A transatlantic embarrassment

It should be a national embarrassment that the United States is now monitoring Britain for free speech violations. Once the crucible of liberal philosophy, the UK has become a diplomatic concern for punishing those who say the wrong thing in the wrong tone at the wrong time. The country that gave the world Locke, Mill and Monty Python now exports censorship by algorithm and prison sentences for offensive tweets.

Camilla Cavendish, writing in the Financial Times, captures the descent with clarity. Raised on Voltairean principles—the right to disagree without censorship—she once assumed that Britain’s tradition of irony and irreverence was unassailable. But 38 per cent of Britons now believe freedom of expression is under threat. Why? Because the state’s definition of “hate” has inflated into something subjective, sentimental and dangerously elastic.

Since 2007, British law has defined hate crime as any offence “perceived” by anyone to be motivated by hostility to certain protected characteristics. This vagueness—where perception equates to guilt—has enabled a creeping criminalisation of speech. Police now spend up to 60,000 hours a year recording “non-crime hate incidents”—a bureaucratic charade both Orwellian and absurd.

Then came the cases. A physiotherapist prosecuted for silently praying near an abortion clinic. A bank employee fired over a question asked during diversity training. And, most controversially, Lucy Connolly—jailed for a vitriolic tweet following the horrific murders in Southport. Her post was ugly, no question. But a 31-month prison sentence for a deleted message? Even Cavendish, who found the comment revolting, questions whether such a punishment passes the proportionality test.

Her argument is simple: offensive speech is not incitement. In the US, this principle is protected by the 1969 Supreme Court ruling in Brandenburg v. Ohio, which held that speech can only be criminalised if it is “directed to inciting or producing imminent lawless action”. It’s a clear constitutional bulwark. Britain has no equivalent. Instead, police are asked to referee feelings.

The result? Britain’s contradictions are now on global display. As The Independent reports, Donald Trump has seized on the Connolly case to accuse Keir Starmer of presiding over a crackdown on free speech. The US State Department says it is “monitoring” the case and has expressed concern about “infringements on freedom of expression”. This isn’t just censorship—it’s international humiliation.

Meanwhile, The Telegraph revealed that the US sent a team of officials to interview British pro-life activists arrested for silent protest. These included pensioners and clergy detained merely for praying near clinics or offering consensual conversation. The delegation also challenged UK officials over the Online Safety Act—suggesting that Britain's slide on expression is now a geopolitical concern.

Vice President JD Vance reportedly raised the issue in a White House meeting with Starmer. Trade talks have been shadowed by warnings of “no free trade without free speech”. Elon Musk has joined the pile-on, accusing Britain of turning X into a speech-policed zone. Nigel Farage called Connolly a casualty of “two-tier Britain”.

All of it points to a nation that no longer trusts its people. A country unsure of itself begins to criminalise discomfort. What started as a protection of the vulnerable has metastasised into emotional coercion—enforced by statute and underwritten by bipartisan cowardice.

The irony is sharp. The country most accused of populism and extremism—Trump’s America—is now defending the liberal values Britain once championed. Cavendish is right: we should look to the First Amendment with envy. Without a hard-edged standard like Brandenburg, we will go on criminalising thought crimes—and become a warning to the West.

Britain’s free speech crisis is no longer domestic. It’s a transatlantic embarrassment.