The White House doesn’t usually wade into the affairs of local British councillors’ spouses, but Lucy Connolly’s case has managed to cross the Atlantic. Connolly, the wife of a Conservative councillor, has been jailed for 31 months after a social media post she made in the wake of the Southport attacks. The exact content of her post hasn’t been fully disclosed to the public, but it was serious enough to warrant a custodial sentence and to attract attention from both human rights groups and American diplomats.
At the heart of the matter is a question that democracies never quite settle, only revisit. Where does free speech end and public harm begin? And who gets to decide what’s fact and what’s fiction when emotions are high, fear is palpable, and misinformation travels faster than the 8.15 from Euston?
Everyone likes to say they believe in free speech. It’s a bit like saying you like dogs or Sunday roasts. Of course you do. But just as you might not be thrilled to find a German Shepherd chewing your leg, not everyone’s a fan when free speech turns up shouting in all caps with half-truths and a dubious grasp of grammar.
There’s a longstanding difference between airing an opinion and spreading dangerous misinformation. That difference becomes even more crucial when the speaker is attempting to influence public sentiment or action. In Lucy Connolly’s case, her online remarks allegedly spread inflammatory claims that were later found to be false. The law, in this instance, decided that her post was not simply a bad take but a calculated and harmful act.
Here’s the rub. Facts don’t check themselves. And in an age where anyone with Wi-Fi and a keyboard can claim to be an expert, deciding what counts as a ‘fact’ can feel like trying to nail jelly to a wall.
Traditionally, we relied on journalists, academics and public institutions to help sort truth from nonsense. But trust in those institutions has frayed. Conspiracy theories now compete with mainstream reporting, and algorithms often serve us what we already believe. We are all curators of our own personal museums of truth, and the exhibits don’t always agree.
This doesn’t mean we abandon facts altogether. It means we become more cautious about what we share and more thoughtful about how we argue. The right to say something doesn’t make it right to say it carelessly, particularly when public safety or individual reputations are at stake.
Psychologically, the temptation to post inflammatory content in the wake of violence or tragedy is often driven by fear and a need for control. When the world feels chaotic, our brains crave certainty. A simplistic explanation, even if it’s wrong, can feel far more comforting than a complex truth.
Social media rewards outrage and certainty over nuance and reflection. Add to that a dash of tribalism and a pinch of righteous anger, and you’ve got the perfect cocktail for public misinformation. Once a message is out there, it gains power not because it’s true, but because it resonates emotionally.
This is not new. During the Salem witch trials, false accusations spread like wildfire not because they were logical but because they played into people’s fears. Today’s witches are often found on the internet, and the stakes can still be ruinously high.
There’s a crucial difference between the freedom to speak and the freedom to escape consequences. If you accuse someone publicly of a crime without evidence, that’s not ‘free speech’; it’s defamation. If your words incite violence or panic, they’re not brave truth-telling, they’re reckless and if you’re in the UK, you are more than likely going to be in breach of the Online Safety Law.
Many argue that Lucy Connolly should have been fined or corrected publicly rather than imprisoned. It’s a fair point, and one that will no doubt be tested further in appeal courts. But we shouldn’t confuse consequences with censorship. Being held accountable for speech isn’t the same as being silenced. It’s simply part of the social contract – rights come with responsibilities.
Take Alex Jones, the American radio host who told millions that the Sandy Hook school shooting was a hoax. The result? Grieving families were harassed for years. He was eventually ordered to pay nearly a billion dollars in damages.
Or Piers Corbyn, who made misleading claims about COVID and vaccinations. His words were not just contrarian but potentially deadly during a public health crisis. The point here isn’t to ban controversial opinions, but to recognise when they cross a line into public harm.
Free speech isn’t about saying what you want without consequences. It’s about protecting the right to express honest, fact-based opinions – even unpopular ones – in a way that contributes to dialogue rather than destruction.
The question we each face is this: Am I posting to inform, to understand, or to provoke? If your answer is the third, perhaps it’s time to step away from the keyboard and go for a run.
The internet has democratised information, but it’s also flooded us with noise. To keep the signal clear, we all need to become better editors of our thoughts, better stewards of our platforms, and braver about admitting when we’re wrong.
Lucy Connolly’s case may yet be overturned or reduced. But it is a reminder that free speech is not a shield against scrutiny. It is a right we must handle with care. And when in doubt, fact-check first, post later. Or as your nan might have said, if you can’t say something true, maybe just don’t.
