Why I'm not missing my violets

I wrote a Valentine’s Day poem:

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Or are they? I mean I wouldn’t know because this year, like every year, no one sent me any
So fuck you

It’s been a big week for news this week. Scientists announced the successful observation of ripples in the fabric of space-time first predicted by Einstein a century ago. Western diplomats agreed to a cessation of hostilities in Syria. Jeremy Hunt changed the first letter of his surname by deed poll. But I think I can confidently say that if I had received a Valentine’s Day greeting of any kind, the major news outlets would have held their front pages for the story.

You might conclude from this opening that I am bitter about my singleness. (A bitter, ageing queen, surely not?) But I can honestly say I’m not. You might also conclude that the fact I’m spending my Valentine’s Day writing a blog about how I’m not bitter about my singleness is surely the purest example of methinksshedothprotesttoomuchification you’ve ever witnessed. To that I simply say I WILL KEEP SECOND GUESSING EVERY POSSIBLE COUNTER AGRGUMENT UNTIL YOU LEAVE ME ALONE.

Now, I spend a lot of my life being embarrassed. It comes with being a ridiculous person. Weekend mornings are particularly difficult. Typically I’ve done something middlingly to extremely embarrassing the night before, and usually I don’t really remember the ins and outs of whatever it was, just a general uneasy sense that I’ve demeaned myself in some way. But unlike most people who do embarrassing things, I’ll then usually set out to make it exponentially worse for myself by either telling anyone who’ll listen about it in slightly exaggerated detail, or Tweeting about it. Sometimes I’ll even write a blog post about it.

But even by my standards this blog post is going to be embarrassing. I mean I’m physically cringing even as I type. Ouch. But I have to write it because, like all of my opinions, it’s important the world knows I’m right about this. So here goes…

The fact is I’m afraid I’m just one of those awful people who basically fundamentally believes… I’m ok being single. I’m happy. I know, I hate me too.

The reason I think it’s important to say this, and I really do actually, is that, the more I think about it, the more I think that the war against happy-being-single-ness is all part of the Patriarchy’s Master Plan To Keep Us All Down.

You may think I’m being facetious. (A facetious ageing queen, surely not). But I’m really not. I promise. I mean let’s talk about Valentine’s Day. Valentine’s Day, to me, is like Jeremy Clarkson: it’s one of those things that, whenever I speak to any right-minded intelligent person about they’re like “I know: awful. Don’t get it. Why is it allowed? How is it still A Thing?” and yet, when I look around me, it’s still there. Everywhere. It’s on telly. People buy merchandise because of it. But OBViously it’s an abomination. I can only conclude that it continues to exist because it makes someone, somewhere loads of money.

But more sinister even than this is the government-sanctioned war of attrition against happy single people. Three ubiquitous words sum up this crusade against us: “hard working families”. If I had to sum up everything I am not about in three words (and I wasn’t allowed “postponing washing up”) these would probably be them.

Think about it. Happy single gay people are basically everything Tories hate: happiness, singleness, deviancy and being a human – all rolled into one. I am their nightmare.

Of course I wouldn’t know anything about any of this but I’ve heard that on average, happy single gay people are statistically more likely to have casual sex, take intoxicating substances, support progressive political movements, spend pink pounds on frivolous frippery, and generally misbehave. And when word gets out, standard straight people might start to get itchy. What could be more poisonous to the establishment? Obviously, in order to maintain the status quo, the privileged straight white male elite of this country need us to be sedated and stultified into forgetting to care about anything. That’s why the Tories let us have gay marriage of course. Normalise us. Silence us. Well. I will not be fooled. (I mean, obviously: no one will marry me).

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not against the idea of being in a relationship. Or even monogamy. Mainly because I know full well that in five years’ time I’m gonna have to increase my Grindr Age (can’t be “29” forever) and then how am I gonna have sex if I haven’t locked someone down already? But I just don’t think it’s a prerequisite to happiness. It can’t be. Because I’m tres happy, and I am SO SINGLE right now.

