If one were to ask for a quintessential display of the British character it would be hard to better the Shrewsbury Flower Show. Officially the world’s ‘longest-running flower show’, according to the Guinness World Records, it is held over two days in August, attracting 60,000 visitors.
This summer should be the show’s 150th birthday. Last week, however, the Shropshire Horticultural Society abruptly cancelled it. Rising costs were cited as a factor. But the main reason was the Terrorism (Protection of Premises) Act – known as Martyn’s Law. The legislation, which was given royal assent this month, requires organisers of events with more than 200 people to engage in lengthy bureaucratic and state-monitored protocols to protect visitors from terror attacks. Unlikely though it may be that jihadists will prioritise raising the Isis flag above an array of prize lobelias, if fighting terror requires Shrewsbury to wilt, so be it.
In October, The Spectator warned that the legislation would impose ‘onerous and costly regulatory requirements on civil society’. Village halls and football clubs are being co-opted into the battle against terrorism, forced to complete training and time-consuming paperwork.
The government’s impact assessment suggested Martyn’s Law would, at best, have a net cost of £1.8 billion. In a worst-case scenario, that would stretch to £4.9 billion: 583 times the £8.4 million in benefits expected. Shrewsbury Flower Show’s burden is one shared by a cornucopia of public locations – 100,000 retail and hospitality venues, 33,000 places of worship, 400 zoos and theme parks, and so on – that are expected to be hit.
Martyn’s Law is named after Martyn Hett, one of the 22 victims of the Manchester Arena bombing. Figen Murray, Hett’s mother, fought for the legislation with admirable tenacity. She deserves sympathy and justice, along with the relatives of all the victims. But it is no criticism of her campaign to observe that Martyn’s Law does not tackle the key state failures that enabled the Manchester horrors. It does not strengthen borders, which were porous enough for Salman Abedi to return to the UK after a year with militants in Libya. It does not enhance the powers of the police or the security services to apprehend a killer before he acts. It does not drain the extremist swamp in which jihadism flourishes. The Home Affairs Committee has warned that there is little evidence the law will ‘reduce the threat of terrorism for smaller organisations’, though it will certainly make the work of civil society groups more onerous and expensive.
Martyn’s Law is a costly example of ‘apostrophe laws’ – legislation named after a particular victim. In the past two decades, at least 20 such laws have been passed; 14 were created in the past five years alone.
Take Harper’s Law. It is named after Andrew Harper, a policeman killed by being dragged behind a car for a mile after responding to a burglary. Those responsible escaped a murder charge, claiming they had not known he was there. After Harper’s widow’s campaigning, the law ensured a life sentence for anyone convicted of killing an emergency worker while committing a crime.
Similarly, Tony’s Law raised the minimum sentence for cruelty leading to serious harm, following the case of Tony Hudgell, a boy so badly abused as a baby that his legs had to be amputated. Zach’s Law mandated up to five years’ imprisonment for ‘epilepsy-trolling’, after a boy who raised money for the Epilepsy Society had his campaign’s X page bombarded with seizure-triggering images.
A study from the US – where the trend for ‘apostrophe laws’ began – suggests support for a law increases when it is named after a particular victim. The public hear about a harrowing case and demand something is done. Politicians rush to legislate to mollify campaigners and claim their photo-ops.
This legislation requires organisers of events to engage in lengthy bureaucratic protocols
As Martyn’s Law shows, grief-stricken activists and politicians find it hard to debate the trade-offs of well-meaning legislation. At best, apostrophe laws strengthen pre-existing legislation; at worst, they are expensive additions to our pre-existing thicket of rules and regulations. Changing the law can help the bereaved, but it will not change how institutions perform or prevent further tragedies. Re-criminalising what is already illegal is simpler than investigating why existing laws are not enforced. Another restriction on knife purchases after another tragic young death, for example, does not address why knife crime has almost doubled in the past decade.
The rush to legislate is a form of learned helplessness, displacement activity for politicians unable to grip the state. Passing a law commemorating a victim of the Manchester bombing is easier than reckoning with why Hashem Abedi, who aided his brother’s attack, was able to inflict life-threatening injuries on three prison officers recently.
Apostrophe laws can also create a two-tier victimhood. Should killing someone in the course of a crime be treated more leniently when the person killed is not an emergency service worker? In using legislation as grief-counselling, apostrophe laws complicate future sentencing, and make the route to justice for victims more opaque.
‘The forest laments, in order that Mr Gladstone may perspire.’ So said Lord Randolph Churchill of Gladstone’s enthusiasm for tree-felling. Today’s politicians expend their energies cluttering the statute book. A bit of pruning is overdue: Shrewsbury’s horticulturalists can show MPs where to start.
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