Royal Courts of Justice
I was recently at the Royal Courts of Justice. Not, thank God, seeking any kind of justice for myself, I have seen the teevee adaptation of ‘Bleak House’ and now know that a) Gillian Anderson is hot no matter what sort of dress you put her in and b) any man who relies upon the law for redress is setting themselves up for mental anguish and possible death by spontaneous human combustion.
Nor was I prosecuting, I’ve seen enough movies to know that the system is not the way to get any kind of justice in this world. No, if you have a gripe with somebody or something, say the flex on a kettle you bought is frayed, then it’s best to cut out the whole official route and go directly to the role of near-lunatic masked avenger who takes down the whole corrupt system of discount electrical superstores with nothing more than a wise-cracking sidekick and a flamethrower. Sounds unlikely? At least 27% of all purchases made this weekend will result in the customer daydreaming about acts of pointless destruction while queuing for their lip balm or whatever.
The fact that I was just there as an observer, to see the wheels of justice grind some poor bugger to mincemeat, was picked up on by the pack of feral journos outside the Courts. These chaps, I think, are just stationed there every morning on the off chance that some disgraced or disgraceful celeb is trying to sneak past them on their way to receive a bit of justice themselves. I don’t know why the journos bother, they could just use stock footage of a bloke scurrying into the court and then stock footage of a standard issue solicitor ‘making a statement on behalf of my client who maintains, despite the finding, that the girl was of the age of legal consent and, despite the evidence put forward in court, loves animals and would certainly never do anything like that to a swan. He has asked for privacy at this difficult time’.
I was there, on the job so to speak, to see a member of the public try to convince a judge that what we get up to in the office was illegal. I was under strict instructions from at least three different lawyers not to speak to the chap, even if spoken to and not to identify who I was. This was, I hope because of the seriousness of the case and the way these things are dealt with and not, as I suspect is the truth, because I’m a liability who thinks a useful way to spend my day is lolling around the RCJ café, swilling tea and waiting for our case to kick off.
The RCJ is a fascinating place. I used to think that wealth and privilege smelled like beeswax furniture polish, or wet dog, or gun oil. Well, it may do, but power smells like marble dust. The whole place has marble floors and wood panelled walls so deep and dark that I think the wood used is actually Ent, and you just KNOW that’s not sustainable. Barristers stalk the corridors like scruffy crows. The rule of thumb is, the more disreputable your suit (cut just so to artfully conceal several long lunches too many, and we all know how game pie settles), the more stained your wig, the more venerable you are.
The actual rule is that the bigger your wig, the more important you are and the biggest wigs of all are worn by the judges – they look like spaniels on steroids.
It was fascinating to watch the judge in action. Even though the ruling went against the chap making his plea for justice (he’s off to the European court of course, to plead his case, along with prisoners who feel their human rights are being infringed if they can’t keep a pony in their cells and so on) the chap still felt he had his day in court.
I think he picked up his flamethrower at the door on the way out, I didn’t see him leave as the view is obscured if you’re hiding in the gents.
Nor was I prosecuting, I’ve seen enough movies to know that the system is not the way to get any kind of justice in this world. No, if you have a gripe with somebody or something, say the flex on a kettle you bought is frayed, then it’s best to cut out the whole official route and go directly to the role of near-lunatic masked avenger who takes down the whole corrupt system of discount electrical superstores with nothing more than a wise-cracking sidekick and a flamethrower. Sounds unlikely? At least 27% of all purchases made this weekend will result in the customer daydreaming about acts of pointless destruction while queuing for their lip balm or whatever.
The fact that I was just there as an observer, to see the wheels of justice grind some poor bugger to mincemeat, was picked up on by the pack of feral journos outside the Courts. These chaps, I think, are just stationed there every morning on the off chance that some disgraced or disgraceful celeb is trying to sneak past them on their way to receive a bit of justice themselves. I don’t know why the journos bother, they could just use stock footage of a bloke scurrying into the court and then stock footage of a standard issue solicitor ‘making a statement on behalf of my client who maintains, despite the finding, that the girl was of the age of legal consent and, despite the evidence put forward in court, loves animals and would certainly never do anything like that to a swan. He has asked for privacy at this difficult time’.
I was there, on the job so to speak, to see a member of the public try to convince a judge that what we get up to in the office was illegal. I was under strict instructions from at least three different lawyers not to speak to the chap, even if spoken to and not to identify who I was. This was, I hope because of the seriousness of the case and the way these things are dealt with and not, as I suspect is the truth, because I’m a liability who thinks a useful way to spend my day is lolling around the RCJ café, swilling tea and waiting for our case to kick off.
The RCJ is a fascinating place. I used to think that wealth and privilege smelled like beeswax furniture polish, or wet dog, or gun oil. Well, it may do, but power smells like marble dust. The whole place has marble floors and wood panelled walls so deep and dark that I think the wood used is actually Ent, and you just KNOW that’s not sustainable. Barristers stalk the corridors like scruffy crows. The rule of thumb is, the more disreputable your suit (cut just so to artfully conceal several long lunches too many, and we all know how game pie settles), the more stained your wig, the more venerable you are.
The actual rule is that the bigger your wig, the more important you are and the biggest wigs of all are worn by the judges – they look like spaniels on steroids.
It was fascinating to watch the judge in action. Even though the ruling went against the chap making his plea for justice (he’s off to the European court of course, to plead his case, along with prisoners who feel their human rights are being infringed if they can’t keep a pony in their cells and so on) the chap still felt he had his day in court.
I think he picked up his flamethrower at the door on the way out, I didn’t see him leave as the view is obscured if you’re hiding in the gents.
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