You know, that scene in pretty much every legal
drama ever made, the music swells, the gavel
bangs, the losing lawyer storms out onto the
courthouse steps surrounded by reporters and
shouts, we are taking this all the way to the
Supreme Court. Yeah, it is a classic trope. It's
the Hollywood version of how justice works, really.
It implies that the Supreme Court is where the
real action happens, you know, where the final
battle is fought. Right. It's the... The main
event. But today, we're going to completely debunk
that idea for you. We've been digging through
a massive stack of sources for this deep dive
into the Wikipedia entry for the Court of Appeal
of England and Wales. We're looking at judicial
statistics, historical records of the English
legal system, the procedural rules. All the dry
stuff that actually governs the courts. Exactly.
The reality is just quite different from the
movies. The Supreme Court is, well, it's kind
of the show pony. Well, that might be a little
harsh, but statistically, you aren't wrong. I
mean, the Supreme Court in the UK hears maybe
60 to 80 cases a year. That's it. It deals with
the high concept constitutional philosophy type
of stuff. Whereas the court we are diving into
today, the Court of Appeal, is the real engine
room. This is where the heavy lifting happens.
If the Supreme Court is the philosophy department,
the Court of Appeal is the emergency room. That's
a great way to put it. It's where the messy,
high volume, high stakes work of actually, you
know, correcting the law takes place day in and
day out. Exactly. This is the second most senior
court in England and Wales. And frankly, it's
the place that keeps the whole machine running.
So today, our mission for this deep dive is to
unpack the Court of Appeal. We're going to look
at how it actually functions, why it was created
to fix a system that can only be described as,
well, a total dumpster fire. The complete mess,
yeah. And how it decides whether a legal fight
ends right there or goes all the way to the top.
And before we get into the nitty gritty, we really
need to set the stage visually for you, because
we aren't talking about some modern glass office
block here. We are talking about the royal courts
of justice on the Strand in London. Oh, it is
an incredible visual. Just massive, imposing,
gothic revival architecture. You've got stone
corridors, vaulted ceilings, stained glass. It
looks like a cathedral or maybe Hogwarts for
lawyers. I love that image. Yeah. But that architecture
actually tells us something about the history,
doesn't it? Because before that building opened
in the 1880s, the English legal system was, well,
Messy puts it really lightly. Yeah. Messy is
generous. If you go back to the mid -19th century,
so before 1875, there wasn't really a court system.
There were 12 different superior courts. Whoa.
12. And the problem wasn't just the sheer number.
It was that they didn't really talk to each other.
So if I had a legal problem back then, how did
I even know where to go? That was the issue.
It was a complete labyrinth. Let's say you had
a dispute. If it was a common law issue and you
wanted to appeal, you had to go to something
called the court of exchequer chamber. Which
sounds incredibly medieval. It was. But if your
dispute was about a trust or an estate which
falls under equity law, you couldn't go there.
You had to go to the Court of Appeal and Chancery.
And if it was a maritime issue or something ecclesiastical,
you went to the Privy Council. You could literally
spend years and a small fortune just figuring
out which door to knock on. So the system was
basically inefficient by design. Inefficient
by accident of history, really, it had just grown
organically over centuries without a master plan.
By the 1870s, with the Industrial Revolution
booming, commerce just couldn't function with
a legal system that's slow and confusing. They
desperately needed a hard reset. Enter the Big
Bang of English law. The Judicature Acts of 1873
and 1875. This is the moment modern English law
really begins. They took those 12 fractured courts,
smashed them together and created one single
Supreme Court of Judicature. Just to clarify
for the listener, because the names get confusing
here, this isn't the Supreme Court we have today,
right? Correct. That is a modern branding issue.
In 1875, the Supreme Court of Judicature meant
the combination of the High Court, where the
trials happen, and the Court of Appeal, where
the corrections happen. They streamlined everything
into one structure. Order from chaos. But looking
at the sources we gathered, there's a glaring
omission in this new system. It seems like the
Victorians cared a lot about money and property,
but not so much about people. Ah, you noticed
that. When the Court of Appeal was first set
up, it was almost exclusively for civil cases.
So if I lost a contract dispute, I had a shiny
new court to go to. But if I was wrongly convicted
of a crime... You were largely out of luck. There
was no formal, robust avenue for criminal appeals
until the establishment of the Court of Criminal
Appeal in 1907. Before that, the system effectively
assumed that a jury verdict was sacred and infallible.
