The branch of equity which deals with fiduciary relationships does not receive a great deal of attention in legal works, and what has been written is not usually very full or very precise. It is proposed, therefore, in this article, first, to explore something of the background and development of this topic, secondly, to discuss the problem of defining a fiduciary situation and, thirdly, to suggest, in outline at least, a classification of the relationships and the principles which apply to each class.

ONE of the most difficult questions facing English courts as they develop the common law right to privacy recognised by the House of Lords in Campbell v. MGN Ltd. is whether and, if so, when a person might have a reasonable expectation of privacy in a public place. Should an individual have a cause of action if she is photographed as she leaves her mother’s funeral or as he receives medical attention after an accident? Or should there be an absolute rule which says that there is no privacy in a public space? Recent decisions in England and the European Court of Human Rights (ECtHR) suggest that it is no longer an answer (if it ever was) simply to say that the disclosure concerned something which took place in public. A more difficult question therefore remains: if the existence of a privacy interest does not depend on the nature of the space in which claimants find themselves, how do we determine whether a person does have a legitimate privacy interest?

It is now widely accepted that English contract law does not deal equally well across the whole range of agreements that are made. The model which fits best to English contract law is one in which the parties move immediately from no contract to completed contract. There is great difficulty with situations where the parties spend a long time in an area where there are obligations and understandings but not yet a fully completed contract. This article considers an important development that attempts to deal with this difficulty. That is the increasing use by contracting parties of what may be called umbrella agreements.

The question to be pursued in this article has the merit of simplicity even if the response to it proves somewhat complex. The question is this: is law truly a social science? This may seem an odd question to many in the common law world since it is not uncommon, at least in England, for law schools to find themselves located in faculties of social science. Moreover there are a number of individuals, perhaps a considerable number in common law departments and faculties throughout the world, whose research and scholarship undoubtedly qualifies as social science research. So, before one can even begin to reflect upon the question to be pursued in this paper, a preliminary question must first be asked. Why should one wish even to pose the question?

In an era of globally available information, members of the public cannot help but be aware of the impact of different industries, and within them individual enterprises, upon their workforce, consumers and the environment. Those with money to invest in are increasingly conscious of how the selections they make when purchasing shares may have wide-reaching effects. Quite naturally, many are concerned to try to make responsible investment choices; the ethical investment industry has itself become a multi-million pound business.

In Pakistan, Uganda and Southern Rhodesia, courts have held themselves entitled to declare that the effect of a successful revolution has been to change the law in their respective jurisdictions. Judges appointed under one constitution have held themselves to be bound to recognise the validity of laws promulgated under a different constitution; the judge's own political opinions have been said to be irrelevant.

Money laundering is one of those problems that is very hard to get a grip on.

At the core of contemporary political, constitutional, and legal theory, lie the questions of how “constitutional”, “fundamental”, and “human” rights are, and should be, reconciled with each other and with considerations of the wider public interest. This article considers how the debate between Habermas and Alexy about the appropriateness of “balancing” as a way of addressing these problems might apply to the adjudication of the European Court of Human Rights, and concludes that, with some modification, Alexy's model is to be preferred.

What sort of relation, according to the Pure Theory of Law, does a higher-order norm bear to a lower-order norm? Does the higher-order norm in effect subsume the lower-order norm? And if so, is subsumption sufficient for authorisation, such that subsumption of a norm under an appropriate higher-order norm authorises, say, a legal official's “choice” of that norm? This interpretation of authorisation in the Pure Theory of Law, fine as far as it goes, would be misleading if offered as a full statement. For Hans Kelsen in fact works with two types of authorisation, what I term material authorisation, wherein authorisation of a lower-order norm stems from the applicable higher-order norm, and formal authorisation, wherein authorisation of a lower-order norm flows from the power of the legal organ that creates, applies, or validates that norm.

This article examines the growth of algorithmic credit scoring and its implications for the regulation of consumer credit markets in the UK. It constructs a frame of analysis for the regulation of algorithmic credit scoring, bound by the core norms underpinning UK consumer credit and data protection regulation: allocative efficiency, distributional fairness and consumer privacy (as autonomy). Examining the normative trade-offs that arise within this frame, the article argues that existing data protection and consumer credit frameworks do not achieve an appropriate normative balance in the regulation of algorithmic credit scoring. In particular, the growing reliance on consumers’ personal data by lenders due to algorithmic credit scoring, coupled with the ineffectiveness of existing data protection remedies has created a data protection gap in consumer credit markets that presents a significant threat to consumer privacy and autonomy. The article makes recommendations for filling this gap through institutional and substantive regulatory reforms.

Baron Raffaele Garofalo's memorable treatise Criminology ends (almost as an afterthought) with an Appendix entitled “Outline of Principles Suggested as a Basis for an International Penal Code”. In barely twelve pages he formulates: principles of criminal liability; an enumeration of categories of offenders; a system of penalties to be adopted to combat crime; and some basic rules of procedure for bringing offenders to justice. Garofalo was not a cranky, lofty or flamboyant idealist. Together with Cesare Lombroso and Enrico Ferri he was the founder of the famous Positivist School of Criminology launched in Italy towards the end of the nineteenth century. He was a High Court Judge, a tough realist with a sharp and incisive mind. Staunch traditional conservative that he was, he might instead have been expected to advocate that each nation should be free to express its unique individuality through its own distinctive legal and penal edifice.

