JR withdrawn — 5th March hearing cancelled
Why I have refocused on court identity and traceable judicial authority in automated proceedings
Today I discontinued the Judicial Review claim I issued last October. As a result, the oral renewal hearing listed for next Thursday in Manchester will not proceed. This note is to inform readers of that practical change, so that no one attends court in reliance on the previous listing, and to explain my reasoning.
A separate public-law claim under Part 8 of the Civil Procedure Rules remains live. That claim does not concern the merits of my original motoring case. It raises a broader question about who, in law, exercises judicial power within automated Single Justice procedures. I am continuing it on public-interest grounds.
The underlying issue in this litigation is constitutional and historical. Magistrates’ courts descend from the fourteenth-century settlement reflected in the Justices of the Peace Act 1361, under which named individuals were commissioned for defined territories to keep the peace. Their authority was territorially grounded and personally attributable. That institutional form mattered: the identity of the court and the source of its authority were legible.
Subsequent legislation modified and consolidated that structure without fundamentally abandoning its territorial basis. The Justices of the Peace Act 1949 and the Magistrates’ Courts Act 1980, for example, rationalised procedure and jurisdiction but continued to assume courts constituted for defined local areas and exercising authority through identifiable justices.
A structural shift occurred with the Courts Act 2003, which replaced locally constituted magistrates’ courts with a single, national “magistrates’ courts” structure administered centrally. A further shift followed with the introduction of the Single Justice Procedure by the Criminal Justice and Courts Act 2015, embedding digital and largely automated processes into summary criminal adjudication.
The current system is therefore the product of statutes enacted in 1361, 1949, 1980, 2003 and 2015, each reflecting different institutional assumptions about how a court is constituted and how judicial authority is exercised and attributed.
In my lived experience, the way judicial authority was described and exercised in my case was no longer merely illegible; it was shading into gibberish.
In practice, administrative labels are used to operationalise the system. Those labels must appear on summonses and other legal instruments, because the paperwork has to identify a court. Over time, however, naming conventions embedded within centralised and automated workflows can diverge from clearly identifiable statutory entities.
The result is that the court name appearing on the document cannot readily be reconciled with a magistrates’ court as constituted in statute. Instead of identifying a territorially constituted court exercising jurisdiction through identifiable justices, the label functions as an administrative designation within a national digital system. Its authority is not apparent on the face of the instrument but must be inferred by reference to dispersed statutory provisions and administrative practice.
These are “ghost courts” — not unlawful tribunals, but labels that purport to be juridical truth-claims, yet do not transparently disclose the basis on which judicial power is being exercised.
When challenged, a clear account of how the administrative label connects to statutory authority is not always provided. In some instances, no explanation is given. In others, explanations are offered that differ in emphasis or legal basis. At times, those explanations are difficult to reconcile with one another, or with the structure of the Criminal Procedure Rules and the governing statutes.
References may variously be made to administrative practice or to general statutory provisions. Yet these references do not consistently articulate how judicial power is attributed to the named court in the specific case. The problem is not merely opacity, but incoherence: the juridical account of authority shifts depending on the explanation advanced. When incoherence is paired with instability — where the basis of authority is alternately unstated, recharacterised, or internally inconsistent — confidence in the integrity of the process is necessarily weakened.
When, in a single case, multiple court names and variants straddle different statutory and administrative categories, and no stable account of attribution can be given, compliance ceases to be routine. At that point, questioning authority is not defiance. It is the minimum obligation of a citizen asked to submit to it.
This is not a quibble about administrative spelling, nor a challenge to the authority of the courts as such. It is a narrower and more serious point. If a defendant cannot identify which court is legally seized of a matter, and there is no document that clearly attributes a conviction to a properly constituted tribunal, yet enforcement proceeds — including the possibility of imprisonment — that raises a basic rule-of-law concern.
The State’s response has been to rely on structural abstraction: because a statutory framework exists and the system operates procedurally, the attribution of judicial power in any individual case is treated as implicit rather than something that must be demonstrated on the face of the record. My concern is that normalising this level of abstraction weakens the traceability of authority — who exercised judicial power, in what court, under what legal footing — particularly where routes of review are limited or already exhausted.
