Following extensive debate by the great theoreticians of public international law earlier in this century,1 it might seem that the completeness of the international legal order is now a banal issue, which should be remembered only as an academic dispute.2

It might have been so had the International Court of Justice not intervened, perhaps unintentionally, in its advisory opinion of 8 July 1996 concerning the Legality of the Threat or Use of Nuclear Weapons3 In her dissenting opinion, Judge Rosalyn Higgins argues that “the Court effectively pronounces a non liquet on the key issue on the grounds of uncertainty in the present state of law, and of facts”.4 In her view, the Court thus interrupted a line of case law which, in theory, had endorsed the idea of the completeness of international law and which, in practice, made it unthinkable that an international judge or arbitrator should actually pronounce a non liquet.5

The purpose of this article is to analyse the practice regarding reservation clauses within the Council of Europe. In spite of a vast amount of literature on the issue of reservations in general and on reservations to specific treaties in particular, little has been written about the regional practice in Europe and then especially within the framework of the Council of Europe.1 This is quite remarkable since a large number of treaties have been concluded under the auspices of the Council and its Secretary General has the role of their depositary. One of the reasons for this absence of academic work on reservations within the Council of Europe as a whole is probably the lack of well-organised and easily accessible documentation on reservations, declarations and objections regarding the treaties of the Council of Europe.

Hot air ballooning is a dangerous activity, and not only for the balloonist. In Guille v. Swan, 1 a balloonist crash-landed in a New York vegetable garden. When a crowd rushed to his assistance damage was caused to the vegetables. He was held to be strictly liable for the damage caused. Across the Atlantic balloonists were more glamorous although not more successful. In Scott's Trs. v. Moss, 2 the defender, an Edinburgh impresario, arranged a balloon flight by the “world-renowned scientific aeronaut”, Professor Baldwin. The advertisement promised that the Professor would descend by parachute, landing on ground rented by the defender. In the event, he missed and landed in a turnip field owned by the pursuers. Fences and a large number of turnips were trampled by the crowd rushing to the scene. The Court of Session decided that the defender could be liable only on the basis of fault. Foreseeability was of the essence: the pursuer was entitled to damages if and only if the crowd's actions were the “natural and probable consequence” of the defender's activities. Counsel's research had uncovered Guille v. Swan, but the Court of Session declined to follow it into strict liability.

The Swedish statute incorporating the European Convention on Human Rights (hereafter “the Convention”) entered into force on 1 January 1995.1 The present article will look at what can loosely be termed the constitutional issues raised by incorporation of the Convention into Swedish law. One of the most interesting features of the Convention, like EC law, is that it is a separate, autonomous system of law which nonetheless, with incorporation, becomes a part of the national legal system. As such it cuts across national legal categorisations. But it is also an incomplete system. Convention issues can arise under national law which have not (yet) arisen in the context of the Convention system. Thus, studying the case law of other jurisdictions dealing with the Convention can be of immediate benefit to one's own system, even leaving aside the long-term, indirect benefit to be gained by studying comparative constitutional law in general. While the main focus of the article is directed at explaining the Swedish system for English-speaking readers, I will also draw some parallels with the British legislation incorporating the Convention.2 Many questions remain regarding the likely impact of the Convention on British law. In time, the courts and Parliament will provide an answer to these. In the meantime, British lawyers can usefully study other jurisdictions.

The conclusion of the Treaty of Amsterdam and its progress through the ratification procedures of the 15 member States of the European Union provides an occasion to re-examine a familiar question. What is meant by the claim by the European Court of Justice that the European Com-munity Treaties have created “a new legal order of international law”1 or, more radically, “a new legal order”?2 Is EC law to be regarded as a particularly effective system of regional international law, or has it been created as, or mutated into, an entirely new species of law? If there are indeed two legal orders, to what extent are they still capable of cross-fertilisation? What about “European Union law”? Have the Treaty on European Union and now the Treaty of Amsterdam eroded the dichotomy between the two legal orders of public international law and EU law? Is public international law itself taking on some of the characteristics which have made EC law an attractive as well as an effective system for regulating relations between sovereign States? Are the two streams converging?

