’s there, right in the heart of the pocket for frame and match! But where’s the cue ball going! it really is amazing what can happen in the game of snooker, especially when we’re down to this one-table situation.”

But as omniscient narrators, the same men also provide actual insight, alerting us to options and eventualities of which we would otherwise be ignorant. Snooker is a simple game but geometry and physics are complicated, so an expert eye is required to explain them intelligibly; it is done with a winning combination of levity and sincerity.

The only essential way in which snooker is different is the standard of play. The first round of this year’s draw featured eight past winners, only two of whom have made it to the last four, and there were three second-round games that were plausible finals.

And just as literary fiction is as much about character as plot, so too is snooker. Nothing makes you feel you know someone like studying them over years at moments of elation and desolation, pressure and release, punctuated by TV confessions of guilty pleasures, such as foot massages, and bucket list contents, such as naked bungee jumping.

It is probably true that there are not as many “characters” in the game as once there were, but there are just as many characters, all of whom are part of that tradition. And because players play throughout their adult life, able to establish their personalities, in unforgiving close-up, over a number of years, they need not be bombastic to tell compelling stories, growing and undergoing change in the same way as Dorothea Brooke or Paulie Gualtieri.

Of no one is this more evident that Ding Junhui, runner-up last year and current semi-finalist this; though he is only 30, we have been watching him almost half his life. In 2007, he reached the final of the Masters tournament, in which he faced Ronnie O’Sullivan, the most naturally talented player ever to pick up a cue – TMNTPETPUAC for short. The crowd were, to be charitable, being boisterous, and to be honest, being pricks, and at the same time, O’Sullivan was playing monumentally well. So at the mid-session interval, Ding left the arena in tears and O’Sullivan took his arm in consolation; then when Ding beat O’Sullivan in this year’s quarter-final, he rested his head on O’Sullivan’s shoulder and exchanged words of encouragement for words of respect. It was beautiful, it was particular, and it was snooker.

Currently, Ding trails Mark Selby, the “Jester from Leicester” – a lucky escape, considering other rhyming nouns - in their best of 33 encounter. Given a champion poised to move from defending to dominant, the likelihood is that Ding will remain the best player never to win the game’s biggest prize for another year.

Meanwhile, the other semi-final pits Barry Hawkins, a finalist in 2013, against John Higgins, an undisputed great and three-time champion. Higgins looks likely to progress, and though whoever wins through will be an outsider, both are eminently capable of taking the title. Which is to say that, this weekend, Planet Earth has no entertainment more thrilling, challenging and enriching than events at the Crucible Theatre, Sheffield.

0800 7318496