Pete's Blog

Corporate Touts

2008-11-24T23:04:00.003Z

This is going to be another rant. Here goes...

I wanted to go to Chelsea v. West Ham this December with my Dad. We haven't been to game together for about 3 years, and that was a disappointing 2-2 draw at home to Blackburn. I checked the Chelsea site weeks ago and it said that tickets would go on sale on 1st December. I got the day off work so that I would be able to go to the game and put money aside to buy the tickets. Today I checked the Chelsea website and found that somehow all the tickets have sold out. The bastards must have moved the date forwards.

What really irritates me is that obviously not all of the tickets were bought by fans. A huge percentage are bought by touts and then sold on at sickening markups. Some are already on sale for £155, at least 66% of which is profit. Of course there will always be small-time ticket touts scraping an morally bankrupt living from the desperation of real fans, but now there are corporate ticket touts who have the audacity to invest the profit they extract from fans to advertise their disgraceful behaviour.

One such collection of leeches is OleOle.com. "Come support Drogba and the Chelsea squad as they taken on Man U and the rest of the EPL for the 2008-09 season"? Really? In addition to the industry-standard grammatical shortcomings, the content leaves a lot to be desired. Drogba is banned for three games and won't be playing, the game is against West Ham and not Manchester United, and who the fuck refers to the Premiership as the EPL? The listing continues, offering "accomodations" (yes, plural) at a three star hotel, along with the all important "Shortside" ticket. The Shortside? What does that even mean? Perhaps it has some relevance to Baseball or Golf. Finally, and unsurprisingly, they haven't even checked the date and time of the fixture. It's not 15:00 on Saturday 13th December, it's 16:00 on Sunday 14th. How this bumbling cowpat of an organisation managed to successfully negotiate the acquisition of these tickets in the first place is a mystery, and the fact that their ineptitude turns a profit is simply disgusting.

Why do we tolerate these companies? They contribute absolutely nothing. Every football fan knows when his team are playing and how to buy tickets, so there is no need for a middle man. Like Glastonbury, tickets for football should be non-transferable. Admittedly some people may buy a ticket with the genuine intention of going to the game and then find that they can't make it because their wife's gone into labour or their kidney transplant has been rescheduled. In that situation there's only one solution: If there's anything more important to you than going to the game, don't buy a ticket.

Another unsuccessful application.

2008-11-14T20:11:00.002Z

This is probably not going to be of interest to anyone, but for me it's cathartic so I'm going to vent my frustration anyway.

This evening I received a phone call to tell me that my latest pupillage application has been unsuccessful. I think that makes 15 unsuccessful interviews now, although I admit I lost count when it reached double figures. Needless to say I have made scores of other unsuccessful applications which haven't even warranted an interview. Most of them didn't even bother to respond despite the stamped self addressed envelopes on which they insisted.

Meanwhile the government in its infinite incompetence is now proposing to introduce the means test for legal aid into the Crown Court, essentially depriving the middle class of legal representation in serious criminal trials from early 2010. No doubt this is part of the short-sighted strategy to cut legal aid expenditure, achieved through dismantling arguably the best legal aid system in the world.

This misguided policy of slashing legal aid funding has lead us to our present absurd situation, where thousands of semi-qualified lawyers such as myself are unable to break into the profession, and thousands of potential clients go unrepresented. It is also worth noting that we thousands of semi-qualified lawyers owe several million in student debt, which quite simply won't be repaid if we don't get jobs.

Out of my fury emerges a solution, of sorts: I would happily work as a criminal defence advocate for minimum wage. I've worked 80 hour weeks for £5 an hour before just for the money, so if anyone would offer me a living wage for doing what I love I'd bite their hand off. Why isn't there a qualification available that allows me to represent clients in simple, low-level hearings in the magistrates' court, for £5 per hour? If the government really wants to reform the legal aid system then how about allowing the thousands of frustrated wanna-be lawyers represent the thousands of unrepresented criminal defendants for very low pay?

Just a thought.

Road Trip

2008-09-25T11:37:00.003Z

On Sunday we got back from our road trip round France, Belgium, Germany and Holland. The whole thing was unbelievably easy - we just got in the car and drove wherever we wanted. Tournai was the first stop, where we ate mussels and chips to mark our arrival on the continent. That night we stayed in Cologne in a brilliant guest house made of rickety wooden staircases and overshadowed by a huge church.

