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The public is being serially misinformed and there is no constitutional guardrail to prevent it. Sam Fowles explores the ‘dishonesty epidemic’ in British politics and its constitutional implications
Very few good (and very many histrionic) arguments, in my experience, begin by quoting George Orwell. Yet, earlier this year, politicians and commentators lined up to insist that Elon Musk had not performed the Nazi salutes at Trump’s inauguration, seemingly forgetting that we could all watch the clip for ourselves. I couldn’t help but think of the words from 1984: ‘The party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command.’
The former MP Caroline Lucas has spoken of a ‘dishonesty epidemic’ in British politics. As of September 2024, Full Fact recorded 46 misleading statements (of sufficient seriousness to require correction) from members of the Starmer and Sunak cabinets. Only 11% were ever corrected. It’s unsurprising that politicians remain Britain’s least trusted profession. According to the Ipsos Veracity Index 2024, just 11% of people expect politicians to tell the truth – marginally higher than the 40-year low of 9% recorded the previous year.
Many of those involved in politics don’t seem to see much of a problem. I was surprised, in a recent conversation with a former minister, to hear they thought politicians should be allowed to mislead the public if it got them votes. High standards of truthfulness are, in their view, an unfair burden to impose on politicians. The public, however, disagree. More than two thirds support changes going so far as to criminalise lying in politics. Political lying, however, is not merely a political problem. It is also a constitutional problem. It both causes and is caused by failings at a constitutional level.
The important role of truth-telling in society has been understood for, literally, millennia. In 937, Athelstan (the first king of, what became, England) issued one of the first consolidated national legal codes: The Dooms of Athelstan. They decreed the punishment for lying would not only last a lifetime but continue after death:
… if it be found that any of these have given wrongful witness, that his witness never again be believed…
And he who shall swear a false oath, and it be made clear against him; that he never after be oath-worthy, nor let him lie within a hallowed burial-place, though he die…
The prospect of sentencing cabinet members to purgatory may still appeal to some. Today, however, truth-telling is the underlying assumption running through our constitutional arrangements. Explicit exhortations to tell the truth are relatively rare (and, as set out below, rarely enforced). Many of our most important constitutional arrangements, however, operate on the assumption that politicians will speak truthfully as a matter of course.
The full extent of this could easily fill several books, but three examples will suffice for the purposes of this article:
First, we assume members of Parliament will speak the truth in the Chamber. Deliberately misleading either house is contempt, and members have a duty to correct inadvertently misleading statements. These strictures are largely unenforceable in practice. Members are not permitted to call out misleading statements in Parliamentary debate (and can be expelled for doing so). The Privileges Committee can investigate alleged contempts but only if the matter is referred by a vote of the House. It means that any genuine consequences for lying ultimately depend on political power. If a member has the protection of the Speaker (who can refuse to allow a debate) and commands a majority in the House, they can lie with impunity. In 2022, for example, the Speaker blocked a debate after a Select Committee reported the Secretary of State for Digital Culture Media and Sport had misled Parliament.
Second, the judicial policy of deference to the executive (particularly in public and information law) relies on the assumption that politicians are truthful. As the Upper Tribunal held in All Party Parliamentary Group on Extraordinary Rendition v Information Commissioner and Ministry of Defence [2011] UKUT 153 (AAC):
In practical terms, the Foreign Secretary has unrestricted access to full and open advice from his experienced advisers, both in the Foreign Office and the intelligence services. He is accordingly far better informed, as well as having far more relevant experience, than any judge...
There are good reasons for this approach (which are sufficiently familiar that they do not require repeating), but it relies heavily on the assumption that the Secretary of State deals honestly with the court. This doesn’t always happen. In 2019, for example, the Secretary of State opposed a request for disclosure of the Intelligence and Security Committee’s report on Russian interference in British politics (via judicial review on the Kennedy v Charity Commission [2014] UKSC 20 basis). The Secretary of State’s case, that disclosure of the report would threaten national security, was virtually unchallengeable thanks to APPGER. It subsequently emerged, however, that there was no real national security risk. The report was released a few months later, apparently in unaltered form. Crucially publication had been delayed until after the 2019 general election.