I will admit to occasionally thinking it would be nice to have someone to share things with. It is a burden having to eat a whole tub of Ben and Jerrys alone. But for every occasion I think it would be nice to have someone by my side (hashtag fuckingweddings) there’s at least one where I think “thank god I have the freedom to do this alone”. Masturbation can be really fun.

So, Patriarchy, I have a message for you: You can charge all the single supplements you like, deny us tax breaks, ban poppers, advertise Valentine’s Day, inflate the house price bubble so no one can afford to live alone, recommisson Take Me Out, allow Neil Patrick Harris to get married… but I will continue to defy you by being happy and having more fun than you. Yeah, that’s right Cameron: I’m still having fun. So there. *Sticking out tongue emoji*.

Still, would it kill you to send me some fucking violets every once in a while?

Why I just ate meat for the first time in 15 years (and why I'm still a vegetarian)

This month, because I'm a Good Person and wish to help humanity and the furtherance of medical research (and not at all for the money I'm being paid to do it) I've been taking part in a medical trial. Because everything has to be controlled we all have to eat the same meals - and we have to finish everything on our plates, even if it's so gross and overcooked it makes you want to cry and mash your face into a wall (it is all so gross and overcooked it makes you want to cry and mash your face into a wall). And they don't cater to vegetarians. As a result, I have just had my first non-vegetarian meal in 15 years. (Yes, everyone who's ever asked me if I'd eat meat if you paid me, yes I would - all my principles can be sold for the right price). And this was it:

I know, right? It's making you want to cry and mash your face into a wall. Trust me, it tasted every bit as bland as it looks. It was blander than Rachel Rice, winner of Big Brother series 9.

So, to compensate for my compromise of principles I've decided to use my latest blog post to do something I very rarely do, and get preachy about being veggie. Believe it or not, despite the content of this blog, I don't usually like to proselytise about my principles. You are all entitled to be wrong. And god knows you usually are. But you had a choice about whether to read this and for some reason, despite the existence of an entire internet full of porn, you've chosen this. So suck it up.

Probably the question I get asked most frequently in life, at least after "can I see some ID please?" and "so are you a good person to have on a pub quiz team then?" is "why are you vegetarian?" I've given many answers to this question over the years (though my most frequent is probably "because I hate animals"). However, what I have discovered over the 15 years I've been answering this question is that about 90% of the people who ask it are not remotely interested in hearing the answer. Instead, they are looking for a springboard to tell me why I am wrong. I know what you're thinking: I spend my entire blogging life talking about why people are wrong about things. But with this one (well actually with all things) in actual fact I am right and you are all wrong.

And here's why, in 11 simple words: it's mean to eat things that don't want to be eaten*!

Over recent years it's become increasingly fashionable to be vegetarian, even, to a point, vegan (though obviously vegans are still considered, by and large, mentally imbalanced pallid commie fruitcakes who probably can't even eat fruitcake). These days the arguments for vegetarianism tend to focus on the environmental impact: the relative efficiency of farming land for crops over animals, the methane output of cattle, the reduced carbon footprint of not shipping burger meat from South America. There are so many sophisticated arguments for going veggie that is has become a bit gauche to simply say "I don't want to kill animals unnecessarily". But, truth be told, that was the primary reason that, as a deeply uncool fifteen-year-old, I decided to try giving up meat for Lent to see if I could do it longer term. And why I’m still doing it as a deeply uncool 30-year-old.

The thing is, until the day when meat can be grown in a lab, animals have to die to make meat. (Yeeeeees, I would, and yeeeees, I would eat a burger if you said you would kill a cow if I didn't, and yeeeees, I would eat meat if I was stuck on a desert island with only meat trees). To produce the vast majority of it they have to live short, unpleasant lives in conditions you wouldn't wish on Jeremy Clarkson. And then they have to die like this: (please do watch that video, because if you can't stomach it you shouldn't be...well...stomaching it). Call me soft, but I don't really like the thought of animals suffering and dying to make my mealtimes slightly more pleasurable. It's really as simple as that.