That is wild. It is. It actually took some pretty
horrific, high -profile miscarriages of justice
to force the government to admit that, actually,
juries and judges make mistakes in criminal trials
too. It really tells you where the priorities
were at the time. Property first, liberty second.
Exactly. Okay, so eventually they fixed the structure.
We have the High Court, the Court of Appeal,
and the House of Lords, which is now the Supreme
Court. But that sounds like a very long ladder
to climb. And the notes mention a shortcut called
leapfrogging. Yes. Leapfrogging sounds like a
playground game, but it's a crucial tool for
efficiency. It was introduced by the Administration
of Justice Act 1969. How does it work? Well,
normally you have to go step by step. High Court,
then Court of Appeal, then Supreme Court. But
sometimes a case comes along where everyone knows
the Court of Appeal literally cannot help. Why
couldn't they help? Because of precedent. Let's
say there is an old House of Lords ruling that
is clearly outdated, but it's still technically
the law. The Court of Appeal must follow it.
They cannot overrule their bosses. So there is
no point in having a hearing just for the Court
of Appeal to shrug and say, we agree with you,
but our hands are tied. So leapfrogging lets
you skip the middleman. Exactly. You jump straight
from the High Court to the Supreme Court. It
saves months of time and tens of thousands of
pounds in legal fees. It's the system admitting,
OK, we know where this is going to end up. Let's
just get there. There was also a reform back
in 1934 that stopped county court cases from
having to go to the High Court first, sending
them straight to the Court of Appeal. It's all
about speed and saving money. Efficiency is the
holy grail of the modern judiciary. Let's look
at how the court is organized today, because
even though they are all in that same gothic
building, we are really talking about two very
different worlds operating side by side. We are.
Since 1966, the court has been formally split
into two divisions, the civil division and the
criminal division. And culturally, they are quite
distinct. Let's start with the civil side. Who
is running the show there? The civil division
is led by the master of the roles. Which has
to be the best title in the British government.
Sounds like a character from Dungeons and Dragons.
It sounds medieval because it is. It goes back
centuries. Currently, that role is held by Sir
Geoffrey Voss. The master of the roles is effectively
the CEO of civil justice. They hear appeals from
the high court, the county courts, and the family
court. And the sources suggest that this person,
the master in the roles, often has more influence
on the daily life of the law than even the heads
of the Supreme Court. Why is that? It comes down
to volume and scope. The Supreme Court deals
with high -level constitutional points that might
only affect a few people directly. But the Civil
Division deals with everything else. Contract
disputes, negligence, family breakdowns, intellectual
property. The master of the role sets the tone
for how business is done in the country. I suppose
the classic example is Lord Denning. You can't
talk about the Court of Appeal without mentioning
Lord Denning. He was master of the roles from
1962 to 1982. He treated the Court of Appeal
like his personal instrument for modernizing
the law. He famously cared more about justice
in the moral sense than strict adherence to the
rule book. He was the rebel of the judiciary.
A massive rebel. He often clashed with the House
of Lords. But because he sat in the Civil Division
for 20 years, he shaped the law of contract and
tort more than any other single judge in the
20th century. Now let's flip the coin to the
Criminal Division. This is led by the Lady Chief
Justice, currently Baroness Carr of Walton on
the Hill. This division hears appeals from the
Crown Court. So we are talking about trials on
indictment. Jury trials. Serious crime. And this
is where the rules of the game change. I found
this fascinating when looking at our deep dive
materials. The notes mention that the criminal
division is less bound by its own past than the
civil division. This is a critical distinction.
In the civil division, they operate under strict
precedent. They generally must follow their own
previous decisions. Why? Certainty. Businesses
need to know that a contract clause means the
same thing today as it did in 1990. But in criminal
law. In criminal law, the currency isn't money.
It's liberty. If the Court of Appeal Criminal
Division realizes that a previous decision was
wrong, and following it would mean keeping a
person in prison unjustly, they have more flexibility
to say, we got that wrong, and depart from it.
That makes total sense. Sorry we locked you up,
but we really like consistency isn't exactly
a great motto for a justice system. Precisely.
The liberty of the subject trumps the need for
legal neatness. OK, so that's the structure.
Now I want to talk about the user experience.