Liability of public authorities is limited in all European countries. In Osman v. UK1 the European Court of Human Rights (“the Court”) has reviewed the scope of English negligence law in a case concerning the liability of the police. On a first reading the judgment may appear to be confined to the facts of the case at hand, but further reflection suggests that the Court has attacked the orthodox approach to negligence liability for public authorities in English law.

A growing opinion has appeared in refugee and human rights discourse that the 1950 European Convention on Human Rights and Fundamental Freedoms (the European Convention) provides more extensive protection against refoulement than the 1951 UN Convention relating to the Status of Refugees (the Refugee Convention). However, uncertainties remain as to whether the protection offered by the 1984 UN Convention against Torture (the Torture Convention) and the 1966 UN International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (the Political Covenant) may substitute, or, rather, reinforce, that of the European Convention. Which of these four instruments offers the greatest protection against a decision of refoulement from a European country? The answer to this question is far from being academic. The rule that an international organ may only be competent to consider an individual petition or communication provided “the same matter is not being examined under another procedure of individual investigation or settlement” is embodied in all three instruments providing a procedure for individual complaints. It is therefore crucial for an asylum-seeker to give his or her best shot first, even if, as rightly pointed out by Liz Heffernan, the Strasbourg organs and the Geneva organs are not in competition.1 This article will review the scope of protection afforded under the three of these treaties which provide an international enforcement mechanism to persons who have sought refugee status in the domestic jurisdiction.

In a seminal 1992 article Thomas Franck postulated the emergence in international law of a right to democratic governance.1 Franck argued that, increasingly, the acceptance of a government by other States turns on whether the government governs with the consent of its people.

In supporting this notion, Franck pointed to events such as the 1991 effort by Haitian military and police authorities to overthrow the elected President of Haiti, Jean-Bertrand Aristide. Although those authorities exercised complete control over Haiti, the international community condemned the coup leaders, refused to engage in normal diplomatic relations with them or to seat their representatives at international organisations, and instead continued to recognise the exiled President Aristide as representing the legitimate government of Haiti. Severe economic and ultimately military sanctions were imposed on Haiti, and finally, in 1994, the coup leaders were forced to relinquish power. President Aristide then returned to Haiti to complete his term as president.

Protection of privacy is one of the areas most often claimed as having the potential for significant development as a result of incorporation of the European Convention on Human Rights (“the Convention”). As is well known, English law lacks a general remedy for infringement of privacy per se: although the courts have lamented the lack of protection for private individuals (notably from the press), they have hitherto left it to Parliament to intervene. After flirtation with introducing either a specific statutory code applicable to intrusive journalistic activities or a general statutory tort of infringement of privacy, the Conservative government abandoned the idea altogether.1 Perhaps because of the lack of legislative concern (politicians, after all, have reasons of strong self-interest not to provoke the press), the judiciary has expressed renewed interest, at least through extra-judicial pronouncements2 and broad hints in one recent House of Lords decision that the time for reconsideration may be fast approaching.3

It has been suggested1 that those reading this article are likely to fall into two groups: those who regard my proposition as obvious but feel that if I go on, as I evidently intend to, they will be driven to the opposite conclusion; and, on the other hand, those who take the view that my thesis can scarcely be taken seriously, but that they had better pay careful attention, just in case there is something in it.

Can a person who has agreed to an out-of-court settlement for a certain offence in country A still be prosecuted for the same offence in country B? What if a person is found guilty of theft in country C and is subsequently prosecuted in respect of the same facts, but under the charge of swindling in country D? Suppose two persons are suspected of having set up a money-laundering scheme, which involves financial transactions in several countries. Can the offenders still be prosecuted in one country concerned, after they have been acquitted for moneylaundering in one of the other countries?

The People's Republic of China (hereafter “PRC” or “China”) is set to attain a leading position in the world economy. Headlines such as “the giant awakes” have been in common usage for some time.1 European businesses have come to realise that China cannot be ignored. Their legal advisers should follow suit. This explains the motivation for this article.