Some people aren't so bothered - or are more bothered about other things. That's fair enough; we all draw our moral lines fairly arbitrarily. If any of us wanted to be truly altruistic in life we would spend our entire free time fighting global injustices and planning an elaborate assassination attempt on George Osborne, but we don't; we sit in our Primark underpants watching Grand Designs and reading Buzzfeed lists about 27 Things Only British People Will Understand on an iPad made by a 7-year-old Nepalese orphan.

If you find the thought of giving up meat utterly unbearable don't bother. There are other things you can do to help make the world a better place. Or you could maybe think about cutting down a bit. Do veggie Mondays. Do veggie weekdays. But whatever you do, please don't sidle up to me at a dinner party and ask casually "so, why are you vegetarian?" with a view to telling me why you aren't, and why I haven't really thought it through (I have thought it through: endelessly. Every time I smell a bacon sandwich I think it through). And please, god, don't give me the "it's not natural" argument.**

You aren't vegetarian, basically, because you like eating meat. You like the fact that it tastes delicious. And it does, I won't deny it. But so, my friends, does smug moral superiority. Oh yeeeeaaah. Come, join me on my high horse (you won't find him in your Findus lasagna). Have a carrot with me. Hell, have a veggie Percy Pig, it's the 21st Century. At least you know David Cameron hasn't had his cock in this one. And now, if you'll excuse me, I've got some overcooked chicken skewers to eat.

* Except fish. Fish are ugly. 

** (For an excellently written account of why "it's not natural" is a nonsense argument for anything ever please read my blog on the matter)

Why I'm never going across Hackney Downs at night again

Last night I had one of the most terrifying experiences of my adult life. Yes, I have had a pretty sheltered existence but whevs, it was pretty friggin' scary and you're sat in a comfy office reading a blog you found on your Facebook newsfeed so let's not get judgey now.

I was cycling through Hackney Downs park at about 10pm when four young men (alright, MAYBE they were teenagers - I reiterate, don't get judgey) jumped out and blocked the path. I tried to swerve round them but they'd positioned themselves so I was forced to cycle into a wooden exercise bar on the opposite side of the path. I fell off my bike and, immediately sensing that they probably weren't just after a 35 year-old Jetstream with rainbow stripes, began to run. They began chasing me. When they realised they weren't going to catch me they stopped pursuing. I stopped, looked over my shoulder and they eventually began shouting after me to come back. They said they were "only messin" and that I could have my bike back. I know it sounds idiotic but I didn't want to just abandon my bike (or my faith in humanity). I cycle every day and I've spent about £500 on that shitheap over the years (despite - or perhaps because of - an initial purchase price of £60. Plus it has RAINBOW STRIPES, PEOPLE). I figured I'm fast and I could outrun them again if necessary. So I went back.

As I got closer one of them began pushing the bike towards me, like a peace offering. A Trojan horse, I suppose. But just as I got close to him two of the others cut across him. They turned to face me. There was a moment of horrible silence as they sized me up and then they began chasing me again. This time I had less of a lead on them and one of them was very fast. At one point I could feel him behind me, so close I was convinced he could have swiped me with the weapon he was doubtless carrying. I remember thinking "run like your life depends on it". And let's face it, it may have done.

Eventually I got clear enough to slow down and I heard the gang calling back the one who'd been closest to me. I walked to the edge of the park and dialled 999. I was told the police would be with me within 15 minutes. I waited outside a busy pub and cried like a baby.

Perhaps it goes without saying but the whole experience was absolutely fucking terrifying. I pride myself on trying to regularly do things that scare me: I do adventure sports, I go rock climbing, I frequently see Rhiannon first thing in the morning... but nothing can quite prepare you for the abject animal fear of being chased by a hostile human being who may actually kill you.

I waited for my 15 minutes but the police didn't arrive. I got a call telling me they'd be with me shortly but they were currently dealing with some suspects who matched the description I'd given. I waited another 15 minutes and, just as I was mentally cursing Cameron and his cuts, got another call to say they'd rounded up four suspects with my bike.