Because I think there is a misconception, again,
fueled by TV, that everyone has a right to appeal.
That if I lose a case, I can automatically demand
a second opinion. That is the single biggest
myth. In the modern English system, you have
almost no automatic right to appeal. So I can't
just fill out a form? You can fill out the form,
but the door is locked. You need permission or
leave to appeal. And the bouncers at the door
are incredibly strict. This wasn't always the
case, though, was it? No. Until the late 90s,
it was much easier. But the system was drowning
in paperwork. Lord Wolfe and Sir Geoffrey Bowman
conducted these massive reviews of the justice
system. Bowman found that in nearly 70 % of cases,
there was a 14 -month delay just to get a hearing.
Some cases took five years. That's justice denied
by delay. Exactly. So they installed the filter.
Now, to get permission, you have to prove one
of two things. Either your appeal has a real
prospect of success, meaning it's not just a
Hail Mary pass, or there is some other compelling
reason for it to be heard. Compelling reason
sounds a bit vague. It usually means a point
of public interest. Even if you might not win,
the law needs clarifying for everyone else. But
if you can't prove that, you don't even get in
the room. And what if I'm really stubborn? Say
I lost in the county court. I appealed to the
high court. I lost again. And now I want to go
to the court of appeal. That is a second appeal.
And the wall there is 10 feet higher. They really
don't want to see you at that point. They really
don't. The leading case here is Tanfern LTDV
Cameron McDonald. The court was very blunt. They
said that lord justices constitute a scarce resource.
You don't get a second appeal just because you
think the high court judge was wrong. You only
get it if the case raises an important point
of principle or practice. So at that stage, it's
not about you or your grievance anymore. It's
about the law itself. Correct. The system values
finality. At some point, the argument has to
end so everyone can move on. There's another
distinction here that I think trips people up.
Review versus rehearing. I always assumed an
appeal was a do -over. You know, call the witnesses
back. Try again to convince a new judge. A very
common mistake. The Court of Appeal almost never
hears live evidence. They don't want to see the
witnesses. Why not? Wouldn't seeing the witness
help? Their logic is that the trial judge was
the one who looked the witness in the eye, saw
them sweat, and decided if they were lying. The
Court of Appeal respects that firsthand advantage.
So an appeal is a review. They are looking at
the transcript and the legal arguments to see
if the judge made a technical error in the law
or a massive procedural blunder. So they are
grading the judge's homework. not retaking the
test. That is the perfect analogy. Unless the
judge's decision was plainly wrong or perverse,
meaning no reasonable judge could have reached
it, they won't interfere. Speaking of grading
homework, let's talk about how the actual process
has changed. Because reading about the old days
is hilarious. Is it true that lawyers used to
read everything out loud? It sounds like a joke,
but yes. Before the modern reforms, oral advocacy
was taken literally. Council would stand there
and read the entire judgment on the lower court,
the witness statements, the documents, the correspondence.
That could take days. Weeks in complex cases.
It was an endurance sport, and the judges would
just sit there and listen. Why? Why not just
read the papers beforehand like a normal person?
Prudition. And a bit of arrogance, to be honest.
In the 1960s, when people suggested moving to
the American system, where judges read briefs
before the hearing, British judges turned their
noses up at it. They felt that justice must be
seen to be done, which apparently meant heard
to be done. We don't do that here. Exactly. But
eventually, the logic of efficiency won out.
The volume of cases made the old way impossible.
Now, we have skeleton arguments, written summaries,
and judges do pre -reading. They come into court
already knowing the facts. It saves a massive
amount of time. It does, but it also changes
the skill set. A lawyer can't just be a good
orator anymore. They have to be a brilliant writer.
And the modernization isn't just about reading.
We have technology now. Camera's in the court.
We do. Since 2013, the ban was lifted. But notice
the caution. If you watch the livestream, it's
on a 70 -second delay. Oops, buffer. Exactly.
In case someone blurts out a name that is supposed
to be anonymous or sensitive security information
comes up, it's transparency but with a safety
net. I also saw that they're pushing mediation
heavily, the Court of Appeal mediation scheme,
which feels very modern. This is fascinating.