It becomes a crisis when automation operates in conditions of reduced scrutiny. At that point the system risks resembling the bureaucratic nightmare long satirised in Terry Gilliam’s Brazil: procedure functioning smoothly, while accountability dissolves behind it.
My Judicial Review arose after my application for a Case Stated appeal was not processed and I was informed that any jurisdiction objections would have to be pursued in the High Court. The relief I sought was limited: a stay of enforcement until the identity of the convicting tribunal was clarified.
In the absence of a clear and consistent account of how judicial authority was attributed in my case, the only way to test the issue was to advance a nullity argument. That was not theatrics; it was the procedural mechanism by which a court can be required to state the legal basis on which it claims jurisdiction.
The issues are legal and concrete. They include:
whether enforcement may lawfully proceed where the judicial act cannot be traced to a properly constituted court exercising statutory authority;
at what point, and by what act, a magistrates’ court becomes seized of a matter under the Single Justice Procedure, particularly for the purposes of coercive enforcement;
whether charging and court documents must, on their face, identify a statutorily constituted court exercising jurisdiction, and if so, what level of particularisation is required under the Criminal Procedure Rules to make that attribution legally intelligible;
whether enforcement in circumstances where the identity of the tribunal is unclear is compatible with Article 6 ECHR, which requires a tribunal “established by law”;
and whether, in highly automated procedures, the presumption of regularity can substitute for demonstrated jurisdictional traceability.
Independent analysis suggested that permission might have been arguable on a narrow ground, particularly because the refusal appeared to proceed on the mistaken premise that I had not pursued alternative remedies, when in fact I had. Whether the prospects were 20% or 50% is not the decisive factor. Litigation strategy is not governed by percentages alone, but by utility.
I did not discontinue out of fear of losing at the permission stage. I discontinued because the Judicial Review had already served its immediate purpose. The State has now articulated its position: that enforcement may proceed on the basis of the statutory framework as a whole, without providing case-specific documentation that traces judicial authority to the particular act in question. That clarification — whether one agrees with it or not — was the practical objective of the claim.
Since filing for renewal at Christmas, there have been further developments.
The defence filed in the parallel Part 8 proceedings has crystallised the legal issue. That does not render the Judicial Review technically moot, but it creates overlap in substance.
Separately, I have refined what I call a ∆∑ attribution diagnostic framework — a structured method of analysing how power is attributed within procedures, judicial or otherwise. For me, that is the most constructive outcome of this process. If those within the Government Legal Department read this, I genuinely thank you: the engagement has sharpened the work.
Taken together, these developments alter the cost-benefit calculation. The marginal value of proceeding to an oral renewal hearing is now limited. My time and resources are better deployed elsewhere.
Beyond this litigation, the progressive release of material relating to Jeffrey Epstein and elite criminal networks has intensified public scrutiny of institutions. Whatever conclusions ultimately emerge, these disclosures are contributing to a wider crisis of confidence between citizens and the State. Questions about authority, accountability and traceability are no longer abstract; they are part of a broader reassessment of institutional trust.
The State’s position rests on a presumption of regularity: unless jurisdiction is disproved, coercive enforcement proceeds. For most of my life, that presumption felt broadly justified.
Since 2020, that confidence has altered — for me and for many others. The Coronavirus Act 2020 and associated emergency measures represented an extraordinary expansion of state power. Restrictions on movement, association and livelihood were imposed at a scale previously unseen in peacetime. Dissent was often marginalised; compliance was heavily socially reinforced. For some, subsequent medical policies were experienced not as reassurance but as violence.
Whatever one’s ultimate assessment of those years, they marked a structural shift in the relationship between citizen and State. Trust was not simply reduced; it became conditional. In that context, I no longer begin from the premise that opacity combined with statutory authority is sufficient to command legitimacy. When the State exercises coercive power, it must now demonstrate — not assume — the juridical basis on which it acts. The burden of clarity has shifted.
The role of the Ministry of Justice and the High Court is, in large part, to ensure that the machinery of the legal system continues to function uninterrupted. My challenge has not been to obstruct that machinery, but to test whether a constitutional error is being normalised under the cover of administrative convenience. It is precisely in such conditions — where abstraction replaces attribution — that responsibility becomes diffused and wrongdoing has an opportunity to masquerade as administrative necessity.
