Christian Yorke

Franz Kafka: everybody knows the name, but most people have never read his work. I was one such person until I decided that enough was enough and tackled Metamorphosis and Other Stories. And I was hooked.

Kafka was born in Prague in 1883. He attended the Charles-Ferdinand University of Prague and attained a doctorate in law in 1906 before spending his short life working for a state insurance company. He pursued his writing “on the side” in his spare time, like so many people do today. 

He was the product of an overbearing father and, although he never married, he was twice engaged to Felice Bauer, his Czech translator. He also had relationships with Milena Jesenka-Pollak and Dora Diamant, who was his treasured companion until he died from tuberculosis in 1924.

Very few of Kafka’s stories were published during his life and he asked his friend, Max Brod to see that all the writings he left should be destroyed. Thankfully, Brod ignored this request and he undertook the posthumous publication of work such as The Trial, The Castle and Amerika.

There is a perception that Kafka’s work is impenetrable, worthy or even dull and irrelevant. All the talk of modernism, magic realism and existentialism turns many people off. However, fortune favours the brave as they say. And, as the translator, Michael Hofmann said, “…you need undergo no special training to prepare for him. There is no threshold of boredom or difficulty; you don’t even need to have a particularly literary disposition. He is formal but not unfriendly…(his work is) as approachable as it is strange, and as strange as it is approachable.”

At times Kaka’s work can almost be unbearably funny and absorbing. His work is not inherently sombre or grim and when read aloud, as it was by Kafka himself, people would fall about laughing. His language is straight forward; no redundant adjectives or adverbs. Although he does address themes such as hopelessness,  and his characters are often already in the throes of a crisis, the end has yet to happen and there is always the possibility of change. In Metamorphosis Gregor Samsa wakes up as a cockroach and the prisoner in The Penal Colony is already in chains; the jackals in Jackals and Arabs may yet find their predicaments eased and in The Stoker Karl may yet find salvation. 

So where does an adventurous reader start to get to know his work? I would suggest reading In the Penal Colony. This short story tells of a travelling researcher who visits a military colony where he is invited to witness the most incredible execution of a soldier. The officer/executioner, wearing tight-fitting parade uniform, proudly explains the means of punishment which is an elaborate piece of kit referred to as “the harrow”.

The officer proudly describes the harrow as follows.

“As you see, the harrow follows the human form: here is the harrow for the upper body, here the harrows for the legs. All there is for the head is one little spike. Do you understand?..When the man is lying on the bed, and the bed has begun to tremble, the harrow is lowered onto his body. It automatically adjusts itself so that it barely grazes his body with the tips of its needles…Trembling, it sticks its points into the body lying on the bed, which itself is trembling. To make it possible for anyone to view the way the sentence is carried out , the harrow is made of glass. Fitting the needles to it gave us many technical headaches, as you might imagine, but after many attempts the difficulties have been ironed out. We shirked no effort. And now anyone can see through the glass the way the inscription is made on the body…”

But all is not well with the murderous contraption. The officer berates the new commandant’s apparent failure to preserve the machinery of execution, to preserve fully the rituals. When the officer had, “…not without some trouble, forced the felt knob (of the harrow) into the condemned man’s mouth…the condemned man closed his eyes in a spasm of nausea and vomited. Hastily the officer snatched him up from the knob into the air, to turn his head to the pit; but it was too late and the spew was already all over the machine. ‘All the commandant’s fault!’ screamed the officer, and shook the brass rods in a fury, ‘the way the machine is being treated like a cowshed… And haven’t I just spent hours trying to get the commandant to understand that prisoners shouldn’t be fed on the eve of an execution. But no, with their new mild approach they do things differently. The commandant’s ladies stuff the man full of sugary sweet things…All his life he’s fed on stinking fish, and now he’s made to eat confectionary! But hey, why not, I wouldn’t really have any objections, but why have I not got a new felt, as I’ve been asking for the past three months? How can that man take that felt in his mouth without nausea anyway, when over a hundred men have sucked and bitten on it in their death throes?”