 [Before you think I'm going to let this opportunity to make a political point slide by, I will add that in the end I waited alone, in the cold, in shock, for 75 minutes for the police to arrive, during which time I watched four police vehicles drive past me, and in one of the five confused phone calls they made to me (thus necessitating me to make myself more of a mugging target) was asked if I could walk over to Stoke Newington Police station - a destination whose most efficient route would have taken me straight back across the park in which I'd just been mugged. When I gently mentioned this to the officer who took my statement there she was horrified and assured me that this was very much against protocol, but that they were stretched and it would never have happened before the cuts, when they had 60 officers a night on patrol - a figure now cut back to 24.] 

Still, ten out of ten for catching the thieves. (God knows how they did it - and no one at Stoke Newington Police Station seems to). And yes, the Jetstream and I are reunited to enjoy many more punctures and detached chains together. Needless to say it could all have been a helluvalot worse. The suspects are known to the police and had recently mugged, amongst others, a woman who was seven and a half months pregnant. I, luckily, am young (shut up, Leo) and fast. As the police officer put it, rather problematically, "maybe this will teach them to pick their victims more carefully in future". I nearly pointed out that I didn't think this was exactly the moral I wished to be taken from my experience but it was 1am and she was from Essex.

And they have been caught. Red handed. And will be appearing in court soon. Surely, this time, the justice system cannot fail me as spectacularly as it did the last time I appeared in court. Naturally, whatever happens, you can rely on one thing: I will be blogging the fuck out of it.

Why I'm excited

Sorry to start on an uncharacteristically earnest note but I just need to say that for the first time in my life I'm genuinely excited about British politics.

Earlier today Jeremy Corbyn pulled down his metaphorical trousers and did a big fat metaphorical turd all over the Daily Mail readers of Britain’s metaphorical heads. And I for one can't wait to watch them trying to metaphorically wipe it off for the next five years.

For weeks now those on the political right have been doing their best to squeeze out their own metaphorical shite on Corbyn, from making him seem like some stark raving commie to trying to paint him as an anti-semite to - in their most desperate moments - drawing attention to the fact that he's a bit old (yeah, cos we all know that old adage about how wisdom comes with youth).

And what they've effectively done in squeezing so hard is give themselves political hemorrhoids. Or constipation. Or something. Look I'm trying my best with this overextended metaphor, let's not get bogged down *HILARIOUS PUN HORN* in the details. Because we know now that Corbyn is basically unimpeachable (give or take a few unfortunate stances on Hezbollah etc. - look, no one's perfect). And those who've tried everything to smear Corbyn and stymie his campaign have inadvertently put him on a pedestal. And what a pedestal. It's a pedestal from which he *could* (and watching him deliver his victory speech today I really began to believe he could) become our next Prime Minister. And then think of the shit he could do.

But what's more, he's now riding the crest of an incredible wave. Anyone who watched the announcement of the leadership results will have seen there was something in the air in that conference room. And it wasn't the smell of metaphorical poo. It was excitement. And optimism. And hope. And that's something the badger-fucking Tories can never take away. They might be able to take benefits from disabled people; they might be able to take away climate change subsidies; they might be able to take funding from the National Health Service. But they can't take away our right to give a shit about each other. (Not a metaphor this time). They can't take away compassion. They can't take away our Great British sense of decency, and doing what's right for other people.

And for the first time in my life there’s someone up there who genuinely looks like an alternative. He may look like the Professor from the Chronicles of Narnia too, and he may not be electable for some people, but after five years of the Tories, neither will whichever feckless scrotum is in charge of them. Christ, it might even be Boris Wiff Waff Johnson. And at least Corbyn is real and passionate, and not a dead-behind-the-eyes automaton made of foie gras and wind stolen from a wind farm who drinks the blood of working class Syrian children, who were sold to him by their parents for working tax credits, which won’t count any more cos he just hoards them in HIS SPARE BEDROOM, WHICH HE DOESN’T PAY TAX ON. Sorry, I got carried away, that was unnecessary.

