The myth of privacy law

Bloggers give evidence to Parliament.

Yesterday I went to the parliamentary committee on privacy and injunctions session, and there I heard some worrying things from the MPs and Peers asking the questions. I was one of those supposed to be answering these questions.

Along with myself, the other three bloggers asked to give oral evidence were the indefatigable Richard Wilson, the human rights campaigner who broke the "Trafigura" story, Paul Staines of Guido Fawkes, and Jamie East of the celebrity gossip blog Holy Moly.

(The fact that, of the four of us, only Paul writes regularly about parliamentary matters did not prevent the Independent from saying we were "the faces behind the blogs that Westminster fears".)

The session was a strange experience -- you can watch it here and you can also read Richard's fine account -- but it was also rather revealing.

One can have no idea how much the Lords and MPs learned about blogging and tweeting -- apparently a distinguished parliamentarian looked confused when I mentioned "linking" -- but those watching the session could see that most of the questioners did not really understand the law of privacy. It was also clear that many Lords and MPs did not understand social media.

Repeatedly, the questions contained general references to "privacy law" and tweeters or bloggers "breaking injunctions". But as Paul mentioned rightly, though provocatively, we do not actually have a privacy law in this country. Furthermore, not a single MP or Lord explained how a tweeter or blogger could be in breach of a court order when that blogger or tweeter had not first been put on notice of the terms of that court order.

That we have a general law of "privacy" is indeed a myth. The House of Lords in the case of Wainwright in 2003 held that there is not a free-standing law of privacy in England and Wales. This remains the law of the land. One cannot go to any court or tribunal and obtain a remedy just by mentioning a supposed breach of privacy.

What there is, instead, is a bundle of civil and criminal laws -- abuse of private information, confidentiality, data protection, harassment, and (increasingly) blackmail -- which have been informed and developed by the courts since Human Rights Act 1998 incorporating Article 8 of the European Convention on Human Rights took effect. But to rely on Article 8 always requires the use of an applicable "cause of action" or a criminal offence. One cannot rely on Article 8 without it.

This is not a merely pedantic point. Without understanding the actual underlying applicable law, it is impossible to grasp why the relevant court orders -- "interim" (that is, temporary until full trial) injunctions and "final" injunctions -- are granted. An interim injunction is there to preserve the rights of the parties until a trial can take place and the matter be disposed of. But the issue with private or confidential information, and with legally privileged information, is that once it is publicised then any further legal action is futile. What should be protected has escaped from its bottle and cannot be returned.

Indeed, it is factually correct that parliament did expressly enact a law of privacy. The laws relevant to privacy -- especially the tort of misuse of private information -- have been developed significantly by the Courts in the eleven years since the Human Rights Act took full effect in 2000. And there is nothing inherently wrong with this; is it what courts do in common law jurisdictions. Those who say that we should not have a "judge-made" law of privacy because we already have a law of libel miss the point that libel is as much a common law tort as the misuse of information.

Parliament also never enacted a law of defamation, or of contract, or of negligence, or of confidentiality, or of trusts. Even certain criminal offences such as murder have a judge-made common law basis. It is open to parliament to abolish or amend such common law, but to object to any law on the simple basis that it is "judge-made" is to show ignorance of just how much of the substantive law of England and Wales also has no ultimate basis in any parliamentary statute.

Nonetheless, the fundamental question before the Joint Committee is what intervention, if any, can legislation make to deal with the illiberal use of privacy and other injunctions. It is not for parliament to make particular decisions on court applications, nor is it for parliament to make court orders in individual cases. Parliament may abolish or amend the new common law tort of misuse of private information (or abolish or repeal other laws), and it may provide a statutory procedural framework for the courts to follow when presented with an application by an aggrieved party. But MPs and Lords cannot usurp the role of a judge in individual cases, and nor should they.

Of all the distinguished parliamentarians who asked questions yesterday, only Elfyn Lloyd MP seemed to get this, asking about speeding up the time between interim hearings and final disposal. Almost all the other committee members just spoke generally -- and vaguely -- about "privacy law" and "breaching injunctions". Worryingly, few questions showed the MPs and Lords had any detailed knowledge of the law which they are considering.

Just as worrying was the simple lack of awareness of how social media operates. MPs talked loftily of "regulating" Twitter but without any real idea of how such regulation would actually work, what mechanisms could be adopted, and how any sanctions would be enforced. A politician saying something should be regulated (or "banned") does not act like some magic spell rendering such envisaged regulation (or prohibition) effective. One suspects parliamentarians do not yet realise that there is now a form of instant worldwide communication which is quite beyond the control of them; and indeed almost anyone else.

