By any measure, Ricky Jones made a stupid mistake. At a tense anti-racism rally in Walthamstow last August, the suspended Labour councillor pointed at far-right protesters, called them “disgusting Nazi fascists” and, in a flourish that would later cost him dearly, drew his finger across his throat while saying they should have their “throats slit”.
It was crass, theatrical and politically disastrous. The footage went viral, the Labour Party suspended him, and prosecutors charged him with encouraging violent disorder. However, a court has cleared him.
Legally, the case was never as clear-cut as the headlines made it sound. In the UK, the bar for “encouraging violent disorder” is high for a reason. You have to prove intent — that someone genuinely wanted others to commit violence or was recklessly indifferent to whether they would. Jones’s comments, while ugly, were made in the heat of a protest, directed at people he saw as a threat, and immediately disowned. Political hyperbole, however tasteless, is not the same as a call to arms.
The verdict matters because it defends an essential principle: that freedom of speech protects not just the polite, the measured and the statesmanlike, but also the blunt, the angry and the intemperate. If it didn’t, most protest speeches in Britain’s history — from anti-war rallies to miners’ strikes — could have landed their speakers in the dock.
But here’s the bitter irony: the far right, who Jones was railing against, are the loudest voices crying “free speech” whenever they face consequences, even as their own rhetoric frequently crosses into genuine hate speech and incitement. This isn’t a matter of crude slogans or symbolic gestures. It’s calculated, sustained messaging that dehumanises entire communities and, in some cases, explicitly calls for their removal or eradication. The Public Order Act 1986 makes such conduct a crime for good reason — because it doesn’t just “offend”; it encourages real-world harm.
That distinction is the heart of this case. Jones’s outburst was reactive, situational, and — crucially — not intended to be acted upon. Far-right hate speech is proactive, deliberate, and intended to mobilise. Yet too often, the “free speech” defence is misapplied to both as if they were the same.
Labour still has a decision to make. Jones may be free in the eyes of the law, but his judgement is in question. Internal party discipline is about political responsibility, not criminal liability, and the standards are — rightly — different. His acquittal doesn’t erase the fact that his words were reckless for an elected official.
Still, the greater danger is this: in policing speech, we risk blurring the line between rhetoric that is merely offensive and rhetoric that actively weaponises hate. The court in this case didn’t just acquit a councillor; it reaffirmed a democratic truth — that political speech must be given space to be passionate, provocative and imperfect. If we allow that space to be eroded, the far right, with their talent for self-victimisation, will seize the advantage. And that, in the long run, would be a far greater threat than Ricky Jones’s moment of foolishness.