The next five years will be bleak for many. But for every person who is forced in desperation to go to a food bank, there will be food bank volunteers seeing their shame and degradation. For every refugee killed trying to walk through the Channel Tunnel there will be staff who have to clear away their bodies and take them to their grieving relatives. For every person unemployed because of ideological austerity measures there will be Job Centre staff wearied by the impossibility of their situation.

And some of those people will get to the ballot box in five years, and this time they will say, "you know what, it's true: David Cameron IS a smug twat and his face does look a bit like a gammon". And they will be able to look those exit pollsters in the eye this time and say "no I didn't vote for more of the same, I voted for change". And they will buy themselves a Kinder Egg. And they will get a great toy because Karma.

Yeeeeeeaaaaaah.

See, I'm excited. And so is the Labour party. And that is exciting. Because excitement helps you achieve things. Extraordinary things. Just look what I've achieved through excitement: a blog post that's full of shit. And I’m really hungover today. Like, actually dying.

Now join me, comrades! In a future built on excitement. And hope. And optimism. And together. We can. And we will. FUCK THE TORIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEES!!!!!

Why I'm the new Chris Pratt

So I've just got back from watching Jurassic World (one word: ermagherd) and while my adrenaline was still sky high after emerging from the frankly terrifying film (someone must have given the head of the British Board of Film Classification some serious sexual favours to get a 12a certificate on that film cos I'm REALLY old and I came THIS close to actually defecating in my pants) the most amazing thing happened.

Set the scene... I arrived at my seat before the film preposterously excited for a man of my very advanced age, and sat down with all the finesse of an actual geriatric (I have a bad back, ok, I can't help it that I make sex noises when I sit down) only to quickly discover that the seat was soaking wet. I'm 90% sure that despite my advancing years I hadn't wet myself with excitement and it was just a fizzy drink spilled by my predeseater (yes, autocorrect, it's called a coinage - Shakespeare did it all the time, deal with it).

Anyway, naturally I'd arrived early so I went straight to the steward to ask if there was anything she could do for me. She very politely began answering me but as she was explaining that she couldn't leave her post but... a woman approached her and, literally mid-sentence, interjected in one of the most ludicrous customer enquiries I have ever witnessed, to ask why she'd been given children's 3D glasses instead of adult ones. Yes, really.

The steward, slightly perplexed by this show of egocentrism, explained that she was sorry but it had been very busy and she could probably find her some more glasses. Instead of taking this perfectly reasonable response and waiting politely for her to do so the customer loudly exhaled and began an utterly unprovoked invective about how appalling it was that she had to put up with this kind of service and questioning how the steward could have given her the wrong specs - wasn't it her job to give out the right specs? At this point I think it's important that we all remember that PEOPLE ARE DYING IN AFRICA.

The steward, naturally a little taken aback by the staggeringly unnecessary rudeness of this woman, repeated that she would be happy to find some bigger glasses for her if she would just give her a moment to deal with my issue. I was so outraged on the steward's behalf that I added, by way of support, and because I thought she surely couldn't have noticed, "she was actually dealing with me before you arrived". The woman, perhaps having a momentary realisation of how ridiculous she was being, grimaced and gave the steward permission to go ahead and finish serving me. "Sorry, would it be easier if I went downstairs and spoke to someone down there?" I asked. The steward smiled gratefully, and said "yes, if you don't mind. Thank you for being so polite" - a perfectly fair bit of passive aggression, given the circumstances I felt. "No problem," I said and began to try to get past The Rudest Woman in the World and her entourage.

At this point, I kid you not, one of her group - a larger male - quite deliberately, and very much in the manner of a rugby jock in key stage three of his education, ACTUALLY SHOULDER BARGED ME and walked in. I was so stunned I didn't have chance to react at all, but simply stood there like a Jurassic World security head who's just learned there's been a containment anomaly in Sector 9.

I went downstairs, got offered another seat but turned it down in favour of a plastic bag. I nearly said, "I'm from Yorkshire, babes" but wasn't sure the Hackney Picturehouse was ready for that level of hilarious sass right now.