International sanctions, understood as coercive means imposed by the United Nations, or by States, individually or collectively, against a country responsible for violating fundamental rules of international law, have been extensively analysed in the legal literature.1 A survey of such literature shows that particular emphasis has been put on the nature of sanctions, their status in international law and the very controversial issue of the legality of their adoption either by regional organisations, or by a State motu proprio, unilaterally.

It is a well-known facet of litigation that the first step is often more important than any to follow. Virtually all legal systems bestow on litigants a variety of interim and provisional remedies. These remedies have a number of different functions and rationales but two in particular are thought to be fundamental.1 First, protective remedies provide a litigant with a degree of protection by ensuring that the status quo is preserved while the litigation is proceeding; second, these remedies secure the position of a litigant not only during the course of an action but also once it is over and he has judgment in his favour. This second function is usually achieved, in one way or another, by tying up and freezing the property of the other party to the action.2 However, protective remedies also serve other functions. Some remedies exist to promote the interest of a party in the advancement of his case (e.g. orders for disclosure of evidence), whereas others provide a litigant with part of the overall final remedy or judgment that he is seeking to gain from the action (e.g. interim payment or interim damages).

It is a common observation that the theory and practice of international law are far apart. Richard Falk, for example, begins his 1970 book by chastising international legal theorists for failing to “provide adequate guidelines for evaluating particular decisions”.2 Likewise, Louis Henkin asserts that, “Lawyer and diplomat are engaged in a dialogue de sourds. Indeed, they are not even attempting to talk to each other, turning away in silent disregard.”3

Far from being confined to its most obvious manifestations, such as in the right to be tried within a “reasonable time” guaranteed by Articles 5 and 6 of the European Convention on Human Rights, references to the notion of “reasonable” are found in a large variety of primary rules pronounced in both legal instruments and the case law.1

Since 1 August 19861 the United Kingdom has been party to two international conventions on child abduction: the Hague Convention of 25 October 1980 on the Civil Aspects of International Child Abduction, and the European (Luxembourg) Convention of 20 May 1980 on the Recognition and Enforcement of Decisions Concerning Custody of Children and on Restoration of Custody of Children. While differing in various respects, each Convention seeks to tackle the problem of international child abduction by expediting the return of children under the age of 16 to their country of habitual residence following a wrongful removal to or retention in another contracting State. The principal difference between the Conventions is that while the Hague Convention deals with breaches of “rights of custody” or rights of access which may arise whether or not any court order exists with regard to the child, the European Convention is concerned solely with the recognition and enforcement of orders and decisions relating to custody and access.

During the last few months of 1997, vast areas of South-east Asia were choked by air pollution caused by smoke arising from massive forest fires in Indonesia. Thick smoke blanketed not only Indonesian territory, but significant transboundary pollution was also caused to several neighbouring States, primarily Malaysia, Brunei and Singapore.1 The problem was caused largely by the indiscriminate use of fire in the clearing of land by large-scale plantation owners and timber concessionaires on Indonesian territory. Land-clearing by government-sponsored transmigration programmes also involved significant burning. To lesser extents, small-scale “slash-and-burn” agricultural practices were implicated as well.2 The problem was exacerbated by the onset of severe droughts associated with the El Nino climatic phenomenon and the presence of combustible peat bogs in several parts of the sprawling Indonesian archipelago.

The name “lender of last resort” owes its origins to Sir Francis Barings, who in 1797 referred to the Bank of England as the “dernier resort” from which all banks could obtain liquidity in times of crisis.1 The lender of last resort (“LOLR”) role of the central bank remains a major rationale for most central banks around the world, in both developed and developing countries.2 While other central bank functions have recently come under fire (e.g. banking supervision), the importance of having the LOLR under the umbrella of the central bank is seldom contested.3 It is the immediacy of the availability of central bank credit (the central bank being the ultimate supplier of high-powered money) that makes the LOLR particularly suitable to confront emergency situations.