After Cologne we stopped off briefly to look at Konnigswinter, where they have a castle. Then came Dusseldorf, where we parked in the fish market and ate rich food in a huge beer hall where they brew their own beer. The next morning we pressed on to Amsterdam, stopping at Xanten on the way, a charming little village with a working windmill housing a bakery and coffee shop.

Amsterdam was perhaps the most difficult place to find accommodation for us and the car, but we eventually settled on a cheap hotel next to a building site, staffed by a Dutch version of the motel owner in Road Trip. The next two days were something of a blur. I clearly remember being told about Crazy Jack, the clock that is so called because it doesn't tell the right time, and eating a ham and cheese toasty. It seems the Dutch were once a bland an unimaginative people, but then they legalised drugs and prostitution and they haven't looked back.

On the way home we stopped off in Middleburg, a ghost town on one of the islands on the West coast of Holland. The only locals who remained could not believe we had chosen Middleburg as our holiday destination, and as we were leaving the hotel receptionist sarcastically called after us "See you next time!"

After that we stopped in Bruges for lunch and chocolates, then boarded the ferry back to England. Unfortunately, somewhere in the middle of all this, some bastard changed the Euro exchange rate and consequently shafted me out of about £100. Since I don't get paid until Tuesday, I'm off to cut down some trees in the hope of earning a few quid...

More Wine

2008-09-08T19:43:00.002Z

Two weeks later and wine is still looking good. Last week we went to a tasting evening at a bar in London. The bar gave us food, whilst some wine makers from New Zealand gave us some of their own wine and eight others to compare it to. I'm proud to say that I actually could taste differences between them, and when I expressed a preference for one of the reds (because it tasted like caramel) my hard work was rewarded with a whole bottle. It's much better than trying to learn Law.

It isn't all plain sailing though. The other day whilst negotiating a roundabout in leafiest Surrey I heard a crash from the back of the van . A few seconds later a strong smell of wine confirmed my suspicions. My inevitable first breakage had finally come to pass, but luckily it was only a £3 bottle and they can just have a extra one next time. Some of the stuff we deliver has been bought and sold before it was even made and if I break that it's irreplaceable. But if the stress gets to me, I've got plenty of paid holiday to take. In fact I'm only working 4 more days this month :-)

Entering the Wine Trade

2008-08-25T16:33:00.003Z

Unfortunately we still have no internet in the flat, which explains why I haven't written anything for a few weeks. Things have changed since my last post so I feel the need to explain. Most obviously, I have moved. Me and Tay are now living in a brilliant flat in Croydon, and the only thing lacking is an internet connection. Apart from that, it's perfect. We even have one of those spoons for serving spaghetti.

Regrettably the move required me to bow out of the ice cream business. My commute would have been over an hour each way. Fortunately the move coincided with a new job offer, and I entered the wine trade. The job itself is pretty straight forward, and having established that 'Côté a Ouvrir' is not a type of wine, I feel confident in describing myself as a Wine Merchant. Perversely, with wine paying the bills, I should be able to pursue law as a hobby in my spare time. Maybe I will be a rich 'lawyer' after all...

Selling Ice Cream

2008-07-31T15:48:00.005Z

Things are looking up since my depressing return to England: I've got a job selling ice cream. I work alone in a small metal and glass box which reaches 35°. My only companion is the ice cream machine, a surly individual which expresses itself only in numbers and often goes to sleep at inappropriate times. So long as the number is over 50, the ice cream will be stiff enough to stay on the cone. This creates a delay as the machine reluctantly climbs from the low thirties towards what is no know by the local children as The Magic Number.

The delay causes controversy. Some people have actually suggested that I wait on purpose in order to build up a queue and increase ice cream sales. It's ice cream. It's the summer. I'm surrounded by children. I don't need to artificially boost my turnover by delaying the production of each ice cream. In fact, my sole aim is to complete each transaction as quickly as possible so that I can go back to my book. So resisting the temptation to confirm that yes, I am holding up the queue on purpose as part of the Global Zionist Conspiracy, I politely inform people that I have to wait for the number to reach 50. This often provokes the mindless question, "Oh, is that the temperature?" Yes sir, that's correct. Once the ice cream has reached 50° it's half way to boiling and therefore ready to serve. Any colder than that and you wouldn't be able to eat it. Evidently the number represents some measure of pressure, but my inability to give a precise definition allows my customers to wander smugly away, suspecting that it is temperature and the ice cream salesman is a fool.

