When Sir Anthony Blunt's misdeeds were exposed to public gaze by revelations that he was the so-called fourth man in the notorious group who had spied for Russia, an important area of the criminal justice process was partially uncovered as a result. The Prime Minister confirmed in a House of Commons Written Answer that Mr. Blunt (as he later became) had been granted immunity from prosecution as long ago as 1964 by the Attorney-General, Sir John Hobson. No attempt was made to suggest that this was a routine occurrence, but in the ensuing debate, the Prime Minister asserted that “it is not unusual for the Attorney-General to be asked to authorise immunity from prosecution in return for co-operation in pursuit of inquiries. It happens from time to time in the course of criminal investigations.”

Readers of A. P. Herbert's Misleading Cases will recall the fictitious decision in Haddock v. Thwaile, where the Court of Appeal extended strict liability under Rylands v. Fletcher to motor-cars on the highway, and—carried away on a tide of Luddite eloquence—revived and extended the law of deodand by ordering the unfortunate motorist's car to be destroyed. Nowadays it is almost forgotten that this story is nearly based on fact. Before the First World War, at the dawn of the motor age, the English courts came within a whisker of imposing strict liability upon the owner of a motor-car for all the damage which it causes in use.

Suppose a collection of ictures is held by a trustee T on trust for beneficiary B. A picture is stolen by X, a thief; or alternatively, it is wrongfully sold by T to Y. What causes of action are open to B? At first sight this looks an easy question, involving straightforward application of the principles of equity and personal property. In the former situation (the theft example), T, who has the legal title, can clearly sue X in conversion. As for B, he in his capacity of equitable owner can no doubt force T to do so, if necessary by himself bringing proceedings against X and joining T as a party. In the second case, that of wrongful sale, T is clearly guilty of a breach of trust and liable to compensate B accordingly. As to the liability of Y, B will be able in equity to recover the picture from him in specie he has it, or its value if he does not (assuming Y's acts were sufficient to make him liable on the basis of “knowing receipt” of trust property).

What forms of economic coercion should the law permit in the conflict between labour and capital? This is a fundamental question to ask in any developed economy. It is also hotly disputed, particularly in Britain where, in the last ten years especially, successive governments have attempted to redefine the legality of strike action to reflect their own views of what society should tolerate. As every student of labour law knows, the liberty to strike in Britain has been created by Parliament giving unions and workers a series of immunities from judge-made liabilities, and the scope of that liberty can be altered by expanding or restricting the immunities accordingly. This perhaps suggests a simple control mechanism for adjusting at will the boundary between lawful and unlawful industrial action. But the description is deceptively simple and any such conception is grossly misleading.

Amid the growing calls for the complete prohibition of the use by law enforcement authorities of live facial recognition (LFR) technology in public spaces, this article advocates for an incremental approach to regulating the use of the technology. By analysing legislative instruments, judicial decisions, deployment practices of UK law enforcement authorities, various procedural and policy documents, as well as available safeguards, the article suggests incremental adjustments to the existing legal framework instead of sweeping regulatory change. The proposed approach calls for adopting national legal rules governing watch lists and introducing spatial, temporal and contextual limitations on the deployment of technology based on the assessment of proportionality and necessity. To enhance the effectiveness of overt surveillance using LFR, the article recommends adopting a transparency procedure that promotes accountability without undermining the objectives of law enforcement. Alternatively, the overt use of the technology should be limited to deterring the commission of crimes and safeguarding public safety, where transparency does not undermine its effectiveness. Limiting the scope of overt use of LFR technology entails that law enforcement agencies primarily utilise covert surveillance, with prior judicial approval, except in urgent cases, as this would improve effective criminal investigation and public safety. The legal adjustments proposed in this article can be implemented through flexible secondary legislation or local policies, rather than rigid statutory rules.

The conception of moral responsibility, as Williams describes it, focuses on the “voluntary”. The voluntary, as applied to action, is to be defined roughly as “A does X intentionally and in a normal state of mind“. We have, he argues, good reason to use this conception for certain purposes—in particular, to use it in the context of criminal punishment for the purpose of determining who justifiably may be punished. However, this reason is not to be found either within the conception of moral responsibility itself, or within an understanding of what punishment is or should do: that is, this conception does not guarantee or require its own application; nor do the familiar accounts of punishment (as, e.g., deterrence or retribution) require that punishments be imposed only for voluntary wrongdoings. Rather, Williams asserts, we should follow H.L.A. Hart in founding the argument for moral responsibility on the value of political freedom: if citizens “should be able to conduct their affairs so far as possible without the state's power being unpredictably directed against them”, then punishments “should be applied to [and only to] voluntary agents”.

