This morning’s Sunday Times report that a member of the Royal Family has been blackmailed is provoking and amusing in equal parts.  Provoking in that it illustrates (yet further) the fragility of one of the central institutions of the state.  Amusing in that it illustrates (yet further) that not even the monarchy, the font of all legal justice, is content with the law’s definition of ‘justice’.

However, it also provokes me because it illustrates as well a fundamental flaw in blackmail.  That is, if blackmail requires the exchange of money for the non-release of information, that information must be worth something to both parties.

Indeed, because it may instead by released to a third party, that third party must also value that information.  That is, there is a market for that information.  So let’s evaluate that market.

In this case, the blackmailer is said to have tried to extort £50,000 from a member of the Royal Family to prevent the release of the details.  This, it seems, was regarded as a reasonable price by the blackmailer, and an unreasonable price by the royalty.  The end result is that the blackmailer insisted that the price was too high, and went to the police.

Instead, consider the third party, which economists in this country call the ‘News of the World’.  They value the story for the opposite reason.  However, they also value it for vastly more than the blackmailed party does.  Nothing sells tabloid newspapers like a scandal involving the Royal family (unless it involves Keeley).

Let’s say that the appearance of a Royals story boosts the single-day circulation of a tabloid by 200,000 newspapers.  That is, at a retail price of 75p, the News of the World can expect to earn something like £150,000.  When one considers the boost to advertising, one can more than double that.

The News of the World can offer a price up to this and still make a profit off the back of it.  They can offer £300,000, and be better off as a result.  No surprise that they say that some stories can be worth “hundreds of thousands of pounds if not millions“.

Hold on.  That £300,000 that the News of the World could be offering is clearly more than the £50,000 that the blackmailers supposedly sought from the royal in question.  Since this is a market, the blackmailers have a choice between the two, and by resorting to blackmail, they clearly made the wrong choice for their own economic wellbeing.

In cases like this, when the affected party is an individual and the third party is a national newspaper, blackmail is simply a stupid thing to do.  Blackmail is separated from the distinct offence of extortion by the fact that the act threatened by an extortioner is illegal, whereas a blackmailer is threatening to do something entirely legal.  Thus, extortion should clearly be illegal.

But blackmail is simply the offer of a service to a consumer in the market before anyone else.  Put like that, there is nothing morally wrong with it whatsoever.  Indeed, because the criminalisation of blackmail denies the right of the accused of a right to defend him or herself according to the value that he or she places on the information, the current regime is destructive.

Having examined the true nature of blackmail, one can only conclude that it ought to be decriminalised entirely, before this prohibition does any more damage to both individuals and society.  It’s time to end this unwanted and unwarranted censorship.  It’s time to clear the black name of blackmail.

For the past two centuries, it’s been beaten into the British to hate the French, and all their (many, multitudinous, myriad) idiosyncrasies. However, as un-British as it may seem to celebrate the French national holiday, today, I found myself hoisting the red-white-and-blue and marking Bastille Day with as much pride as the most slimy and garlicky Provençal vintner. Every patriotic Briton should feel the same.

Despite what people say, what Bastille Day marked was not the end of monarchy in France. Instead, it was end of absolute monarchy: a system of government unchecked by constitutional limits, unfettered by morality or respect for the rights of any person but the King, and, crucially, completely different to the system used on this side of the Channel. Ours, as a representative monarchy, has been enshrined since Magna Carta, dating back to 1215.

Lacking a French Magna Carta, King Louis XVI was free to rule by decree, arbitrarily and without care. For all the boasts of ‘philosopher kings’, no French king ruled with any intellectual rigour or reason. When, on 11 July 1789, Louis XVI’s Finance Minister, Jacques Necker, advised the King to begin to budget his personal expenses, he was fired for his impudence. This act, one of reason against unreason and compromise against absolutism, sparked the Storming of the Bastille three days later.

The distinction between an absolute monarchy and a constitutionally-bound one is crucial. Whilst every French king was grotesquely unpopular in France, the British king at the time of the French Revolution, George III, was beloved by all, despite his mental faculties and colonial successes (or lack thereof). Even the future George IV, whose profligacy with money (and women) is and was renowned, was never under threat of losing his head, for one simple reason: whereas the French monarchs ruled in spite of the people, the British monarchs ruled because of the people.

Constitutionally-limited monarchy gives the framework of apolitical and non-partisan leadership, with a leader responsible for upholding the rights of the citizen guaranteed by such agreements as Magna Carta and the Bill of Rights. Instead of being the statist element that is most arbitary, in a representative democracy, a constitutionally-bound monarch becomes the one that is most constant, and most likely to uphold the natural rights of the people from the otherwise unchecked terrors of either an absolute monarchy or a deified democracy.

That the United Kingdom has enjoyed this for so many centuries, and that France’s diametrically-opposed system collapsed so readily in the face of pitchfork-armed farmers (a taste of things to come), ought to be a celebration of our uniqueness, and the success of our (relatively) people-centric historic constitutional system. Our dislike of absolute rule makes ours the exceptional system that proves the rule.

If the readers of BBC History magazine had their way, everyone in the country would be enjoying a day off work today. In a 2006 poll, their readership chose the 15th June as the date they would like to see dedicated to a new national holiday to celebrate British values. Winning out over more auspicious rivals, such as VE Day, Armistice Day, Trafalgar Day, the 15th June doesn’t seem to have much going for it. That is, except that it was the day the first blow in the fight against tyranny hit home.

On 15 June 1215, the marshland of Runnymede, in Berkshire, was home to one of history’s rarest spectacles: an autocratic ruler giving away his power and his asserted right to rule by force alone. That day, King John of England signed Magna Carta, ending the absolute monarchy and guaranteeing basic liberties of all free men.

Beyond the intricate balancing institutions between the King and his Barons, Magna Carta guaranteed many of the rights that are protected today. It outlawed imprisonment without trial, false imprisonment, and disproportionate punishment; and guaranteed the right to self-defence, the separation of executive and judiciary, and trial by jury.

In short, it enshrined the rule of law and the mechanisms by which our inalienable fundamental rights - to life, liberty, and property - have been protected for the past eight centuries years. Without it, the people would be left as they were, prostrate in front of the state. Whilst Magna Carta did not, as no law thus far has, allowed man to live free of all tyranny, it was inarguably the first step, and, for that reason, ought to be commemorated as heartily as any day before or since.