The other mind-numbing conversation I am forced to repeat each day concerns the price of the ice cream. £1.50 is considered outrageous by some people. One lady sarcastically requested "One of your '99s that isn't 99p." When was the last time you paid 99p for an ice cream? 1999? That was 9 years ago! And besides, nowhere on the ice cream kiosk does the number '99' appear. It just says 'ice cream, £1.50'. If you think that's too much to pay, just don't buy one. I didn't set the price, I'm not responsible for the recession, and it's not my fault if your four-year-old screams if he doesn't get what he wants.

All in all it's not a bad job. It actually is, in part, about the smiles on the children's faces. And unlike my last paid job it doesn't require me to ruin anybody's life. The only ethical dilemma it presents is whether the child who just dropped their ice cream on the floor can have another one, and I solved that one on the first day. Of course they can.

Back home

2008-07-10T17:49:00.004Z

Having returned to England, I'm beginning to notice the differences between here and New Orleans. Most obviously the weather has been awful so far, but apart from that the people I've had to deal with have been incredibly rude and unhelpful. Perhaps my impression is coloured by the fact that the job I thought I was starting next week no longer exists. It seems a combination of the recession and the Carter reforms to legal aid has made admin staff in criminal defence firms an unaffordable luxury, rendering me virtually unemployable in criminal law.

One difference I had been looking forward to since the Americans refused to accept my medical insurance, was the NHS. But when I saw a doctor yesterday it was a complete disappointment. I explained that my Chrons disease appears to be relapsing and she asked me what I usually do in that situation. I explained as politely as I could that I usually go to see a doctor, and they usually know what to do. She asked what the doctor usually does and I told her that they generally prescribe some kind of treatment to resolve the situation. She actually asked me which drug she should prescribe, and I gave her a name of something I was given 4 years ago in Liverpool because it was the only drug I could remember. Then she had to call the hospital to ask for advice, spectacularly misquoting everything I had just told her. After the call she prescribed me the drug I had named, and said that if it gets worse I should go to the hospital. I'm beginning to think I should have studied medicine...

The last few weeks...

2008-06-28T03:12:00.002Z

Tay flew over three thousand miles to come and see me and to ensure she wasn't disappointed we crammed in as much as possible, which didn't leave much time to write.

The first weekend, We went to a barbecue hosted by the American interns, where we learned to play beer-pong and flip-cup. We also saw Ladytron at the House of Blues, which was fantastic. When I return to England I will be campaigning for the introduction of air conditioning in night clubs.

The next weekend we spent some time at the Tomato, Zydeco and Seafood Festival, which was all rolled into one, and ate oysters and burgers.

Last weekend we went 'Tubing', and this merits more of a description. Having concluded that it lacks the competitive element of a sport, I feel it can only truly be described as a pastime, in which the time is passed whilst sitting in an inner tube from a lorry (or 'truck' as the locals would have it) and floating down a river. The experience is greatly enhanced by the happy coincidence that coolers also float, even if they are filled with beer and ice. Traditionally one of these is wedged through another inner tube to prevent it from rolling over, and everybody attaches their inner tubes to that one so that the beer can easily be passed around. The only threat to the tranquility of tubing is posed by fallen trees in the river. They can easily be avoided by the groups paddling in its cluster of inner tubes to the left or right. The direction is not important, but agreement is crucial.

The next day we took a tour of Honey Island swamp, where they have turtles, blue herons, flying fish and alligators. The harmless animals were merely observed from a distance, but the alligators were of course deliberately encouraged to approach the boat so that we could observe just how dangerous they are from inches away. Our guide cheerfully explained that they can fit their heads through the railings along the side of the boat, and suggested we keep our hands away from the sides.

Meanwhile I have been visiting Louisiana State Penitentiary, known simply as Angola. At 18000 acres it is almost as big as Manhattan, and from most areas, you can't even see the fence. Angola is home to more than 5000 inmates. Just over half of them are serving life sentences, without the possibility of parole, which means they will die there. Others are facing execution by lethal injection. Still more are serving sentences as long as 99 years for armed robbery. The prison is surrounded on three sides by the raging Mississippi river, and on the fourth by forests and hills. Nobody has ever escaped.