As an amusing aside, when I got back to my seat in what must have been a 300-seat auditorium, guess who was sat right next to us? I mean really, what are the chances? (Possibly slightly higher than the chances that *SPOILER ALERT* the Head of Operations's nephews happened to be in the one gyrosphere that got caught up in the Igdominus Rex's hunting ground, but this is real life and, good as this story is, it's not being directed by Colon Trevorrow. Yet.)

Aaaaanyway, when I finally emerged from the film I decided to go and try my luck for a free ticket in compensation for my bum-soaking incident. The manager on duty was exceedingly friendly and surprisingly quick to agree to the request, even offering me compensation for any "damages" I might have incurred. Tempted as I was to claim that my shirt and trousers were hand-stitched by Vivienne Westwood and Alexander McQueen's love child I'd chosen today of all days to wear all-black (I mean when was the last time you saw me wearing less than 12 colours in one outfit) so I 'fessed up that there was no possible damage and thanked her for being so understanding.

"That's ok," she said, "thank you for being so lovely about it... and by the way, I think you might be a bit of a hero. Are you the guy who stood up for my colleague against the really rude customer?"
"Oh," I said, fanning myself with false modesty "it was nothing, she was being VERY rude". But in my head of course, I was all like "That's me: Samuel Jones. Hero. Righting injustices since 1985. You can just call me Chris Pratt".

Obviously this post is mainly a vehicle for me to boast about this accolade. (HERO, bitchez: read it and weep.) But I'd also like to say that the fantastically polite staff and exemplary customer services serve to me as proof, as if it were ever needed, that independent cinemas (even ones that have admittedly recently been taken over by other evil corporations) are, like a gazillion times better than a faceless Vue or Odeon. I mean when was the last time anyone in the Odeon called you a hero? Did I mention that she called me a hero? Yeah, she called me a hero.

I'm not gonna lie, when she said that word I did very nearly actually kiss her. But this post still isn't being directed by Colin Treverrow, and  *SPOILER ALERT* for that kind of cheesy ending you'll have to go and watch Jurassic World.

Why I've lost a little bit of faith in the British Justice System

Yesterday I discovered the outcome of the court case against my mugger, in which I was called to give evidence on Tuesday. The result came in a WhatsApp message from Rhiannon. Neither the message nor the medium came as much of a surprise. Notwithstanding the fact that I get about 600 WhatsApp messages a day from Rhiannon anyway, I had given up hope of hearing anything through the official channels. My experience of the Justice system this week has been – to put it generously – shambolic. Still, at least it’s all good blog fodder…

For those of you who don’t know the original story, I was mugged back in September after a night out in East London. I wasn’t hurt, and the mugger only took Rhiannon’s stuff so it was basically a victimless crime. But nevertheless, it was all a bit scary. It was a classic hugger-mugger scenario: one guy started chatting to me and them randomly embraced me while the other dipped his hand into my bag (Rhiannon’s bag) and took the purse. The only way they put a foot wrong was that I caught him doing it. And, being incredibly brave, I naturally pursued him quite forcefully until he retreated into a nearby estate and a gang of his mates emerged, telling me in no uncertain terms to leave it. At that point I decided to let it go – I mean it was only Rhiannon’s stuff and I have a very pretty face.

We called the police and they were there in minutes. And then the mugger re-emerged, now urging police to search him. Astoundingly the purse was no longer about his person(!) Luckily he was known to the police and so, rather than let him go, they just kept antagonising him until, inevitably, he lost his temper, and they arrested him. I gave a statement, and later that week was told he’d been charged and I would be required in court in February.

At the time I asked if I would be allowed to be behind a screen to give my evidence. I didn’t much fancy bumping into him again on Old Street after the trial. I was told an application would be made. Two weeks ago I had a text message summoning me to court and saying that special provisions had been made for me to be behind a screen. This was all very efficient, I thought. How wrong I was…

 I arrived at the court slightly nervous about the prospect of bumping into the defendant or some of his friends or family. The entrance area to the court is a large open-plan foyer with rows of benches where people were waiting to go into court. A woman from Victim Services approached me with a clipboard and bellowed across the room.

