Every week, somewhere in Britain, a stranger asks you to fund a court case. The pitch is familiar: a powerful body has acted unlawfully, a brave claimant is fighting back, and your £20 can help deliver justice. What it rarely explains is how likely the case is to succeed, what happens to your money if it fails, or what “winning” would actually mean.
Crowdfunded litigation is now routine in British public life. A Modern Law Review study of 413 judicial-review campaigns found that crowdfunding has opened the courts to groups pursuing litigation as part of wider political campaigns. That can be valuable. Judicial review is expensive and unsuccessful claimants may have to pay the government’s costs as well as their own. For many ordinary citizens, crowdfunding is the only practical way to challenge the state.
Yet the same study points to a problem. Donors may give for political or emotional reasons, without understanding a case’s legal merits, prospects or likely impact. Judicial reviews are often narrow and technical, and many never reach a full hearing. The result is a gap between what donors hope to achieve and what the courts can deliver.
The Good Law Project (GLP) shows how wide that gap can become. It has won significant cases. In one case, the Good Law Project presented findings to the High Court that a pandemic contract was awarded to Public First through biased and untransparent ways.
But critics say it has also framed significant defeats as victories. In 2022, after raising nearly £400,000 to challenge Covid-era appointments, it suggested to donors that it had been successful, although the court ruled that its own claim had failed entirely; only its co-claimant, the Runnymede Trust, succeeded, on one ground. The GLP’s founder, Jolyon Maugham, called the loss “technical”. Yet the point was fundamental: the court held that the GLP had no standing to bring the claim. This risk could have been made clear to donors at the outset, and the outcome could have also been communicated.
The GLP is not alone. Crowdfunding is used across the political spectrum, and the same questions arise when individuals, rather than established campaign groups, solicit donations.
Crowdfunded litigation is not confined to judicial review or to established organisations such as the GLP. Individuals also use public donations to pursue other proceedings, including against public figures.
In 2019 Marcus Ball crowdfunded a private prosecution of Boris Johnson over the “£350 million a week” Brexit claim. The High Court quashed the summons, describing the prosecution as “vexatious”. Reports of how much Ball had raised ranged from £200,000 to more than £570,000, and he said he had spent more than he raised and gone into debt. His fundraising page did disclose that money could pay for marketing, his salary and expenses, and directed donors to spending reports. The campaign prompted questions about donor protection and value for money.
The issue, then, is not a total lack of disclosure, but whether donors understood the odds, and what their money would ultimately be spent on.
Do the rules adequately protect donors from campaigns with false claims and weak grounds? Charities must follow the Code of Fundraising Practice, which prohibits misleading appeals, including omissions and implied claims that donors are likely to take literally. But the code is not legally binding, and its reach over litigation groups that are not charities is uncertain. The Public Law Project has issued a voluntary code for crowdfunded litigators, including the principle that the public should never be misled. While this should be the benchmark, voluntary standards bind only those who choose to follow them.