Still alive in New Orleans

2008-06-01T15:47:00.003Z

I'm not supposed to discuss work in detail, but what happened on Thursday was so intense that it's completely overshadowed the rest of the week. The trial we had been watching suddenly arrived at its brutal, sickening conclusion. If I'm honest with myself I have to admit that although the verdict is completely unjustifiable, it was inevitable. I suppose it was like watching Ricky Hatton get knocked out by Floyd Mayweather, only a thousand times worse. It's taken a few days to come to terms with.

Unfortunately it coincided with the week my Mum came to visit, but she came with a friend and they seem to have had a great time. Last weekend we all went out to see one of the old sugar plantations, which was pretty interesting. Apparently in Louisiana slavery was more a class issue than a race issue. Slaves and owners were a mix of races, and there were even Africans who owned white slaves.

On Friday we went to see the Rebirth Brass Band and Trombone Shorty, which was good fun. There's probably about 15 people in the band and they make a lot of noise. Last night we saw Shamar Allen playing the trumpet and singing in a bar on Frenchmen Street. He's adapted 'Crazy' by Gnarls Barkley for post-Katrina New Orleans:

I remember when,
I remember I remember when I lost my house,
There was something unpleasant about that day,
When I came back to New Orleans,
It was a big empty space.

It's amazing that people here are able to laugh about the hurricane that destroyed half their city. 'Katrina was here' is spray-painted on the walls and there are bumper stickers everywhere bearing the slogan 'New Orleans, proud to swim home'. I suppose the point is that life goes on, and on that note I'm going to get breakfast...

LA Confidential

2008-05-20T04:30:00.003Z

The last few weeks in Louisiana have been interesting, but unfortunately almost everything I'm doing can't be discussed over the internet so it will have to wait till I get home. Suffice to say it's been fun, but also tiring. Also these days I have a 'car' which is notoriously unreliable and requires the use of pliers in certain places, but last Wednesday it did get us safely home through a tornado. Anyway I'm far too tired to write any more...

Notes on a Small Island

2008-05-10T01:00:00.002Z

Since I last wrote, I've seen Carlos Santana play his guitar at Jazz Fest, and seen the Zephyrs play baseball at the local stadium. Whilst the latter were considerably less skillful than the former, hitting the ball as they did just four times between them in the space of three hours, they were still nowhere near as shocking as London's recent decision to elect Boris Johnson as mayor. I hear he's already banning alcohol on public transport. I hope you're happy with yourselves. I might just stay in New Orleans, where drinking in public is not merely permitted but compulsory. A man's drink is considered to be as inseparable a part of him as his own arm. Ken Livingstone, for all his failings, at least grasped that central truth. Unfortunately Channel Four seized on his fondness for whisky in their ridiculous smear campaign shortly before I left the country, which may well have cost him his position. That's no way to judge a leader: Winston Churchill and Theodore Roosevelt both enjoyed a drink, whilst Adolf Hitler was tee-total.
Meanwhile I see that Jaqui Smith is attempting to reclassify cannabis, and is actually encouraging police to harass teenagers.

The country has gone to the dogs.

Crawfish, Poker and Epi Lopez

2008-04-20T00:00:00.003Z

This week has been great. On Tuesday we went to a crawfish boil which is a Louisiana tradition. They get tons of crawfish which are like a cross between shrimp and tiny lobsters. Then they boil them alive, throw them on a big table and everyone crowds round to eat them. It's brilliant. The only slightly complicated bit is you can't eat the ones that haven't curled up, because those ones drowned instead of being boiled to death, and they can make you ill.

Then on Thursday we had a poker night at the house, which I was pretty far from winning although I wasn't the first one out. Tonight we're off to an exhibition by a guy called Epi Lopez. He's an artist who spent a long time in prison for smuggling drugs from Mexico, and does some pretty impressive drawings in biro. Apparently he started off by designing tattoos for the other inmates. Anyway it should be interesting...

World Oyster Eating Championship

2008-04-13T16:09:00.004Z

Yesterday we went along to the French Quarter Festival, which is amazing. There are loads of stages with bands playing which is all free, and the best local restaurants have stalls so you can try their food for a few dollars. However the highlight of the day had to be the world oyster eating competition sponsored by ACME Oyster House.

During the 8 minute time limit, a University student going by the name of Scozzy Bone, apparently new to the world of Major League Eating, managed to eat a respectable 20 dozen oysters, and a tiny Chinese girl forced down 31 dozen. Thankfully only one contestant suffered illegal 'urges contrary to swallowing'. The winner, Patrick "Deep Dish" Bertoletti, ate a phenomenal 38 dozen oysters in 8 minutes, despite having picked up an injury in the earlier oyster shucking contest. Crowd favourite Crazy Legs Conti, 'The Oyster King' who even has his own song, languished around third place, but was entertaining nonetheless.