You may ask what hideous crime had been committed to warrant such punishment. The officer explained that, “This morning a captain brought a charge that this man, who is his batman, and sleeps outside his door, failed in the performance of his duty. He is required to get up every hour, and salute outside the captain’s door. Not a particularly arduous duty, and a very necessary one, because it keeps the man fresh for guard duty and for service to his master. Last night the captain whether his servant was discharging his duty properly. At the stroke of two, he opened his door, and found the man sprawled out asleep. He fetched his riding crop, and struck him a blow across the face. Instead of getting up and begging for forgiveness, the man grabbed his master by the legs, shook him, and cried: “Drop that whip or I’ll gobble you up.’”

Think about it. The trivial nature of the crime, the injustice within a strict military environment, the executioner’s anger about the new commandant’s modern ideas, the neglect of an instrument of torture. What motivates the executioner, and what should be his punishment? I recommend that you read the story to discover the executioner’s fate and whether the travelling researcher escapes a similar fate. The theme is dark and challenging but presented in a style that is certain to get you thinking…

Elvis Costello famously reported that “London is full of Arabs” in Oliver’s Army, his anti occupation anthem. Rich melodies and Abba-esque, piano driven nu-wave energy softened the controversial message, but that was 1979 when Hong Kong was still up for grabs, cars ran on four star and Maggie “Milk Snatcher” Thatcher  had yet to break the unions. Much has changed. The Arabs are still here, but so too is something altogether more unexpected. If Costello was penning the same track today, thirty years down the line, he would no doubt complain that “London is full of cyclists“!

I expect that the boys from Queen would approve of this development. “I like to ride my bicycle, my bicycle, my bike. I like to ride my bicycle, I like to ride it where I like,” now sounds like a manifesto, or call to arms. Today, cyclists plague the roads and pavements like demented missiles locked on to pedestrians, buses and cars on a mission to maim.

The problem was illustrated yesterday as I was walking to Covent Garden. Under an umberella and hard rain I waited at traffic lights as buses, cabs and cars stopped to allow us to cross. All was well until a dozen cyclists ignored the red light and careered through the pedestrians in a storm of spray and superiority. A pregnant woman screamed as a wall-eyed man (see photo-that really is him) on a racing bike missed her by inches.

If it had not been raining so violently I would have planted my brolly in his spokes to take him out of the equation and stop him from causing further harm. But the rain was relentless and he was going too fast, travelling above the rules and ignorant of other’s safety. I addition I was distracted by his fellow cyclists kicking wing mirrors, scratching doors and shaking their fists at us.

I was relieved to reach the pavement when I heard shocked voices, loud voices issuing a warning. I looked towards the complicated junction near The Roundhouse as the wall-eyed man dropped his head and pedaled like a demon into an elderly woman on a Zebra Crossing. I ran over to help but the cyclist kept going leaving the woman splattered on the ground. She survived the impact but in a Matrix moment I saw clearly the cyclists zooming down pavements, ignoring lights, turning across the paths of other vehicles, shouting abuse at pedestrians and causing mayhem.

I thought about writing to Boris Johnson, but London’s mayor wants to encourage this species of lawless road user. The years may pass, Arabs and Russians come and go, but the passage of time does not always equal progress. I imagine that Dickens would have likened the cyclists to the horse drawn carts that used to kill up to 800 Victorians a month back in the day.

I wonder whether this experience is unique to London, or whether it is replicated throughout the land or in the great cities of the world. Is anywhere safe from this tyranny? Why not share your experiences, good or bad. If you like to ride your bicycle where you like let me have your take on these important issues.

What follows is an extract from the novel MODERN TRIALS.

“Mr Goldman will see you now.”

Evelyn looked up at the attractive nurse and folded her arms to hide trembling hands. “Sorry my dear, did you say something?”

“Yes Mrs Rutter, it’s your turn. Let me show you through. And please call me Mary. Is there anybody with you this time? I’ll find them if you want.”

“No, I’m on my own. Come on then, let’s get it over with.”