Third, as Lady Hale noted in R (Miller) v The Prime Minister [2019] UKSC 41:
We live in a representative democracy. The House of Commons exists because the people have elected its members... The Government exists because it has the confidence of the House of Commons. It has no democratic legitimacy other than that.
The consent of the people is the ultimate source of legitimacy in our constitution. This, however, requires that the people have space to work out to what we are prepared to consent. This space is public discourse, taking place in pubs, kitchens, coffee shops, schools, online, in newspapers, across the media, and in innumerable other venues. If public discourse is to be meaningful, it must be rooted in fact. Politicians have a particular role in this because (a) much of the information which informs public discourse comes from politicians, and (b) they have a uniquely privileged platform. We assume that politicians will not mislead the public and so there is no constitutional guardrail to prevent them from doing so. The public, as a result, is serially misinformed. Ipsos MORI, as early as 2013, reported that the public’s beliefs about the facts around major public policy issues (like immigration and the economy) was wildly inaccurate (prompting the headline ‘British Public Wrong About Nearly Everything, survey shows’). Things haven’t improved. Around a third of the public believe, for example, there are ‘no-go areas’ in British cities governed by sharia law, a lie regularly promoted or hinted at by mainstream politicians.
The first step is for constitutional thought to join the real world. The belief that politicians will behave honourably just because it is the right thing to do is a nice fantasy, but a fantasy nonetheless. Politicians seek and exercise positions of substantial power, it is right that they should be held to high ethical standards, including truth-telling. The Senedd (Welsh Parliament) is considering a law which will require politicians who make false statements of fact to correct the record or face sanction. Crucially, this will be enforced by an independent commissioner, with a right of appeal to the courts. It means that politicians will be held to account for lying in the same way as other professions (such as doctors or barristers), with the court, making an objective decision based on the preponderance of evidence (rather than their political allies or opponents based on political convenience), the final arbiter of fact and law. Westminster, however, stubbornly refuses to face reality. The result is that our constitution remains governed by an unspoken, but nevertheless very real, constitutional principle: in the UK, power is truth.
Sam Fowles specialises in public, information, planning and environmental, and public international law and inquests, and public inquiries. He is a member of Cornerstone Barristers, a Senior Visiting Fellow at the Centre for British Democracy (Kings College London), and Director of the Institute for Constitutional and Democratic Research
Very few good (and very many histrionic) arguments, in my experience, begin by quoting George Orwell. Yet, earlier this year, politicians and commentators lined up to insist that Elon Musk had not performed the Nazi salutes at Trump’s inauguration, seemingly forgetting that we could all watch the clip for ourselves. I couldn’t help but think of the words from 1984: ‘The party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command.’
The former MP Caroline Lucas has spoken of a ‘dishonesty epidemic’ in British politics. As of September 2024, Full Fact recorded 46 misleading statements (of sufficient seriousness to require correction) from members of the Starmer and Sunak cabinets. Only 11% were ever corrected. It’s unsurprising that politicians remain Britain’s least trusted profession. According to the Ipsos Veracity Index 2024, just 11% of people expect politicians to tell the truth – marginally higher than the 40-year low of 9% recorded the previous year.
Many of those involved in politics don’t seem to see much of a problem. I was surprised, in a recent conversation with a former minister, to hear they thought politicians should be allowed to mislead the public if it got them votes. High standards of truthfulness are, in their view, an unfair burden to impose on politicians. The public, however, disagree. More than two thirds support changes going so far as to criminalise lying in politics. Political lying, however, is not merely a political problem. It is also a constitutional problem. It both causes and is caused by failings at a constitutional level.
The important role of truth-telling in society has been understood for, literally, millennia. In 937, Athelstan (the first king of, what became, England) issued one of the first consolidated national legal codes: The Dooms of Athelstan. They decreed the punishment for lying would not only last a lifetime but continue after death:
… if it be found that any of these have given wrongful witness, that his witness never again be believed…
And he who shall swear a false oath, and it be made clear against him; that he never after be oath-worthy, nor let him lie within a hallowed burial-place, though he die…
The prospect of sentencing cabinet members to purgatory may still appeal to some. Today, however, truth-telling is the underlying assumption running through our constitutional arrangements. Explicit exhortations to tell the truth are relatively rare (and, as set out below, rarely enforced). Many of our most important constitutional arrangements, however, operate on the assumption that politicians will speak truthfully as a matter of course.