In all this, one crucial fact lingers about the relationship between social media, privacy, and the breaking of so-called "super-injunctions". Any breaches which have so far occurred were not actually instigated by tweeters or bloggers. The breaches were by parliamentarians, or by those working in the mainstream media. All that tweeters and bloggers did was to then circulate and publish the respective information which had been leaked by others. This is not to justify such circulation and publication, but it is to state what actually happened.

In respect of "super-injunctions" and social media, the proverbial stable doors have so far always been opened by others.

 

Read the "Uncorrected Transcript" here

David Allen Green is legal correspondent of 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.)

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The three avoidable mistakes that Theresa May has made in the Brexit negotiations

She ignored the official Leave campaign, and many Remainers, in pursuing Brexit in the way she has.

We shouldn’t have triggered Article 50 at all before agreeing an exit deal

When John Kerr, the British diplomat who drafted Article 50 wrote it, he believed it would only be used by “a dictatorial regime” that, having had its right to vote on EU decisions suspended “would then, in high dudgeon, want to storm out”.

The process was designed to maximise the leverage of the remaining members of the bloc and disadvantage the departing state. At one stage, it was envisaged that any country not ratifying the Lisbon Treaty would be expelled under the process – Article 50 is not intended to get “the best Brexit deal” or anything like it.

Contrary to Theresa May’s expectation that she would be able to talk to individual member states, Article 50 is designed to ensure that agreement is reached “de vous, chez vous, mais sans vous” – “about you, in your own home, but without you”, as I wrote before the referendum result.

There is absolutely no reason for a departing nation to use Article 50 before agreement has largely been reached. A full member of the European Union obviously has more leverage than one that is two years away from falling out without a deal. There is no reason to trigger Article 50 until you’re good and ready, and the United Kingdom’s negotiating team is clearly very far from either being “good” or “ready”.

As Dominic Cummings, formerly of Vote Leave, said during the campaign: “No one in their right mind would begin a legally defined two-year maximum period to conduct negotiations before they actually knew, roughly speaking, what the process was going to yield…that would be like putting a gun in your mouth and pulling the trigger.”

If we were going to trigger Article 50, we shouldn’t have triggered it when we did

As I wrote before Theresa May triggered Article 50 in March, 2017 is very probably the worst year you could pick to start leaving the European Union. Elections across member states meant the bloc was in a state of flux, and those elections were always going to eat into the time. 

May has got lucky in that the French elections didn’t result in a tricky “co-habitation” between a president of one party and a legislature dominated by another, as Emmanuel Macron won the presidency and a majority for his new party, République en Marche.

It also looks likely that Angela Merkel will clearly win the German elections, meaning that there won’t be a prolonged absence of the German government after the vote in September.

But if the British government was determined to put the gun in its own mouth and pull the trigger, it should have waited until after the German elections to do so.

The government should have made a unilateral offer on the rights of EU citizens living in the United Kingdom right away

The rights of the three million people from the European Union in the United Kingdom were a political sweet spot for Britain. We don’t have the ability to enforce a cut-off date until we leave the European Union, it wouldn’t be right to uproot three million people who have made their lives here, there is no political will to do so – more than 80 per cent of the public and a majority of MPs of all parties want to guarantee the rights of EU citizens – and as a result there is no plausible leverage to be had by suggesting we wouldn’t protect their rights.

If May had, the day she became PM, made a unilateral guarantee and brought forward legislation guaranteeing these rights, it would have bought Britain considerable goodwill – as opposed to the exercise of fictional leverage.

Although Britain’s refusal to accept the EU’s proposal on mutually shared rights has worried many EU citizens, the reality is that, because British public opinion – and the mood among MPs – is so sharply in favour of their right to remain, no one buys that the government won’t do it. So it doesn’t buy any leverage – while an early guarantee in July of last year would have bought Britain credit.

But at least the government hasn’t behaved foolishly about money

Despite the pressure on wages caused by the fall in the value of the pound and the slowdown in growth, the United Kingdom is still a large and growing economy that is perfectly well-placed to buy the access it needs to the single market, provided that it doesn’t throw its toys out of the pram over paying for its pre-agreed liabilities, and continuing to pay for the parts of EU membership Britain wants to retain, such as cross-border policing activity and research.

So there’s that at least.

Stephen Bush is special correspondent at the New Statesman. His daily briefing, Morning Call, provides a quick and essential guide to domestic and global politics.

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