Since Brexit, the European Convention on Human Rights has been a central battleground in Britain’s struggle over sovereignty, immigration, and the limits of law. Yet, as so often in modern politics, the row is more screaming theatre than substantive debate. Starmer, Ellis, Straw, and the far-right tabloids are all speaking past one another, leaving the public with caricatures instead of clarity. The spectacle frames morality as entertainment: Starmer as the cautious guardian of rights, Nigel Farage as the vengeful nationalist whipping up fear, Ellis as the sober former legal authority urging Britain to shed a “lost” institution, and Straw as the left-wing legalist suddenly whispering in the corridors of power. Beneath the theatre lies a real structural dilemma: how does a country reconcile human rights obligations, democratic accountability, and sovereign control in an era of populist politics and global insecurity
Starmer has staked out a straightforward defensive position. Leaving the ECHR, he warns, would put Britain in the same “club” as Russia and Belarus. A comparison designed to shock, but not to settle the debate. Membership, he stresses, underpins key international agreements: the Good Friday Agreement, trade deals, security arrangements, and migration cooperation. Starmer’s argument is a technocratic shield against nationalist theatrics: not that the ECHR is perfect, but that unilateral withdrawal carries real costs.
On the opposite end, figures like Sir Michael Ellis and Nigel Farage have deployed a rhetoric of sovereignty on steroids, conflating legal frustration with moral outrage. Ellis’ column in the Telegraph (March 2025) was as incendiary as it was polemical: international law, he argued, is largely irrelevant, a tool for the weak while the powerful ignore it. The abuses of regimes in China, Myanmar, and Russia are cited to demonstrate the hypocrisy of “international law,” before pivoting to domestic concerns: the ECHR obstructs justice, allowing criminals to evade deportation. Farage amplifies this, turning asylum law into a political weapon: every blocked deportation becomes evidence of an elite conspiracy, every judicial nuance painted as betrayal. It is deliberately simplistic, aimed at mobilising anger rather than producing analysis.
In an unexpected twist, Tony Blair-era grandee Jack Straw entered the fray from the Labour left. Straw argues that the Human Rights Act, which incorporated ECHR principles into British law, already protects rights domestically. According to him, the Strasbourg court’s expansive or inconsistent interpretations have created practical difficulties (especially in immigration control) without adding value to substantive human rights protections. Straw’s left-legalism is cautious but clear: rights are safe at home, no need to grovel before Strasbourg, yet he stops short of nationalist populism.
These three positions. The cautious technocracy of Starmer, the nationalist impatience of Ellis and Farage, and the domestic legalist critique of Straw—illustrate the structural tensions at the heart of the debate. Law is simultaneously stabiliser, instrument of national interest, and theatre of political contestation. The contrast could not be starker: Starmer calculates, Ellis fulminates, Farage agitates, Straw theorises. Each has partial truth, yet none addresses the deeper structural problem: Britain’s legal architecture is caught between international obligations, domestic judicial innovation, and the populist politics of border control.
The superficial framing of the debate as “pro-ECHR” versus “anti-ECHR” obscures three crucial facts. First, the Human Rights Act itself was a domestic innovation, and it already absorbs the ECHR’s principles. Straw is right that domestic incorporation matters; the UK is not entirely dependent on Strasbourg for rights protection. Second, the ECHR has been interpreted expansively by Strasbourg, producing rulings that frustrate deportation and immigration control. High-profile cases (Albanian criminals blocked from deportation due to children’s preferences, Pakistani paedophiles claiming deportation “unduly harsh”) feed populist narratives, giving ammunition to nationalist demagogues. Third, the far-right political machinery, led by Reform UK, exploits these legal anomalies for partisan gain, turning immigration law into theatre for a domestic audience of anger and fear.
A serious debate cannot ignore any of these points. To move forward, it is necessary to frame the issue in structural terms. Britain does not face a binary choice between total withdrawal and blind obedience. Rather, the challenge is to integrate human rights law into a framework that preserves democratic legitimacy while neutralising nationalist theatrics and ensuring practical enforceability.
