The sorrowful case of Diana Parkes v Arkbound Foundation
By Steve Mcnaught
What happens when a small, self-represented charity finds itself in court against a claimant backed by a trained barrister? If the presiding judge is Jonathan Napier, the outcome seems almost inevitable: the charity loses—not because of the merits of the case, but because one side’s arguments are wholly disregarded while the other’s are upheld in their entirety. Justice is not blind—it peers over its scales to see who is wealthier, better dressed, and accompanied by legal muscle. At the heart of the dispute was a book—one that spanned nearly 500 pages and was originally expected to be edited in just three months. It’s title, ironically, was ‘Understand, Dare, Thrive’. The author, having driven their previous publisher to withdraw under the weight of their relentless demands and legal threats, approached the charity with grand promises: national media level publicity, an army of followers, and a £15,000 contribution to help bring the book to market. However, once the charity had committed time, resources, and faith, the author retracted this financial promise, leaving the organisation to proceed on a shoestring budget.
The author, Diana Parkes, was no struggling creative – no underprivileged voice fighting for recognition. Instead, they hailed from the corporate echelons of Mars and Heineken, accustomed to wielding power and exerting influence. Their book, purportedly a guide to gender equality, was ironically championed by someone who saw others as disposable. What started as a noble endeavour rapidly devolved into a relentless siege of demands. The charity was trapped in an exhausting, Kafkaesque loop: revisions piled upon revisions, guidelines ignored, agreements trampled upon. Parkes, though unwilling to proofread their own work – an opportunity our other authors embrace, as it provides them with control over how the final edition will look like – expected the charity to bend endlessly to their will.
Even logistical matters became battlegrounds. Parkes refused to use shared filing systems, dismissed provided templates, and substituted their own inferior documents. The book was professionally formatted three times—still, it was ‘not good enough.’ An external designer was engaged at the author’s insistence, with a written guarantee that the charity would not bear the cost. Later, the author conveniently ‘forgot’ this promise, demanding £500 in fees. That is, until confronted with evidence of their deceit.
Despite these tribulations, the book was published. It went through three digital revisions, a physical proof, and final approval by Parkes. Yet, within weeks, the inevitable happened—she reneged once more. The book was suddenly ‘unfit for purpose.’ A new edit was demanded. By now, the charity’s budget had been bled dry, and copies had been scheduled for distribution. Undeterred, Parkes abruptly severed the publishing agreement—fully aware of the charity’s financial investment. Two days later, with unrestrained audacity, they launched their own publishing company: Ariadne’s Thread. Its business model? An uncanny replica of the one they had just exploited.
Years passed. Then came the legal claim. Ms Diana Parkes, now ‘the claimant’, accused the charity of breach of contract, carefully omitting the ‘minor’ detail that they themselves had repeatedly violated the agreement—refusing to follow editorial guidelines, unilaterally severing the contract, and flouting their obligations. When the court date arrived, Parkes sought a postponement due to their own personal circumstances. The charity, ever accommodating, agreed. They proposed that the case be decided on written submissions alone—surely, an obvious means of neutralizing the imbalance between a barrister-backed claimant and a self-represented charity. The request was denied. The charity’s pro bono solicitor could offer only advice, not representation. And so, a single trustee, Waltraud Pospischil (Val), found herself months later standing alone before the judge, facing the claimant and her barrister.
Val hobbled into the courtroom on crutches. Parkes, composed and confident, arrived in a tailored ensemble, flanked by experienced legal counsel. The stark contrast could not have been more pronounced. District Judge Jonathan Napier presided. The claimant’s barrister delivered their well-rehearsed lines, nodding along as their witness statement was confirmed. Then, finally, it was Val’s turn. She attempted to cross-examine Parkes—to present the very book in question and invite them to identify its supposed defects. The judge snapped: ‘That’s not how it works here.’ Nor was it explained to her that this was her one and only chance to ask questions to the claimant, as a representative of the charity, so after being shot down by the judge she had no other questions readied.
The rules of engagement had been made clear. The claimant’s barrister, in contrast, had free rein. She subjected Val to relentless questioning—on aspects of the publishing process outside her purview. Val attempted to defer to her publishing colleagues, Jamie and Steve. After a barrage of questions, the judge half-heartedly asked the barrister to reserve such questions to those with the knowledge to answer them.
The case of Diana Parkes fixated on one thing: a single clause in the publishing agreement stipulating that the book must be free of significant errors. She had, conveniently, hired a proofreader to scour the manuscript for flaws—unearthing 1,700 supposed mistakes. The vast majority on the level of a missing capitalised letter or a comma being used a bit too often – the kind of thing that rarely, if ever[1] gets noticed by the average reader. Still, this damning figure was wielded like an iron hammer. The nuance—the claimant’s failure to follow the publishing process, the chaos they themselves had sown—was swept aside. Val, Jamie, and Steve might as well have been speaking into the void.
This was not justice. This was theater—where power and influence dictated the script. The judge dismissed the entirety of the charity’s defense and even all of its counterclaim. It did not matter that Parkes had sabotaged their own project. It did not matter that they had broken the agreement. It did not matter that written proof existed of their promise that the charity would not bear additional design costs. The judge awarded them everything they sought—and more. Not only compensation for the book, but reimbursement for their hotel stays, their miscellaneous expenses.
This case exposes a harrowing truth: the adversarial legal system is not about fairness. It is about dominance. The side with the sharpest barrister, the deepest pockets, the most polished presentation—prevails. Judges are supposed to weigh both sides, to see through manipulation, to act as the final line of justice. Instead, District Judge Jonathan Napier chose the easy path: to listen to the voice of his fellow legal colleague, to embrace one narrative, and to discard the rest.
A question arises: if justice cannot be found in the courts, where should it be sought? The final answer cannot be given here, for it whispers of revolution. Perhaps, for now, we can reflect that, when the courts fail, when truth is buried beneath the robes of those who should safeguard it, the battle does not end. It shifts. It finds new ground, new voices, new weapons—not of steel, but of words that cut sharper than any blade, of relentless scrutiny that does not yield.
[1] Did you see that error?
Whilst there are logical grounds to exclusively provide a more academic overview in the manner of our academic and research branch for an audience discerning of legal matters rather than general readers, it is important to shed a light on such injustices and strive to improve the system, so that it works for everyone, rather than just the wealthy or privileged.