The full extent of this could easily fill several books, but three examples will suffice for the purposes of this article:
First, we assume members of Parliament will speak the truth in the Chamber. Deliberately misleading either house is contempt, and members have a duty to correct inadvertently misleading statements. These strictures are largely unenforceable in practice. Members are not permitted to call out misleading statements in Parliamentary debate (and can be expelled for doing so). The Privileges Committee can investigate alleged contempts but only if the matter is referred by a vote of the House. It means that any genuine consequences for lying ultimately depend on political power. If a member has the protection of the Speaker (who can refuse to allow a debate) and commands a majority in the House, they can lie with impunity. In 2022, for example, the Speaker blocked a debate after a Select Committee reported the Secretary of State for Digital Culture Media and Sport had misled Parliament.
Second, the judicial policy of deference to the executive (particularly in public and information law) relies on the assumption that politicians are truthful. As the Upper Tribunal held in All Party Parliamentary Group on Extraordinary Rendition v Information Commissioner and Ministry of Defence [2011] UKUT 153 (AAC):
In practical terms, the Foreign Secretary has unrestricted access to full and open advice from his experienced advisers, both in the Foreign Office and the intelligence services. He is accordingly far better informed, as well as having far more relevant experience, than any judge...
There are good reasons for this approach (which are sufficiently familiar that they do not require repeating), but it relies heavily on the assumption that the Secretary of State deals honestly with the court. This doesn’t always happen. In 2019, for example, the Secretary of State opposed a request for disclosure of the Intelligence and Security Committee’s report on Russian interference in British politics (via judicial review on the Kennedy v Charity Commission [2014] UKSC 20 basis). The Secretary of State’s case, that disclosure of the report would threaten national security, was virtually unchallengeable thanks to APPGER. It subsequently emerged, however, that there was no real national security risk. The report was released a few months later, apparently in unaltered form. Crucially publication had been delayed until after the 2019 general election.
Third, as Lady Hale noted in R (Miller) v The Prime Minister [2019] UKSC 41:
We live in a representative democracy. The House of Commons exists because the people have elected its members... The Government exists because it has the confidence of the House of Commons. It has no democratic legitimacy other than that.
The consent of the people is the ultimate source of legitimacy in our constitution. This, however, requires that the people have space to work out to what we are prepared to consent. This space is public discourse, taking place in pubs, kitchens, coffee shops, schools, online, in newspapers, across the media, and in innumerable other venues. If public discourse is to be meaningful, it must be rooted in fact. Politicians have a particular role in this because (a) much of the information which informs public discourse comes from politicians, and (b) they have a uniquely privileged platform. We assume that politicians will not mislead the public and so there is no constitutional guardrail to prevent them from doing so. The public, as a result, is serially misinformed. Ipsos MORI, as early as 2013, reported that the public’s beliefs about the facts around major public policy issues (like immigration and the economy) was wildly inaccurate (prompting the headline ‘British Public Wrong About Nearly Everything, survey shows’). Things haven’t improved. Around a third of the public believe, for example, there are ‘no-go areas’ in British cities governed by sharia law, a lie regularly promoted or hinted at by mainstream politicians.
The first step is for constitutional thought to join the real world. The belief that politicians will behave honourably just because it is the right thing to do is a nice fantasy, but a fantasy nonetheless. Politicians seek and exercise positions of substantial power, it is right that they should be held to high ethical standards, including truth-telling. The Senedd (Welsh Parliament) is considering a law which will require politicians who make false statements of fact to correct the record or face sanction. Crucially, this will be enforced by an independent commissioner, with a right of appeal to the courts. It means that politicians will be held to account for lying in the same way as other professions (such as doctors or barristers), with the court, making an objective decision based on the preponderance of evidence (rather than their political allies or opponents based on political convenience), the final arbiter of fact and law. Westminster, however, stubbornly refuses to face reality. The result is that our constitution remains governed by an unspoken, but nevertheless very real, constitutional principle: in the UK, power is truth.
The public is being serially misinformed and there is no constitutional guardrail to prevent it. Sam Fowles explores the ‘dishonesty epidemic’ in British politics and its constitutional implications
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