We actually bumped into Patrick and Crazy Legs on Bourbon Street as they were trying to buy a kebab in the early hours of this morning. True professionals.

The batestamper, the bike and the streetcar

2008-04-08T02:46:00.002Z

Somehow I haven't found time to write on here for over a week. Since then I've found a house to live in, which is brilliant, and done a whole week at work. Work has been solely administrative stuff so far. On my first day I was introduced to 'the stupid bate-stamper'. The idea is it stamps consecutive numbers on things, but our one is retarded. Anyway between us we managed to stamp numbers on things until we got to 9999 and had to ask for help.

Aside from filing I've been doing some research, which has so far involved running people's phone bills through an alarmingly thorough database of personal information and working out who they've been talking to.

For a few days I was able to cycle to and from work on a rickety old bike whose handlebars aren't really connected to the front wheel, especially when it gets stuck in the streetcar tracks. But on Tuesday I got drenched in a storm cycling home from work, and the next day it got a puncture, so now I'm taking the equally old and rickety streetcar. Unfortunately since Katrina there are only 9 streetcars on our line, so they're completely unreliable.

Anyway I'm going to have to give up on this now because the dog who lives here is trying to lick my fingers whilst I'm typing.

Walmart, Po'Boys and Expungement Day

2008-03-30T02:34:00.001Z

Thursday was mostly taken up with walking to Walmart, which is about an hour away on foot through some pretty sketchy abandoned warehouses.

Since then I've been sampling the local food, and I can whole heartedly reccomend Froot Loops and Crawfish Po'Boys, but I had a Jambolaya for lunch today and it was shocking. Still, try anything twice...

Last night we went to Preservation Hall, which is apprently a world famous Jazz venue. Eventually we ended up on Bourbon Street, which is pretty similar to Leicester Square on a Saturday night except there are even more Americans, one of whom really hated the Irish for reasons that remain unclear.

Today we helped out at Expungement Day,where people come for help getting their criminal records expunged. The records include arrests that didn't even result in charges, so a lot of the time just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. They just sound bad and prevent you getting a job, but the courts charge $325 to get them expunged, which you don't have because you can't get a job. I don't want this to turn into a rant so I'll leave it there.

Arrival in New Orleans

2008-03-27T14:16:00.004Z

I've just woken up in New Orleans. For 3000 miles in every direction I only know Natasha, and she's gone to work. It's quite strange. Her flat, which I'm currently staying in, is pretty cool. There's a little courtyard thing with a fountain at the entrance and we're in the French Quarter, which is apparently where all the drinking happens.

The trip over here wasn't too bad. There was one terrifying moment at US Customs on arrival at Newark. I was asked how long I plan to stay and I told them I'll be leaving on 8th July. The guard's response was a blunt "I don't think so", as he stuffed my passport into a plastic bag. I asked what the problem was but he just bellowed for an 'escort' and as I was led away he said I'd need to apply for an extension to my visa. I had to sit in a separate room with everybody else who hadn't been allowed through and wait to be called. Luckily the next official wasn't quite such a dick. It turns out applying for an extension to your visa takes about five minutes. It is literally a rubber stamping exercise.

Released from the little room I jogged through the airport to collect my bags, go through security, recheck the bags with a man who alarmingly did not even ask where I was going, and then go through security again to catch my connecting flight. Luckily it had been delayed by even longer than I had, so I made it.

Surprisingly all my bags arrived, so I got a taxi to the flat and have mostly slept since I got here. Now it's time to go and explore...

Pupillage

2008-03-20T21:21:00.000Z

As I slowly recommenced the weary search for pupillage today, and began to worry that I may be in New Orleans when some chambers are conducting first round interviews, I stumbled on this.

There's a suitably venemous description of the latest disastrous sequence of reforms to the system and a few shocking figures, but most importantly a step-by-step guide to cross-qualifying and then crossing back again. Interesting...

A death threat against your humble narrator.

2008-03-14T04:23:00.001Z

A man in Manchester just threatened to cut my head off.