Evelyn gripped her little handbag, containing only  No. 5 and car keys, as they walked slowly across the waiting room. Grey carpets and blue walls scratched forever into her memory. The eyes that followed her seemed already to know her fate.

The consultant stood to greet them in his modern room. “Come in ladies. Eve, you take a seat here in this comfy chair.”

Evelyn laughed. “Oh you don’t have to butter me up  Michael. I don’t mind where I sit.”

“I insist. That way we can chat without me preaching from behind that big desk.”

Evelyn complied and Mr Goldman sat opposite her. “No Julian? I hoped he’d be with you today. Is he around?”

“No, I’m afraid he’s at work. You know what he’s like. Work, work, work.” Evelyn crossed her legs and picked at the sleeve of her dark tailored jacket. “He sends his apologies.”

“That’s too bad, he always was a passionate career man. Would you like Mary to sit in with us?”

Evelyn looked beyond the doctor, to the plaque on his desk that read Mr Michael Goldman, Consultant Oncologist. “Yes, I think I would like that very much.”

The door clicked quietly and Mary sat near the small window, where the blinds drew tiger stripes across her face.

“So how have you been getting along with the painkillers? Any side effects?”

“Only every single one you listed,” she joked. “I’m exhausted with being sick all the time. I’ve become an old woman Michael and I hate it. I hope that they’re doing some good. And that you’ve got some good news for me, because I can’t go on like this.”

She watched the doctor for clues. He removed his glasses, closed his brown eyes, and loosened his cheerful tie.

“Any pain?” he asked calmly.

“Yes. In my tummy, worse than ever. I think it’s started shooting into my legs now. And there’s still blood, just a few spots, but blood in the toilet after I’ve been. When I can go that is.” Eve nodded, and lightly brushed her hair from her cheek.

“We’ve known each other a long time Eve haven’t we. It’s unfortunate that Julian couldn’t join us.”

Eve became aware of a ticking clock, a table full of leaflets, and looked at the doctor like a girl to her father. “Yes, well, couldn’t be helped. So,” she continued, swirling an imagined rice grain between finger and thumb, “Ellie well? And the boys? All grown up now I suppose.”

“They are all fine Eve. Thomas starts at Bristol this year.” He paused to look at the beautiful lady, to delay the moment that he would alter her permanently. “Evelyn, I have the results from the tests I did when we last met. I’m so sorry that it has taken so long.” As he continued a tear rolled down Evelyn’s face. “Mary, have you got a tissue?”

“Of course doctor, here let me.”

Mary crouched next to Evelyn’s chair, where she remained, as Evelyn dabbed her eyes and held Mary’s hand.

“Evelyn, I am terribly sorry, but the tests have confirmed my diagnosis. I am afraid that you have cancer of the bowel. I am so sorry.”

His patient hesitated, then smiled bravely. “I know we spoke of it Michael, but tell me again, what does it mean? I don’t understand what you are saying to me.” 

Michael cleared his throat. “Eve, do you remember the sigmoidoscopy. The fancy word for the optical investigation? Don’t worry, we won’t be doing that again, but it has revealed a tumour in your large intestine. The long colon to be precise.”

“Oh, God in heaven Michael,” she whimpered. “Please, is there any, anything that can be done? For all that is good, tell me that. Tell me that there’s hope.”

“I will arrange a CT scan, or maybe ultrasound. We need to know how advanced it is. Whether it has spread into your lymph nodes. That will help me decide on the treatment. We can try surgery…”

Eve wept, gripping the nurse. “Just let me go home,  I can’t face the scalpel. I need to go. Now. Just leave me, I’ll be no trouble.”

“Now Eve listen, surgery can be effective. We can  remove the diseased colon. I’m afraid that we might need to perform a colostomy, but in some cases we can reconnect the colon, in time.” Mr Goldman looked away from Evelyn’s crushed eyes. “Aggressive radiotherapy, or chemo, can also help.”

“I’m not taking this in Michael. For a second I thought you said I’d be left with a bag. You need to tell me again. Again!”