"HELLO CAN I TAKE YOUR NAME PLEASE?"

"Samuel Jones" I whispered, trying not to make eye contact with the waiting people. "SAMUEL JONES" she echoed with all the subtlety of a sonic boom "AND WHO ARE YOU HERE TO GIVE EVIDENCE AGAINST?"

I whispered his name.

"SORRY," she bellowed, "I CAN'T SEE THAT NAME HERE. WHAT WAS IT AGAIN?"

I repeated it, quieter this time to make a point. My point was evidently lost on her.

"OHHH YES, CRIMMY MCMUGGERSON*. OK, FOLLOW ME PLEASE."

I followed her through to a room which looked like it had last been decorated in 1962 and sat down. A security door closed behind us and I began to relax. Then she turned to leave me.

"So I just...wait here...do I?" I asked.

Yes, she told me; at some point the prosecution lawyer would arrive with my witness statement and give me a briefing. I soon began to witness the briefings of the other people waiting with me; they were held quite openly – using full names and details of the respective cases – in this room (despite there being a private interview room next door).

I waited in total for two and a half hours, and finally the prosecution lawyer arrived. She was a small, yellow-toothed woman with straggled bronze hair and a slightly bemused expression. She introduced herself and began my long-awaited briefing...

"So, you're Samuel, thanks very much for coming in today because you know without people like you, you know we couldn't get the bastards, now, here's your witness statement, have a read and make sure you're familiar with it all, you can take it into the court but it doesn't look good if you have to read it in the dock so try and familiarise yourself with the details of the...err...the...what was it...a theft isn't it?"

She scanned the page herself.

"Yes, that's right," I assured her, trying not to frown visibly, "I'll have a look over it.”

"Great, now when you get into court I'm going to ask you some questions so you can give your version of the story, then the defence lawyer will ask you some more questions trying to make it sound like you're lying, just stay calm and say what it says here, then the magistrates might ask you some questions, ok?"

"Erm...yeah...ok."

"Great, I'll see you in there, someone will come and get you."

That was my briefing.

Shortly afterwards a court usher arrived to take me down to the court. She led me in but the magistrates clearly weren't ready for us so they shooed us out before I'd quite got through the door. Which was rather a blessing because, I’d noticed, there was no screen in the court.

"I didn't see a screen," I said tentatively.

"Oh did you want a screen?" she asked dumbfounded.

"Well yes, I put in an application. I was told it had been granted."

"Oh well I didn't know about that. I'll have to ask them about that."

"Ok, if you could."

She left me waiting in the foyer - back where I'd started, anxious that I might be surrounded by the defendant's friends and family. A minute later she emerged with the prosecution lawyer.

"What's this about a screen?" she demanded of me.

"Well I asked if I could have a screen. I was told the application had been granted - I can show you the..."

"Well I didn't know anything about this. First I've heard."

"Right. Well I did ask..."

"Well it's too late now, you have to make an application in advance."

"Right, yes, well I did that and it has actually been granted," I murmur again, trying to remain patient.

"Well we didn’t know, I mean I can ask them but they'll probably say no because it's not a case of violence or whatnot and then the case will be thrown out, I mean is that what you want?"

"Erm...no...but..."

At this point the usher steps in again.

"Oh just a little screen. I can put up a screen in no time. Let him have a screen."

"Well the thing is there's a procedure, he has to apply..."

"I've got a screen through here - it's not being used..."

"But we have to make an application. It's out of time now..."

"Well yes I did actually make..."

"Oh tell them I'll bring the screen, it's only..."

"Ok, well we'll see but it's too late now really..."

"Right but I mean I did..."

"We'll see..."

She disappears back into the court room.

Two minutes later she emerges with the defence lawyer.

"You are a policeman right?" she demands.

I look over my shoulder. She’s definitely talking to me. Just to clarify, this is the prosecution lawyer. My lawyer, essentially. The woman appointed by the Crown to put my case - that I was the victim of a mugging.