The first step is legal architecture. Reformers and critics argue that the ECHR gives excessive authority to an unelected foreign court. Starmer’s counter is prudential: the cost of unilateral withdrawal is high, and domestic courts have limited capacity to enforce international obligations on their own. Yet Straw’s critique offers a pathway: the HRA already domesticates ECHR principles, and could be amended to give Parliament clear primacy in areas of tension, such as deportation. Bold legal reform here could outflank Farage’s populism: it preserves rights while reclaiming sovereignty.
Second is political legitimacy. Ellis’ argument that international law is hypocritical has force: global human rights enforcement is uneven and selective. The UN elects Iran to chair human rights committees, Geneva Conventions are politicised, and atrocities in Tibet or Xinjiang go unpunished—why defer slavishly to Strasbourg when the same law is ignored elsewhere? The response cannot be isolationist, but must acknowledge that legal frameworks must earn legitimacy through consistent, enforceable practice. Reforming domestic application of the ECHR is a way to demonstrate legitimacy without abandoning principles.
Third is immigration. Farage, Badenoch, and other right-wing figures frame the ECHR as an obstacle to border control. They cite cases where deportation was blocked on grounds of family life, children’s welfare, or procedural technicalities. Here populism meets law: the law is blamed for political inconvenience, not designed to be weaponised for it. Starmer’s government has sought to implement returns deals and manage small boat crossings, yet remains constrained by judicial review and human rights obligations. A responsible solution requires disentangling rights law from political theatre: reform judicial interpretation, strengthen administrative procedures, and negotiate international cooperation. All without surrendering basic human rights principles.
The fourth consideration is discourse itself. Media coverage has transformed the debate into spectacle. Headlines scream about “mass deportation plans,” “deranged BBC hosts,” or Labour grandees echoing Farage’s rhetoric. Public commentary is dominated by outrage rather than analysis, and even moderate proposals are absorbed into partisan theatre. Here the polemic sharpens: Ellis and Farage are playing to the gallery, Starmer reacts defensively, and Straw whispers rationality into a deaf cacophony. The public sees performance, not governance.
In practice, a constructive way forward would combine three threads: first, legislative reform of domestic incorporation to assert parliamentary primacy where necessary; second, strategic negotiation with Strasbourg to clarify interpretation and reduce tension; third, political management of immigration in ways consistent with human rights obligations but also responsive to public concerns. This is the path that neutralises nationalist posturing while preserving the integrity of law.
The alternative is clear: continued spectacle and polarisation. Reform UK will continue to mobilise anger; the Tories remain divided; the left will be criticised for either “betraying” sovereignty or “abandoning” rights. Withdrawal from the ECHR would not end the debate—it would merely export legal uncertainty abroad and domestic instability, handing Farage and company another populist victory. By contrast, reform within a framework of domestic authority, combined with careful public explanation, could move the debate from theatre to substance.
Ultimately, the question is not whether Britain should obey the ECHR (law is never a matter of blind obedience) but how it can integrate rights, sovereignty, and accountability in a coherent framework. Starmer’s prudence is not infallible, Ellis’ skepticism is not irrelevant, and Straw’s domestic legalism is not trivial. The debate is about reconciling law with legitimacy, rights with sovereignty, and reality with populist theatre. Taken together, these positions suggest a pathway forward: a Britain that respects human rights, asserts parliamentary authority, manages immigration effectively, and engages constructively with international law. Now without the melodrama of populist spectacle or the naïveté of uncritical defence.
The debate is not over. Far-right forces will continue to exploit legal anomalies. Media outlets will sensationalise every case where rights constrain enforcement. Yet a serious, structural discussion (one that examines legal architecture, democratic legitimacy, operational sovereignty, and political theatre) can transform the conversation from shouting match to strategy. It is time to stop treating the ECHR as either a sacred cow or a bogeyman, and instead treat it as the tool it is: capable of being wielded intelligently, democratically, and effectively.
For Britain, the challenge is clear. The ECHR is neither perfect nor irrelevant. It is a framework to be contested, refined, and domesticated in the service of both justice and sovereignty. The question is whether the political class can rise above spectacle, rhetoric, and fear to craft a legal and political architecture that serves citizens and law alike. Until that happens, the debate will remain trapped in outrage theatre—a spectacle where everyone shouts but no one thinks.