“Of course. But please hear this. I need to progress this treatment urgently. When you next see me I want to see somebody with you. This cannot be faced on your own. Surely Julian can get some time off.”

“No, no, he can’t. Or won’t. I’m all alone. He won’t help. He doesn’t love me. Never did.”

“Come on Eve. What about a friend, or other family? What about Charmian, can she find some time?”

Evelyn Rutter watched teardrops explode and slowly said, “I don’t know, don’t know. I’ve been bad Michael. Cruel and nasty and bad. Charmian won’t help when she learns the truth, what I’ve done to her.”

“Eve, just think over what I have said. I promise that we will do all we can for you. With your determination then who knows.”

Mary reached for Evelyn as her face distorted, and the frail lady shook in her arms.

NOTE: Please click on MODERN TRIALS for further details of the novel from which this extract has been taken and further extracts.

Sweet baby Mary, Peter and Judus this toxic mountain air is turnin me inside out. I know it’s been a couple of weeks since I last reported in but I’ve been confrontin heavy personal issues with the goat herding old timers since Tiff twisted me out of shape. Even if there had been electricity in the hut I’ve been squattin in, I was in no condition to go providin you with updates after that nasty scene in T Bar.

I know Tiff Pennisbrith is a world quality rhythm master but he’s still a South African to the bottom of his balls to the tip of his snout. That bitch had renounced me for a third and final time before I bolted for the mountains. I loved him like a brother, but after what he said that night he is dead to me. The new album can go to hell because the band is finished.

I’m now sat in The Farinet at the Place Centrale in Verbier. The bastard sun is boilin my eyeballs as I try to process all this bad shit. My last clear memory was of chewin the cud with Tiff in T Bar, me in a cosmic mood on account of just bustin out of the slammer. Everything had been cool until Miss Verbier 2009 waddled in, tits and belly rings everywhere; and Tiff went “deep south”. My mind was sparkin in all the wrong directions. I was missin the Samoan, I’l admit it, and Tiff started bangin on my buttons like a vodka banshee.

I had him out on the terrace in a headlock (all 19 stones of pure fat bastard) when he crossed the rubicon. Yes, he brought up the Zermatt thing. Zermatt! God damn that sleazy ski site. We shouldn’t even have been there. I’d been nailin down some evil remixes when I got the call from some pimp I used to ride with. Hotel Simi, down Zermatt way, was deep in dogshit because their resident rock/house band (the great Andy Boller) had come down with some delirium so couldn’t do the gig. Andy is an old hero of mine from back in the day. I’ve followed his career on and off for years. Tracks like Skaffle, She has a Way With Her Eyes and Gimme Water are some of the most potent, stripped back piano driven power rock that has ever been created. I’ve seen pro wrestlers cry like goats when Boller gets his groove on: his vocals are a mashup of (early) Huey Lewis, Falco, that bloke from Cutting Crew and Otis Reading. Balls out rock! Simi needed an old fashioned tits-out rock combo to stand in. I love that haggard  pimp and told the him that I’d get our band over to do the show and save the day.

Tiff was a pain in the ass all the way there, but Ace was as chilled as any sexy minx has a right to be whilst drooling on acid. On arrival we smashed into a snow wall near a horse drawn cart and some devil said I looked like Che Guevara cos I drove a diesel van! Of course I kept my gun in quiet seclusion; I’m such a humble man. After hittin the vodka real hard we played the lobby bar from nine. Twisted crowd. Brits and Germans full of poison. Ace was beyond words from the opening bars of Snore Bitzz. Her eyes were in the back of her head as she generated sounds beyond the range of most humans whilst doin her multi-vocal thing. The crowd went wild. Some cops arrived, probably wantin to rape me and Ace. Tiff was tranced out workin his Moog. Before we blew the crowd away with a fifteen minute version of Just Snorin the police had warned of repercussions. They followed none too soon…

Whilst Ace was behind the bubble bar pukin her guts up some sick Brit bastard started tradin punches with a pock-chinned nazi. Then an unholy shit rained down  upon us all. In self defence I stubbed out my fag in some f******s ear and the fuzz came at me, twirlin their battons and shakin their pistols. I fell under the weight of their metal boots and Tiff’s bass got scratched and his Moog got smashed to hell. And he joined the cops in beatin me down.