The dispute over the role desert should play, if any, in assessing criminal liability and punishment has a long and turbulent history. “Deserved punishment” - referred to variously as desert, just punishment, retributive punishment, or simply “doing justice” - has moved to center stage in the UK and is on its way in the US, both in academic debate and in real world institutions.

The relationship between national legal orders and Community law is one of the most difficult problems of European legal integration. In an order of 7 June 2000 (2 BvL 1/97, text at <http://www.bverfg.de>, English translation in (2000) 21 H.R.L.J. 251), the German Federal Constitutional Court (FCC) had to address one aspect of this problem, namely the question to what extent national courts are competent to review Community legislation by reference to the standards of national constitutions. While the order first and foremost is concerned with German constitutional law, it touches upon a general problem facing the courts in all EU member States.

Constitutional conventions are to be found in political and legal systems of very different types. Not surprisingly, they exist in considerable abundance in those systems—the prime example is the United Kingdom—the affairs of which are ordered by an unwritten constitution. Familiar instances of constitutional conventions in British government include the following: that the Monarch is required to appoint as Prime Minister the person best placed to command a majority in the House of Commons; that governments are to resign when defeated on a vote of no confidence; that the judicial members of the House of Lords refrain from indulging in party political debate in the chamber; and that ministers are to resign from office after displaying an (admittedly indeterminate) degree of mismanagement of their departments. The preconditions of the existence of any particular constitutional convention are set out in a well-known passage by Sir Ivor Jennings.

The City Code on Takeovers and Mergers has generally been lauded as a system of self-regulation that offers the advantages of speed, flexibility and low cost administration by experts. Many of its provisions are uncontroversial and do indeed reflect a consensus view about the way in which takeovers should be carried out. However, the Code's prohibition on defensive measures by management in the event of a takeover is far more controversial. This article argues that the City Code – and the prohibition on defensive measures in particular - was introduced because the common law had demonstrated itself incapable of putting in place a system of takeover regulation that ensured the takeover remained a viable means of ensuring managerial accountability to shareholders. Its introduction in 1968 fundamentally transformed the UK's system of corporate governance. Through its prohibition on defensive measures once a takeover becomes imminent, the Code truncates the general management discretion that lies at the heart of company law and forces management to focus on the generation of short-term shareholder value. What is striking is that this fundamental reorientation of the way in which companies are controlled was brought about not by an Act of Parliament but by a self-regulatory measure put in place by financial institutions. Following the implementation of the Takeover Directive, which itself was heavily influenced by the City Code, the Companies Act 2006 now requires the Takeover Panel to maintain that prohibition.

This article examines global vaccine inequity during the COVID-19 pandemic. We critique intellectual property (IP) law under the 1994 WTO TRIPS Agreement, and specifically, the role that IP has played in enabling the inequities of production, distribution and pricing in the COVID-19 vaccine context. Given the failure of international response mechanisms, including COVAX and C-TAP, to address vaccine inequity, we argue the TRIPS waiver proposal should be viewed as offering a necessary and proportionate legal measure for clearing IP barriers that cannot be achieved by existing TRIPS flexibilities. Finally, we reflect on the waiver debate in the wider context of TRIPS and the need to boost global pandemic preparedness.

This article examines the doctrine of separation of powers, and attempts to defend the validity of a diversity of different conceptions of the doctrine. It also links separation of powers to efficiency, arguing that at the core of every manifestation of the doctrine is the efficient allocation of function to form. The structure of the courts and legislature are examined, and it is argued that that a link can be drawn between these institutions and the legislative and judicial task. The relationship between political theory and constitutional theory is also discussed.

Why is making obscene telephone calls like laying manure in the street? Answer: in the same way as importing Irish cattle is like building a thatched house in the borough of Blandford Forum; and as digging up the wall of a church is like helping a homicidal maniac to escape from Broadmoor; and as operating a joint-stock company without a royal charter is like being a common cold; and as keeping a tiger in a pen adjoining the highway is like depositing a mutilated corpse on a doorstep; and as selling unsound meat is like embezzling public funds; and as garaging a lorry in the street is like an inn-keeper refusing to feed a traveller; and as keeping treasure-trove is like subdividing houses which so “become hurtful to the place by overpestering it with poor.” All are, or at some time have been said to be, a common (alias public) nuisance. The definition of this offence, according to Archbold's Criminal Pleading and Practice, is as follows: “Every person is guilty of an offence at common law, known as public nuisance, who does an act not warranted by law, or omits to discharge a legal duty, if the effect of the act or omission is to endanger the life, health, property, morals, or comfort of the public, or to obstruct the public in the exercise or enjoyment of rights common to all Her Majesty's subjects.” The person who commits a public nuisance incurs liability to life imprisonment and unlimited fines. He can be made vicariously liable for the offence if it is committed by his servants. He can be ordered to stop it by an injunction, and made to pay damages in tort if it causes anyone loss. With such a broad concept in existence, backed with such broad remedies, what need have we of any other criminal offence?—or torts?—or remedies in administrative law?