Southport Disorder, AG Consent and the Hidden Legal Scandal

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Attorney General consent performs an equivalent function. It acts as a constitutional safeguard for speech-related offences, requiring a Law Officer to confirm that the statutory conditions for prosecution are satisfied before proceedings are instituted. Operational decisions, including arrests, charging, and case strategy, remain with the police and the Crown Prosecution Service. Consent does not direct these decisions, nor does it allow the Attorney General to select defendants at will. It simply opens the gate for the prosecution to proceed lawfully.

The timing of that consent in August 2024 should be understood in context. Following widespread disorder, the criminal justice system was operating on an emergency footing.

Police, prosecutors, courts, and the Attorney General’s office were working extended hours, including nights and weekends, to process a high volume of cases arising from the unrest. Requests for consent in qualifying cases were treated as urgent to prevent procedural delay and to ensure prosecutions were lawfully advanced. Obtaining consent from Lord Hermer within hours, even outside normal working days under the oversight of Prime Minister Keir Starmer’s government, is entirely consistent with standard operational practice during periods of civil disorder. It does not, by itself, demonstrate exceptional treatment, political urgency, or executive direction.

The same principle applies to case progression through the courts and sentencing. Accelerated listings are a recognised feature of the system when dealing with disorder, and the Sentencing Guidelines require courts to treat offences committed in such conditions as more serious. Judges are bound to follow those guidelines unless doing so would be unjust. Severity or speed alone is not evidence of interference.

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While debate has largely concentrated on procedural points — the consent, the speed, the timing — the more fundamental question is embedded in the legislation itself. Section 17 of the Public Order Act defines racial hatred as hatred against a group defined by race, colour, nationality, or ethnic or national origins. The inclusion of nationality materially broadens the scope of the offence. It is that drafting choice, rather than any exceptional application of procedure, which allows expressions that many would regard as political or offensive to fall within the ambit of criminal liability.

If reform is to be considered, it lies in reconsidering that statutory definition. Removing nationality from section 17 would narrow the offence and raise the threshold for prosecution, reducing the likelihood of cases such as Connolly’s arising in future. If Parliament were to remove “nationality” from Section 17 of the Public Order Act 1986, conduct directed at individuals because of their national origin would no longer automatically count as racially aggravated. This would likely reduce the custodial terms of those convicted during the Southport disorder, where sentencing was lengthened due to the statutory racial element. It would also clarify the legal threshold for online commentary or political statements, ensuring prosecutions only apply to conduct falling within the statutory definition of racial hatred, while leaving ordinary criminal liability intact.

Until such change occurs, outcomes produced by the current framework remain legally orthodox, even if they provoke debate about fairness in the public or moral sense.

What Connolly’s case demonstrates, once the rhetoric is stripped away, is not a breakdown in legal process but the consequences of a legislative framework few scrutinise closely until it is applied. For those questioning her treatment, the most effective legal route is to engage with the law itself, rather than the procedures that implement it.