Somehow I managed to escape them all. A trickle of strangers were all that were left alive. The mescaline had me seein flyin bats as I screamed and ran to smash my favourite slot machine and jumped the silent cars that slept at traffic lights. It took me ten days to hitch back to Verbier and even then Tiff still blamed me for the pigs wreckin his instruments!

Weeks later, whilst in T Bar, I’d wanted to get the band back together. I hit him with the Samoan’s monstrous plan, The Plan, our biggest opportunity to strike gold at the Etheral Festival in Rome. Did Tiff fall to his knees to pay homage to my brilliance? Oh, no, no, no, no, no! The despicable bastard went turbo despite everything I’d been through to drag the c**k s*****g Plan out of the Samoan. Here was Tiff “why don’t you stuff your Plan up your exit hole” Pennisbrith tellin me to stick it up my arse where mobiles and ipods had once dwelled. He had my balls in his hand and was squeezin hard. I’d have done anything to stop that ball squeezin agony, but it got worse. Through a heavy sweat I reminded him that I needed a ragtop for the trip to the Festival and that his uncle’s cousin (from Andelfingen) had a red 1971 Chevrolet Impala convertible. The perfect Red Shark! Tiff took a bad turn at the mention of his uncle’s cousin from Andelfingen. Using a mix of Afrikaans, French and gibberish he told me to f**k the f*****g band, that I was  a f**go*t, that I smelt like ripe f***y f**t and that he’d rather get bare backed by the Samoan than ride by my side to Rome.

I had been too upset to tell him that he’d be riding behind me in the van with Ace and the gear. He want for his knife and I made for the mountains. As usual.

And now, back in Verbier I still feel sick. Even ether doesn’t move me . Looks like it’s over before it’s even begun. Looks like I’ll be on the streets tonight, although I might go to the studio tomorrow to delete the master tapes of Magnolia Glock.

Das Moonbeam ist nicht Rocken…

I have just signed up to Twitter. Don’t ask me why. I’ve no idea how to work the thing, and don’t expect I’ll ever understand the point. As far as I can tell it is yet another way to spend endless hours communicating with nobody about nothing. And I mean hours. This is becoming an obsession. Forget work, I could easily devote all my waking moments to checking Myspace, Flickr, Digg, and blogg stats. Did you know that 45% of my hits speak Russian and that this blog is infested with crawlers, googlebots, spiders yahooslurp and other sinister, inhuman creations?

What am I doing? asks Twitter. Who cares. All I can tell you is that my head is killing me. The dehydration is taking me down; lips cracked, eyes bloodshot. Even my nose is out of shape. How do you get a response, give a response, follow conversations (to the extent that such things are possible with such a puny format)? I spent last night trying to communicate with fellow tweeters (who remind me of flamingos, following other flamingos on one leg, always copying the others) whilst simply producing a string of crappy one-sided texts. It amazes me really because all the celebrity stalkers, kiddie fiddlers, pensioners, single mums, premiership footballers, dog walkers, traffic wardens and zombies seem to have mastered the system. Boy oh boy, I really am losing it.

If there is anybody out there, if you can help, then don’t be shy. I’m here waiting to receive your wisdom.

Extracts from my novel MODERN TRIALS have now been added to this site. Please click on “MODERN TRIALS” for a short summary and the sub-pages to read the sample chapters.

I am very interested in receiving feedback so what are you waiting for? Get clicking and happy reading!

When somebody is convicted of a criminal offence to what extent should their personal circumstances influence their sentence? Should their state of depression, self pity, fear or the fact that they love their mum make a difference and, if so, to what extent will this lead to injustice and exploitation?

On 3rd March 2009 Jack Tweed was convicted of assaulting a taxi driver. He was sentenced to 12 weeks in prison, but is only expected to serve half of this term. Before considering this further it is worth analysing his criminal track record.