We had all gone out for a comparatively civilised meal, the last time I would see most of my fellow advocates before I leave for New Orleans. After dinner we went to the restaurant bar, until somebody suggested a strip club. Nobody objected too strenuously, so we ended up making our way to an especially seedy establishment just along the road. We just about had time to order a drink there before one of their 'table dancers' (the bouncer later chastised me for calling her a stripper) attacked Sarah. She pulled lumps out of her hair and seemed to be completely unprovoked.

As we stood on the pavement for over two hours waiting for a response from the police, the bouncers began to close up the club. When we still hadn't moved at about 3am they began to get a bit aggressive. My friends tried to explain that we were waiting for the police, but by this time I had lent my phone to someone else which he was using to find his own phone. I was therefore at pains to communicate to the increasingly threatening bouncers that I was merely awaiting the return of my phone. I assured them I would leave as soon as I got my phone back and that I had no interest in the police issue.

Somewhere around this point one of the bouncers threatened to 'bounce me around' because I had been 'talking down to him' As I tried to explain again that I only wanted my phone, he interrrupted to tell me that he would cut my head off, at which point he was dragged away by other bouncers.

As I was out with a bunch of lawyers, everyone was quite confident about a potential claim in respect ot Sarah's hair being pulled out. It was only when the threats of violence began and I realised that the law only works in retrospect. It only governs things that have already happened. Yes, if the bouncer had actually cut off my head it would have been highly illegal, but only after my head was cut off. The bouncer would have been a murderer, but only after I was dead. On reflection, young lawyers would do well to understand that the law is only relevant after the fact.

The Owner Men

2008-03-05T16:38:00.002Z

I've just started reading Grapes of Wrath. It's another one of those books I feel I ought to have read, and I'm enjoying it. Today Blackpool County Court was running late and whilst I waited for my hearings, I read chapter five. I couldn't help noticing that the 'owner men' sound a lot like the people who do my job:

"Some of the owner men were kind because they hated what they had to do, and some of them were angry because they hated to be cruel, and some of them were cold because they had long ago found that one could not be an owner unless one were cold. And all of them were caught in something larger than themselves. Some of them hated the mathematics that drove them, and some were afraid, and some worshipped the mathematics because it provided a refuge from thought and from feeling. If a bank or a finance company owned the land, the owner man said, The Bank—or the Company—needs—wants—insists—must have—as though the Bank or the Company were a monster, with thought and feeling, which had ensnared them. These last would take no responsibility for the banks or the companies because they were men and slaves, while the banks were machines and masters all at the same time. Some of the owner men were a little proud to be slaves to such cold and powerful masters."

Childishly Happy

2008-02-28T19:09:00.001Z

I've just realised my last post on here was quite gloomy. I'm much happier now so I thought I should update this, if only to confirm that I haven't jumped into the Mersey or deliberately slammed my car into an oncoming lorry on the M6 in the intervening months.

Recently I've been merrily indulging my inner child by taking it to Knowsley Safari Park and having a children's birthday party at the flat, both of which were brilliant. Also Tay got me a sunrise alarm clock, so I now wake up on time, without feeling sick. The happiness created by an artifical sunrise is even enough to outweigh the utter misery of my work and leave me comfortably numb for the whole day.

It wouldn't be so depressing if people didn't always insist on telling you why they've got into arrears. It's not even relevant. The only question is whether they can pay now, but they always feel the need to explain the position. One man today had lost three members of his immediate family within as many months. Each funeral had effectively cost him a mortgage instalment, so he fell into arrears and this morning he lost his house as well.

But anyway I'm not moaning about the job because over the next few weeks we've got Chibuku's birthday to look forward to, and then the Hacienda night at the Warehouse Project. Then I'm off to New Orleans!

S.A.D.

2008-01-31T20:16:00.000Z

January has been quite bleak, especially when I found out how expensive those sunrise alarm clocks are. I had a second round pupillage interview last weekend at 2 Dr Johnson's Buildings which I didn't get, and that's always frustrating. I'm still waiting to hear from the CPS after taking their assessment on Thursday last week, apparently they'll let me know by mid-February. Also my iPod suffered a fatal beer injury while I was away and replacing it has wiped out half of last week's wages.

Worst of all has to be my job. On Monday last week I was in Warrington Combined Court Center, which has a Crown Court in the same building as the County Court. That means there are barristers there for criminal hearings in the Crown Court hanging around in the same room as we lowly Solicitors' Agents carrying out our glorified filing and form-filling in the County Court. The result is that they have interesting conversations about their clients' lethal weapons and drugs whilst I try not to look too jealous, but sometimes it's impossible.