If you have a contract or personal injury claim
under a hundred thousand pounds, you might get
diverted to mediation. The 2022 data showed a
40 to 50 percent success rate. That's huge. That's
half the docket cleared without a judge lifting
a finger. And going back to the scarce resource
argument, that is vital. Every case settled in
a side room is a slot opened up for a major constitutional
appeal that really needs judicial attention.
Let's talk about the people making these decisions.
Who makes the cut? There are currently 39 Lord
and Lady Justices of Appeal. with a mandatory
retirement age of 75. And the pay isn't terrible.
It's comfortable. A Lord or Lady Justice makes
about 188 ,900 pounds a year. The Lady Chief
Justice is on over 230 ,000. But consider what
these people could earn in private practice as
top casees. They are taking a significant pay
cut to sit on the bench. True. It's public service.
And I want to touch on the diversity aspect,
specifically the titles. Because English law
loves its traditions. even when they stop making
sense. The language lags behind the reality.
For a long time, the statute said the judges
were Lord Justices of Appeal, even when the first
woman, Dame Elizabeth Butler Sloss, was appointed
in 1988. So she was officially a Lord Justice?
Officially, yes. It wasn't until 1994 that the
practice shifted to calling them Lady Justice
informally, and it took until 2003 for that to
become the formal statutory title. 2003 is surprisingly
recent. It is, and the numbers are shifting slowly.
As of early 2026, we have 10 Lady Justices out
of the 39, so we are at about 25 percent. It's
better than it was, but it's not parity yet.
Before we wrap up, we have to tackle the big
technical beast. We threw around the Latin term
steered decisis earlier. I want to understand,
strictly speaking, can the Court of Appeal change
its mind? This is the question that keeps law
students awake at night. The short answer is,
generally, no. They are bound by their own past
decisions. Why tie their own hands? Certainty.
If the law changes every time a new judge sits
on the bench, nobody knows how to behave. But
they realized this could lead to ridiculous situations
where they are forced to follow a bad law. So
in 1946, in a famous case called Young v. Bristol
Aeroplane Co. Ltd., they set out the escape hatch.
The exceptions. Right. There are three main ways
the court can ignore its own previous ruling.
First, if the previous decision was made per
incurium, it's Latin for through lack of care.
Basically, the previous court missed a relevant
statute or a binding House of Lords decision.
They made a mistake because they didn't see the
whole picture. So oops, we goofed. Exactly. Second
exception, if there are two previous Court of
Appeal decisions that conflict with each other.
Which happens. It happens more than you'd think
in a system this big with so many cases. In that
case, the current court has to act as a tiebreaker
and pick one to follow. And the third. If the
Supreme Court or the old House of Lorbs makes
a ruling that effectively overrules the Court
of Appeal, the boss's word is final. It seems
like a delicate balance. You want the law to
be predictable, but you don't want it to be stupid.
That is the eternal tension of the common law.
Young v. Bristol aeroplane is the attempt to
balance that rigidity with just enough flexibility
to not be absurd. So pulling this all together,
we've gone from a chaotic mess of 12 courts to
this highly structured, filtered, efficient engine
room. What is the big takeaway here? I think
the trajectory is clear. The story of the Court
of Appeal is the story of professionalization.
We moved from a system that was romantic but
dysfunctional, with the oral readings and confusing
jurisdictions, to a system that is ruthless about
efficiency. The permission filters, the pre -reading,
the mediation schemes, they are all designed
to manage the overwhelming demand for justice.
But there is a cost to that efficiency. There
is. And that's the tension we should reflect
on. The Court of Appeal exists to correct errors,
to ensure justice is done. But every time we
tighten the permission to appeal filter, we are
effectively saying that finality is more important
than absolute perfection. It's a pragmatic compromise.
We want to get it right, but we also just need
to get it done. Exactly. If we allowed every
grievance to be litigated forever, the system
would collapse. The filter is the price we pay
to keep the machine running. And that leads to
a provocative thought for everyone listening.
We tend to think of justice as this pure, absolute
search for truth. But looking at the Court of
Appeal, it looks a lot more like resource management.
As we push for more mediation and stricter filters
to save money and time, are we approaching a
point where good enough justice is becoming the
standard? Are you comfortable with a system that
might leave a few stones unturned just to keep
the conveyor belt moving? It's the question every
modern legal system has to answer. How much justice
can we afford? Something for you to chew on.
That's it for this deep dive into the engine
room of English law. Thanks for listening. A
pleasure. See you on the next one.