His recent criminal history begins on 4th January 2007 when Tweed admitted drink-driving. He had been breathalysed after arguing in the street with Jade Goody. Notwithstanding this, before being sentenced, Tweed was cleared to enter the Big Brother House, a decision presumably influenced by potential ratings. If Channel 4 wanted ratings then Tweed was their man.

Housemate Tweed joined Jade, Danielle Lloyd and Jo O’Meara amongst others. By 16th January 2007  the show had received the largest number of public complaints to the UK broadcasting watchdog Ofcom for a Big Brother series. The complaints involvled concerns that Shilpa Shetty had been subjected to racist bullying. In the heat of the public gaze Lloyd (who rose to fame for screwing old footballers and getting her tits out for Playboy) called Shilpa a “dog” and told her to “fuck off home…”

Not wanting to be left out, O’Meara (who now breeds dogs for a living) spotted a winning strategy and threw her pointed hat into the ring, adding to the abuse.

Jade was a veteran of BB nastiness and showed the young (and old) housemates how racist bullying should be done. Referring to Shilpa she observed “…how she goes in and out of other people’s arseholes…”  and explained that “she makes my skin crawl.” She continued with, “I don’t know her surname. Shilpa Pashwa fucking whoever you are, Shilpa Poppadom, I fucking…Ooooh.”

Then there was Tweed, perhaps hoping to win the sympathy vote before he was sentenced on 16th February 2007. He suggested that Shilpa removes faeces “from the toilet with her teeth.” It later transpired (when previously unseen footage was released) that whilst inside the house Tweed and Jade had written a limerick based around the word “paki” although, to be fair, they did disguise the derogatory racial term with the word “tacky.” He became upset when Jade later apologised to Shilpa, unable to contain his disappointment.

Once out of the house Tweed’s past was waiting for him. In December 2006 Tweed had attacked Daniel Steel (who was then a 16 year old boy) with a golf club in Ongar, Essex. Despite denying assault he was convicted and sentenced at Chelmsford Crown Court on 1st September 2008. The judge, Recorder Mark Lucraft QC, found that the attack had been planned and noted that the victim suffered injuries to his face, neck and chest. He stated that “It (the assault) was a frightening scene and a traumatic experience…you went, it seems to me, with one purpose-to attack and have a fight…hitting someone about the head with a weapon is an extremely dangerous thing to do.”

In reply Tweed had complained that “They (the police) had picked me out because they know me from magazines and the TV.” Clearly in a state of deluded self pity Tweed was sentenced to 18 months, of which he would serve 9 months in prison before being released on licence.

As housemate Tweed began his sentence he had time to reflect on an earlier assault, this time on a jobbing taxi driver in May 2008. After leaving an Essex nightclub Tweed had flown into a drunken rage when Stephen Wilkins insisted on collecting the fare in advance. Whilst travelling at 50mph Tweed grabbed Mr Wilkins round the throat and threatened to stab him. His message was not getting through, so Tweed grabbed the handbrake causing the car to spin and swerve across the road. Tweed was found guilty in March, but his sentencing was postponed so that he could be with Jade during her final days.

He was sentenced on 14th April 2009 to 12 weeks, reduced from 18 weeks, because of a “change in his personal circumstances.” The magistrate confirmed that he was likely to be released on licence after serving half of his sentence.

Whilst Tweed’s friends are worried about how he will cope in prison his victim had the following comments.

“It’s terrible. He should have got two years for what he did to me. He could have killed four people and all he gets is a few weeks. If he had been Joe Bloggs he would have got what he deserved. But because of who he is and who he married he got off lightly…I still have nightmares about that night. He has never apologised. He was like an animal…If a car had come round the corner when he grabbed the handbrake we could all be dead. It could have been a family in that car. Now my kids don’t want me to go to work in case it happens again. I’m not able to move on because it is always on my mind.”

