Introduction Magistrates' courts are the backbone of the criminal justice system in England and Wales. Around 90–95% of all criminal cases begin and end in these courts. They deal with everything from minor assaults and theft to preliminary hearings for more serious offences. On the surface, the system looks efficient, accessible, and community-driven. But after years of watching the process up close, both as a law student and a working professional, I have come to a firm conclusion: the magistrates' court, in its current form, is no longer fit for purpose. In this extended post, I want to take a deep dive into the many reasons I believe it's time for radical reform. This is not a casual critique. It is a call to professionalise, to modernise, and to align the system with the basic expectations of fairness and legal integrity that underpin our justice system. I want to examine conviction and appeal rates, public trust, biases—especially in lay magistrates—and real-world case examples t

In my post about the For Women Scotland Ltd v The Scottish Misisters [2024] UKSC 42 case, I promised I would do my best to give an explanation of Scotland's court system, which is bifurcated into civil and criminal jurisdictions, each with its own hierarchy:​ Civil Courts Sheriff Courts: These are the primary courts for civil matters, handling cases such as family disputes, personal injury claims, and contractual disagreements. They have jurisdiction over cases with a monetary value up to £100,000.​ Court of Session: As Scotland's supreme civil court, it is divided into: Outer House: Functions as a court of first instance for significant or complex civil cases.​ Inner House: Serves as the principal appellate court for civil matters.​ Criminal Courts Justice of the Peace Courts: Handle minor criminal offences, such as traffic violations and petty theft.​ Sheriff Courts: Deal with more serious criminal cases, both summary (without a jury) and solemn (with a jury).​ High Court of Justicia

Legal tech always promises revolution. “Transform your workflow!” “Automate your practice!” “Never touch a lever-arch file again!” And yet here I am, two hours into trying to help a grisly old silk get his budle into a cloud-based e-bundling tool, for free, as part of the work experience with a Barrister I unceremoniously "touted" myself out for, its ok though, he totally didn't forget his password. Let’s be honest: law tech is a mixed bag. There are tools that genuinely improve the day-to-day—automated client onboarding, contract analysis platforms, case management software that doesn’t look like it was coded in 1997. But there are also overengineered “solutions” solving problems no one has. Some tools wow you in demos and disappoint you in practice. They’re meant to make lawyers’ lives easier, but often end up requiring a PhD in “clickology.” Worse still are the tools that try to replace core legal work—because no software update can replace judgment, empathy, or negotiation. The bes

I didn’t choose commercial law because it was expected. I chose it because it wasn’t. Because from the outside looking in, this path wasn’t built for someone like me. I’ve never been someone who does things the easy way. I’ve led people in crisis zones, navigated complex operations, and managed hospital deployments—all while being quietly told by too many people that law or anything perceived as "intellectual" or "academically challenging" might be “a stretch.” Too late. I’ve already doing it. Commercial law speaks to the part of me that thrives under pressure. It’s fast, complex, and demands more than just knowledge. It demands precision, commercial awareness, emotional intelligence, and stamina. That’s what I bring to the table. That’s what keeps me hooked. People underestimated me because I didn’t come up through the traditional routes. Because I wasn’t 22, fresh out of Oxbridge, and padding through marble-floored firms with a magic circle training contract in hand. I came with live

Prince Harry's legal battles have once again brought him into the spotlight, this time as he seeks to overturn a decision by the UK's Home Office regarding his personal security arrangements during visits to the UK. The case, heard at the Court of Appeal, raises significant questions about the treatment of former royals, the discretion of security committees, and the balance between public resources and personal safety.​ The Crux of the Appeal At the heart of Prince Harry's appeal is the contention that he was treated unfairly by the Royal and VIP Executive Committee (RAVEC), which decided in February 2020 that he would no longer receive automatic police protection in the UK. His legal team argues that this decision was made through a "bespoke" process, lacking a formal risk assessment, and deviated from the standard procedures applied to others in similar positions. ​ Represented by barrister Shaheed Fatima KC, Prince Harry's counsel emphasised that he is not seeking special treatment

Today I am also turning a spotlight onto a courtroom drama involving one of the UK’s most polarising public figures — Stephen Yaxley-Lennon, better known by his alias Tommy Robinson, was back before the Court of Appeal — this time not for breaching a reporting restriction or jeopardising a criminal trial, but for something that takes us into even more complex legal territory. His current 18-month sentence relates to contempt of court arising from a homemade documentary film — one he published online in defiance of existing legal orders and containing material the courts had already determined to be false. It’s a case that tests the limits of personal grievance, propaganda, and the rule of law. What Was the Contempt This Time? Robinson’s video, published online and widely distributed through his networks, revisited a previous set of legal proceedings in which he had already been found to have misrepresented key facts. Despite that finding, and despite existing court orders that made cle