Last time I was there the following announcement was made in a drawling nasal monotone: "Would all parties in the case of Advanced Coated Products v. Spectrum Labels please go to Court One" to which one of the criminal barristers responded "Oooh, that sounds like a good one doesn't it?" to raucous laughter and thigh slapping. I sat there preparing my Charing Order Application, and had to admit myself that Advanced Coated Products v. Spectrum Labels was bound to be infinitely more interesting than my entire month's work.

Luckily all of this will soon be over as I'm off to New Orleans in seven weeks' time, and I can't wait...

The true meaning of Christmas

2007-12-23T10:58:00.001Z

It really upsets me that the true meaning of this time of year is all but lost. As the disgusting excesses of consumerism are played out across the country, it becomes clear that we have forgotten what it's all about. And I'm not talking about the birth of Christ.

People argue that this is a Christian country, and the statistics appear to support them, but what does that really mean? Just because most of the Country ticked the C of E box on the last census doesn't mean they actually believe in or even understand the religion. If anything it represents a mild interest in drinking coffee on a Sunday Morning. The overwhelming majority of 'Christians' will only go to church for Christmas, and that's completely pointless. If God really exists then he knows what you're trying to do, and if he's that easily fooled then he's not worth worshipping. In short most people are not truly Christian, but everybody celebrates this time of year. For most people, the celebration is about something else.

The real purpose of 25th December is for population of the Northern Hemisphere to attempt to cheer itself up in the middle of an otherwise relentlessly bleak winter. And for Australians to rub everybody else's noses in it by having a barbeque on the beach. For most of us it's got nothing to do with religion or shopping. It's about taking a few days off work, seeing your friends and family, and eating and drinking more than usual.

So to those of you who truly understand what it means, Merry Christmas!

Tinselworm

2007-12-03T18:40:00.001Z

Bill Bailey's Tinselworm on Friday night was brilliant. Predictably the Bush administration came in for a bit of a pasting, but Bailey's characteristic rambling took over. The hour that followed included a jazz version of God save the Queen, a conspiracy theory about cameras in ham, and an argument between five sides of Bill Bailey's psyche projected on an enormous screen above the stage.

Towards the end of the second half Bailey announced that the Wembley Arena crowd that night was the biggest he had ever performed for. By way of celebration he rode a motorised trouser press through the aisles, before inviting an indian band on stage. One of the band was playing an Afghani instrument whose name I forget, but which is essentially an even more complicated sitar. Bailey picked up an electric sitar, and the two of them played an incredible version Dueling Banjos. They then covered Radiohead's Creep, before Bailey played his own Love Song. He did seem to be indulging himself, living out some kind of rock star fantasy as he played guitar to a packed Wembley Arena, but I don't think anybody would have denied him the opportunity.

Number 1333

2007-11-19T20:37:00.001Z

I hadn't eaten all morning. they ushered me into a small wooden hut where a guard told me to remove my belt and searched me for contraband. I was then escorted into a building with hundreds of others like me, and given a number: 1333. Deprived of any communication with the outside world, we had no idea how long we would be kept there. Armed guards patrolled outside the building, and they had already taken all of our passports. People passed the time talking nervously, sleeping or just staring at the floor waiting for the ordeal to be over.

All males between the ages of 16 and 45 were required to provide a list of all the countries they had visited in the last ten years. There was no way to tell if the information was genuinely of use, or just a pointless form of mental torture. Given the shortage of pens and flat surfaces on which to complete the forms, it could just as well have been a covert test of our initiative, or an attempt to identify any leader of our number.

At around 4pm, they called for number 1333.

She spoke in a cold, detached manner. I was interrogated about an organisation of which I am a member, and about my political opinions. I answered as inoffensively as possible, hoping I was telling her what she wanted to hear. Her facial expression gave nothing away. She shuffled some papers and the questions continued for an age until finally, they stopped.

"Sir, I'm going to issue your Visa. Please take the blue form to the courier's desk. You are free to go."

Going to hell via New Orleans

2007-11-10T10:18:00.001Z

Whilst trying to have a mentally ill, elderly woman in a wheelchair evicted from her house, it occurred to me that I had reached a new low.

On a brighter note I did find out about the internship in the states this week. They're sending me to New Orleans! I'll be working at the Louisiana Capital Assistance Center from April to July. Hopefully that will balance out my karma, although according to muftisays.com I'm stuffed anyway.