Jade’s death at such an early age was certainly tragic. But was justice done? It is not only pious Daily Mail readers who regard Tweed as a thug, a bully, a badly educated Hooch swiling swine  who will play any game to chase the yankee dollar. Even readers of OK were shocked to see Tweed being treated to the full glossy photoshoot treatment; dozens of pages covered with Tweed in soft focus, his dead eyes staring beyond the camera lense. The ex convict even gave an interview and argued, all teary faced, that Jade never gave him anything. This statement did not sit well as this violent boy wore a Rolex in some photos, and a Cartier Tank in others.

Stephen Wilkins could be forgiven for feeling bitter, for regarding Tweed’s sentence as a sick joke. Of course the sickest joke (other than the price of the medicine) was the magistrate. The great unqualified tribunal, the foundation of England’s criminal justice system. Forget fusty old judges (of which there are many), it is the magistrates, the great dabblers, who are at the sharp end in cases like this, setting the tone, influencing the culture. And whilst we have weak magistrates who are influenced by OK magazine and Heat and the Scum the future looks grim.

I used to own a car that had an electronic limiter. I know, it’s crazy, but I’m afraid that’s the world we live in.  Obviously I had to do the decent thing and I chopped it in for a Porker. The only problem is that I still have a human limiter in the form of my wife so I have to take my chances when I can.

One such chance arose recently as I travelled south on the Birmingham Autobahn. The track was virtually empty and I knew it was time to stretch the Porsche’s legs. As I booted the throttle I had visions of cracking 180 mph. The car seemed to hunker down into the tarmac as a surge of power brought a brutal rumble from behind. The needle swooped beyond 140 when I noticed some brake lights in the distance. My fists tightened round the wheel as the consequences of a pinch crept into my mind. I thought about turning Sweet Child of Mine down but managed to turn it up instead. Then I spotted it.

Ahead in the gloom, squatting in some dirty shrubbery on the hard shoulder,  a toy town cop car was waiting to cause misery. I admit that I almost blacked out at that point. I was belting along at 150 and climbing. Somehow primal instincts took over and I stamped on the brakes. The ABS was deployed and felt like the TA was pumping a thousand BB guns into my sole.

As I careered past the fuzz, probably in the middle lane, I abandoned the pedals with no clue as to the speed. Then I was in the rear view mirror, convincing myself that they hadn’t seen me. Maybe the cops were surfing the web or checking texts. Even when the cop car started moving I was in such a powerful state of denial that I was sure that they were going home for tea, or had received a bogus call to kill some terrorists. The blue flashing lights didn’t phase me; they probably wanted to do some speeding of their own (albeit with a pseudo official cover) in which case I’d be back on the gas. But amazingly I’d misjudged the situation. They were out to get me.

They started flashing at me with a sign that said “PULL OVER YOU DAMNED SPEEDER!” I thought about the old trick of activating a misleading indicator signal and running for it, but by now my wife had woken up and she seemed even less impressed than the cops. My heart was pumping so hard that I couldn’t feel my hands as I decided to face them down and I came to a bitter halt as other cars screamed past.

WPC Hatchetnose was out of the Volvo (the type that is usually involved when cops run teenagers off the road to their death) and immediately checked my tax disc. I was half impressed that her priority was to check that the public purse was not being deprived. Of course it was all above board, but the civil servant had earned my respect, until she started tapping on my window. I knew the drill and turned off my engine and lowered the window. Any remaining shred of respect went the moment she asked “Is this your vehicle sir?” as though I had just hot wired a Royal Daimler.

The next thing I knew was some nasty banter before she made me join her colleague in the pursuit vehicle. She was a very serious minded creature, but I kept this view to myself. I wasn’t on top form. I had a few days growth, a headache and a fear of how fast they had clocked me. My wife was silent, staring ahead. I knew that if the speed gun had me over a ton then I was probably facing a night in the slammer.