"No I'm not"

"You're not a policeman?"

"No"

"Well it says here you're a policeman"

"I thought he was a policeman," the defence lawyer chips in. "It says here on your statement."

She points to the top of my statement, which does indeed have 'Police Officer 269757' written next to the word 'Occupation'.

"Right," I say, "well I think that's an administrative error."

"So you're not a policeman?" the defence lawyer clarifies.

"No," I reassert, "I'm not a policeman. I'm The Victim". I try to give the word some gravitas.

"Well I thought he was a policeman." says the defence lawyer.

"I thought he was a policeman," the prosecution lawyer echoes.

"Well I'm definitely not a policeman." I say, definitively.

"Well what are you?" the prosecution lawyer asks.

"I'm a researcher," I say.

At this point the court usher decides to pipe up.

"He's a journalist," she says, "doing a story about the court system".

It strikes me that now isn't really the time for jokes.

"No I'm not!" I say, probably slightly too emphatically, because they both seem to be taking her seriously. "I work in television. I'm a researcher but…like…for quiz shows, I'm not a journalist."

"Well I thought you were a policeman," the prosecution lawyer reminds me.

Unsure what else to say on the matter, I change the subject.

"What's happening about the screen issue?" I venture to ask.

"Well I don't know," the prosecution lawyer says, clearly exasperated, "I mean you're supposed to apply in advance..."

"Yes, well the thing is, I mean, I did..." but she's already heading back into court. The defence lawyer follows muttering something about thinking I was a police officer. The court usher follows her. I'm left alone again. We've attracted quite a few stares from the other people in the foyer. My attempts to keep a low profile seem somewhat thwarted.

A couple of minutes later the court usher emerges again.

"Right they're ready for you now."

"In court? To give evidence?"

Two minutes ago both the barristers thought I was a policeman. This is so not Ally McBeal.

"Yes," she says, cheerily. "Don't worry about your barrister, she's just like that. She's a bit of a drinker." I glance at her to see if this is another one of her hilarious jokes. It isn't. "She's probably been on the bottle," she adds, rolling her eyes.

"Good." I accidentally say out loud.

"Ok, in you go..."

And there I am, walking into the witness box, which IS behind a screen, though I notice that it has a fairly substantial hole in it, and I'm in front of a highly reflective pane of glass. And there's the defendant, staring back at me in the reflection, his expression saying "I can't believe you asked for a screen... you big wuss".

The actual court proceedings were relatively unremarkable. I was asked a few slightly unhelpful questions by the prosecution lawyer:

"But it was plain daylight?"

"Well no actually, it was 5AM."

"But your friends were right there – they saw it too?"

"Well they were about twenty yards ahead."

I can’t help but think our case might have been stronger if she’d at least read my statement, which outlines all of this. But considering five minutes ago she thought I was a policeman I feel we’ve made progress.

The defence lawyer was more helpful to me. She 'put it to me' that I might have had more than the two drinks mentioned in my statement but didn't push the point that that was a remarkably small quantity to have drunk by 5am on a night out. She didn’t really question my version of events at all actually. She didn’t seem to feel the need to. And so I was dismissed. I was free to go.

And so, it transpires (via my WhatsApp message from Rhiannon) is the defendant. Acquitted of all charges.

To be honest it's something of a relief. I wouldn't want to live in a country where a man could be convicted on the basis of that kind of trial. Where was the evidence? I had hoped there might have been some CCTV, some other victims…something else. But it seems there wasn't. Just my word against his. Mine and my alcoholic lawyer. Nevertheless I can't help but feel a little bit aggrieved, my faith in the Great British Justice System just a little bit diminished. I know it was never going to be Rumpole of the Bailey but I wasn’t expecting a scene straight out of Night Court. My advice to you all: just don’t get mugged in the first place. In fact, just don’t go out with Rhiannon. It can only bring trouble.

* Some names may have been changed. Not Rhiannon’s; that really was Rhiannon.