“All statutes contrary to the common law … are to be interpreted strictly and have to be accepted in the most exact manner as they stand, and speak”. “Statutes which repeal the [common] law, have to be interpreted most strictly, and cannot be extended to cases which are not expressed in them.” “Statutes … generally consist more in ‘thus I want and thus I command’ than in a regulation according to reason”; “they fade like the moon's shadows, and like the moon they wax and wane at the legislators' whim”. It may be thought that these four sentences refer to the approach traditionally adopted in England to the interpretation of statutes. But they do not. They encapsulate the attitude adopted by the learned lawyers of the older ius commune, particularly in 13th and 14th century Italy, and in 16th century Germany. An English colleague has suggested that “civilian lawyers regard our case law with admiration and our statute book with despair”.

My first duty is to apologise for the delay which has caused me deliberately to wait until this relatively late date after my return to Cambridge a year ago before I felt able to deliver this inaugural lecture. For six years the locusts of war ate into my all too limited learning in the law, and involved a loss of all contact with academic life which made advisable a period of recovery—not yet completed—before I plucked up courage to say what I want to say to-day—in all too scanty words. I did, however, in the course of last year, address some informal remarks to the Cambridge University Law Society—and I take this opportunity of thanking their Officers for the invitation—on which occasion I put forward some considerations which seemed to justify the conclusion that the effect of the late war had been to stress the importance of public law.

The issue of ratification is one whose “tentacles creep into every part of company law”. When a wrong has been done to the company, it is the mechanism which determines whether that wrong can be put right, and, if it can be, whether it will be; whether the wrongdoers ought to be released from their liability, and, ultimately, whether litigation can and will be commenced. That is a lot to ask of a single doctrine, and it is not, therefore, surprising to find that this topic has been described as being “singularly muddled”. The confusion has not been helped by the fact that the courts have often avoided tackling this difficult area head on, one judge going as far as to say “I do not think that it is necessary, nor do I feel competent to disentangle the many threads of principle in this tangled skein”. The Law Commission has also said that the “law on ratification is by no means clear” but has failed to tackle the complexities of the issue, stating that “[a]lthough there may be a need for modernising and simplifying the law of ratification, we are of the firm view that any changes need to be considered in the context of a comprehensive review of directors’ duties.” However, when recently given such an opportunity the Law Commission did not consider any changes to the law regarding ratification.

The article examines the different roles played by private and public intergenerational support obligations in England and France, assesses their impact on elderly people and their carers and suggests possible ways in which the law might be used to alleviate some of the difficulties.

The article focuses on whether, when considering whether to award cost of cure damages, the courts take account of what the injured promisee to a breach of contract does, or intends to do, with his damages award, and whether or not they should take account of it. This issue has given rise to divergent approaches and some confusion in the cases. The article seeks to shed new light on the issue and considers possible ways of resolving the confusion.

“All Cretans are liars,” said Epimenides—at first sight a common-place scrap of mild xenophobia; about equal to “Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief” in charity and acumen. Not, one would suppose, a statement calculated to attract close attention from philosophers or logicians, or (despite the introduction of the offence of incitement to racial hatred) from lawyers.

But Epimenides' statement was widely discussed by the best thinkers of classical times and has kept its importance for the foundations of logic until the present century. To understand why, it is necessary to add two facts. First, Epimenides was himself a Cretan. Secondly, his statement was taken to mean not just that all Cretans lied from time to time but that everything ever said by any Cretan was false. It thus implies, in particular, that it is itself false. Not only can this be shown to lead to absurd consequences; it also suggests a simpler form of sentence which heightens the absurdity and best introduces the following discussion. It is: “This statement is false.” If that is true it is false, and if it is false it is true. So we have the paradox of a sentence which breaks no rule of formal grammar, is composed entirely of words whose sense is well understood, combines those words in such a way as to produce an apparently normal and meaningful statement, but turns out on investigation to have something radically wrong with it. We feel inclined to say that it has proved to be “meaningless” or “self-contradictory,” or to involve a “vicious circle.”

In the late-nineteenth century, Dicey defined with clarity the modern doctrine of parliamentary sovereignty, identifying both its positive aspect, that Parliament is legally empowered to make any law, and its negative aspect, that no court, institution or person is legally empowered to set Acts of Parliament aside. The historical genesis of this modern understanding of parliamentary sovereignty was, and continues to be, controversial. In his recent study of parliamentary sovereignty, Jeffrey Goldsworthy suggests that the sixteenth-century lawyer Christopher St. German, author of Doctor and Student as well as a series of publications relating to the Henrician Reformation, was likely “the first English writer to propound a comprehensive theory of parliamentary sovereignty”— a controversial claim given St. German's insistence that any “statute” made against the law of nature or reason is “voyd”.4 However, Goldsworthy appears to be supported by an impressive list of historians.