Her colleague, PC Angrymale, was waiting for me in the Volvo. It was like being in an alien space craft. The cop car was decked out with video technology, twinkling lights and a stale smell of KFC. He kept the speed gun close to his chest as he asked me whether I knew why they had run me off the road. He might also have cautioned me and admitted that there had been other cars going fast (ie speeding) and that my being busted was just the luck of the draw. This babbling gave me time to plan my reply. I was quiet for almost a minute before stating decisively that I “wasn’t sure” why I’d been nabbed.

This inconclusive tactic confused both cops. I was probably cautioned again, after which Angryman turned the gun round and revealed the speed. It read 96 mph-oh joy! What did that mean, points, a fine, slapped wrists? All I knew was that I couldn’t opt to take the speed awareness course: I’d played that joker before, so what was it to be?

I think I was cautioned for a third or fourth time as he went on about court appearances before offering me 3 points if I agreed to take the punishment there and then. Other motorists zoomed past, no-one doing less than 120, but I decided against pointing this out. I decided to put this whole scene down to experience and I took the points.

Once I finally escaped from the cop car I set off, crawling down the motorway. I remembered the words of another speed cop who pulled me over one time in Wales. He was a decent man who explained that he had to bust me, but that in the future I should be more aware of where the cop cars were and that the real problem was the nutters who plod along motorways at 40. I had a lot of time to reflect this and on what had just happened because my wife seemed reluctant to engage me in conversation. I tried explaining that cyclists were the true road menace; at least I always stop at a red light or zebra crossing. But in the end I thought it best to keep my powder dry on that one for the time being.

I was late leaving the office today. For some reason I was half blind, muttering to myself, as I charged through Covent Garden barging into free paper dispensers, Australians, Poles, cops, tramps, taxis and cyclists (on pavements, going the wrong way down one way streets, crashing into pensioners etc). 

Whilst on the Tube I focused all my attention on Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, flipping the pages like a dope fiend, or something similar. Eventually as I neared my destination I noticed a chunky little fellow stood near the train door doing his best to impress a young lady. As she wasn’t giving him a blast of Mace in the eyeballs I assumed that she probably knew him.

Then the chunky seducer stretched his arms and gripped the bars designed to keep the travellers from smashing their heads open as they sweat on each other whilst dreaming about getting a seat. With said bars in his grip, and boasting about how far he could swim underwater, the little Hercules actually started doing chin-ups; right there on the crappy filth ridden train amidst the stench of discarded KFC and Burger King wrappers. 

In that moment I knew that he was in love because he continued pulling chin-ups long after the effort meant that he could no longer talk and even when fellow passengers had to carefully skirt him to get off at their stops.

The incident really cheered me up. I wanted to wish him luck, but unfortunately he had disappeared when I finally got round to it.

The trial ended horribly for the enemy. The reasons are somewhat technical, but involved an adverse Court of Appeal decision (well two actually) from an earlier (but related) action. The million quid they had expected from us (ie the client) was up in smoke and boy did that hurt.

We (for the purpose of this post “we” should be taken as inter-changeable with “I”, “us” or “the client”) knew that the enemy was beaten, but that didn’t stop us putting the enemy’s solicitor in the box for a final kicking last Friday. I know that will sound harsh to some, but believe me, he had it coming.

By Monday morning he had been sacked from the case and the enemy was on his knees; every single part of their case had been lost or abandoned. The day was spent hammering out the terms of settlement that were then scrutinised by a Judge on Tuesday. The precise terms remain confidential. However, I can tell you that, in the dying moments of defeat, we made the other side read a statement to the Court (that we had written) in a final act of humiliation.

Life is a mean business. On this occasion I sincerely believe that we achieved a just outcome. I acted for a defendant who had no choice but to respond to a claim for millions. Throughout the action we tried repeatedly to negotiate a settlement, but the other side were hell bent on dragging the client to trial.

The surprising thing is that almost as soon as it ended, even though the process had been exhausting, the whole thing seemed like a nasty dream. Back in the office my desk is already collapsing under the weight of similar disputes. One after the other after the other; and so it goes on. The weight of responsibility, the sheer pressure and high stakes is transforming me into something that I am currently unable to adequately describe.

Until next time, please be nice to each other…