I now have a clearer view. The Single Justice Procedure appears to be under-specified in material respects. The State is prepared to rely on systemic presumption where historically we would have expected legible and personally attributable judicial authority. That is not a minor drafting issue; it goes to the constitutional architecture of summary justice.
Given the moral rupture described above, that architecture matters more than it once did. In a high-trust environment, abstraction may be tolerated because confidence fills the gaps. In a low-trust environment, it does not. When institutional trust has fractured, the legitimacy of coercive enforcement cannot rest on presumption alone.
In that context, even minor prosecutions cease to feel morally neutral. The issue is no longer simply whether the process functions, but whether the authority behind it is demonstrably traceable. This litigation does not attempt to resolve the wider crisis of trust. It insists only that, in an age of automation and abstraction, coercive power must remain clearly attributable to a lawfully constituted tribunal. Without that clarity, legitimacy is weakened.
There is also a personal moral dimension that sits alongside the technical one. In my own prosecution, there was no properly particularised accusation framed in terms that would allow a meaningful plea. One cannot be “not guilty” of an allegation that is never clearly specified. That absence of clarity is what triggered the jurisdiction objection and, ultimately, the Judicial Review.
The relief I sought in the JR was limited: a stay of enforcement until the identity of the convicting tribunal and the attribution of judicial power were made clear. If a defendant cannot identify the court said to have convicted him, and cannot see a documentary trail that connects the judicial act to a properly constituted tribunal, then enforcement rests on presumption rather than demonstrated jurisdiction. Where the underlying allegation itself lacks clear specification, and the process resembles revenue collection more than adjudication, ambiguity about the court is not incidental; it is material.
I may or may not have succeeded on renewal. That is secondary. The central issue has now been surfaced and articulated. The system’s position, in substance, is that the statutory framework as a whole suffices, and that granular attribution need not be separately demonstrated in each individual case. That may be administratively efficient. Whether it is constitutionally sufficient is the deeper question.
Which brings me back to the Judicial Review itself. Following the section 142 application in Carlisle last September — in which the magistrates’ court was invited to reconsider the conviction — I was directed to pursue any jurisdiction objections in the High Court.
In the interim, requests for documentary clarity regarding the conviction went unanswered, including formal complaints to HMCTS. A Case Stated appeal was lodged in time. When that appeal was not processed, and no clear indication was given as to whether it would be processed, I withdrew it after two months in order to pursue a Part 8 claim as a more structured and determinate route to resolve the attribution issue.
That sequencing was pragmatic, not evasive. However, it complicates the procedural narrative. It permits the State to describe the matter as an “abandoned appeal,” rather than an appeal that was left unprocessed. The distinction is material: the former suggests voluntary retreat; the latter reflects administrative inaction.
Having reflected carefully over the past few days, I have concluded that the Judicial Review is not the right vehicle for what now needs to be addressed. It has served its purpose in surfacing the structural issues and placing them on record. Correcting the inaccurate procedural narrative that casts doubt on my own diligence is not, in itself, sufficient justification to proceed. The relevant history was known to the State; it was simply not recorded accurately.
While I disagree with aspects of the State’s position, I acknowledge that the Government Legal Department has engaged professionally throughout. On its own institutional terms, the supervisory system functions as designed. My concern has never been that it is malfunctioning, but that it operates at a level of abstraction that weakens the visible connection between authority and accountability.
I continue to believe that legitimacy rests on more than procedural continuity; it depends on clarity, traceability and moral credibility. Institutions are not strengthened by indignation alone, and litigation is not always the right instrument for structural reform. For now, this strand concludes.
My objective was never to “win” in the conventional sense. It was to test the sequencing of remedies and to require that authority be demonstrated before coercion proceeds. Withdrawal is therefore not a defeat.
The Defence and the Court have now set out their positions on jurisdiction in terms that extend well beyond the narrow point I originally pleaded. In doing so, the system has made explicit its reliance on a high level of statutory abstraction. That clarification is itself of value.
I do not regret bringing the claim. There will be a significant costs consequence, but I regard it as tuition — the price of developing intellectual and constitutional infrastructure. The questions raised here about attribution, abstraction and legitimacy do not disappear with this withdrawal. They reflect structural tensions in contemporary governance, and they will surface again in other forms.