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.

Why 2015 is going to be the year I optimise

As Gay Death (or what you heteros call 30) approaches in 2015 I've decided this must be the year I achieve some stuff. So, since its a topical number, I've selected 30 New Year's resolutions for this year. And in order to make myself more accountable I thought I'd share them all with you. Here goes...

1. Drink a glass of water before and after EVERY drink.

2. Plan New Year's Eve in advance so I don't end up getting trashed at Tamsin's and then getting stuck in a cab listening to Kiss FM at midnight.

3. Attempt to grow a beard.

4. Give up attempting to grow a beard when, inevitably, it turns out I still can't grow a beard and it's just shit stubble again.

5. Avoid getting sucked into The DIY Vortex again. Maybe just finish doing up my flat. 

6. Not get another boyfriend (this shouldn't be difficult).

7. Instead, kiss lots of boys (marginally trickier).

8. Finish watching all of Rupaul's Drag Race.

9. Stop listening to Pitbull when drunk.

10. Get rid of lots of stuff.

11. Buy more stuff.

12. Buy more shoes.

13. Remember material goods do not necessarily bring happiness.

14. Buy more shoes.

15. Go to Japan. Anyone wanna come?

16. Reduce intake of foods beginning with ch. Especially tuna.

17. Read Middlemarch.

18. Watch more telly.

19. Get Rhiannon married off so she can blag someone else on Whatsapp all day.

20. Fix that thing on my bike I've been meaning to fix for about a year, which would probably take less time to fix than it's taken to write this admittedly quite long sentence.

21. Make peace with my hair.

22. Learn how not to fall asleep on the night bus home when drunk.

23. Use more emojis. 

24. Book more gigs instead of complaining when my friends go to the gigs I wanted to go to.

25. Get friends to book tickets for Glastonbury when the re-sale happens. Guys, if you're reading this, book tickets for Glastonbury when the re-sale happens! 

26. Stop saying "I heard an interesting thing on Radio 4 the other day...".

27. Maybe add some stations other than 4 and 6 to my presets (hello Magic 105.4!)

28. Finish that bestselling novel.

29. Turn 29 again.

30. Think of a 30th thing. Something important.

Why a Tinder match won't necessarily light a flame

Last time I gave you the first installment of my guide to Tinder success, so by now you will no doubt have got yourself a number of 'matches'. Don't get too excited. Remember these people are only really 'matches' in the same way as how, say, Doncaster is twinned with Rouen. Now you must begin the depressing process of judging their personalities through the medium of online chat.

Remember, your choice of introduction is important. This is not acceptable:

And you should really run it through spell checker if you’re dyslexic:

But bear in mind that if you take a chance and start the chat, about 50% will go something like this:

Many chats will begin and end with "What you looking for?". Do not bother answering this question. This is code - transposed from Grindr - for "Are you looking for sex in the next 20 minutes?" If the answer is 'no' then they will quickly lose interest. If the answer is 'yes' it should almost certainly be followed by “but not with you, you've probably got more STIs than the word stigmastistical” *

Once you've kicked off, most chats will quickly reveal the chattor is not yet ready for unsupervised writing. I don't just mean "definately" for "definitely" sort of thing; I mean the sort of prose Terry here might be responsible for:

I know, it made my brain cry.

Some of the chats will involve un-ironic use of emoticons. They must be quickly terminated.

Some people will use the word lol instead of its acceptable ironic counterparts lolz, lulz and roflz. I know.

Once you've really got going, you'll find the majority will just be dull. A useful rule of thumb: if they can’t be interesting or funny when they’ve got time to think about it, they won’t be interesting or funny in real life. Think about it: I’m interesting and funny in my blog. QED.

But my all-time favourite ones (yes, this really happens) are the ones who you will get into a long and involved conversation with, begin to like, start projecting all sorts of impossible personality traits on, fall in love with, mentally marry and have two children with, finally ask out on a date, and then they'll say "I'm not really looking for dates". I'm sorry, what? Well WHAT THE FRICKING FRICK ARE YOU LOOKING FOR THEN?! A fricking pen pal? Lord fricking Lucan? The cure for the common fricking cold?

I know what you're thinking: they are looking for dates, they're just not looking for dates with YOU. Fair point, but twice this has happened to me and then they've carried on writing to me: "No thanks, I'm not really looking for dates. So what you up to tonight?" I'm sorry but have I fallen into a vortex in the homo-continuum? Are you really telling me you live in London and you have enough time on your hands to have an online conversation with someone you don't know about whether they're watching Downton Abbey. If you're bored why don't you just go and look at lists of 21 Autocorrect Cats With Dog Beards Who've Got Their Priorities Right Doing The Ice Bucket Challenge (and you won't BELIEVE what happened next) or whatever. You're seriously just looking for a CHAT? There are CHAT ROOMS for that sort of thing. (There are still chat rooms, right? Or was that a 90s thing?)

Once you have ruled out all of the above you should be left with two or three acceptable alternatives who have made it through Boot Camp and Judges' Houses to the Live Finals. But don't get carried away, it's still way too early to get excited at this stage. Remember Christopher Maloney made it to the ACTUAL FINAL.

These people are on Tinder. They're probably still mental. Now you have to do the really difficult bit and figure out what's wrong with them IRL. You still have to kiss a lot of frogs, even with the wonders of modern technology. And here I can help you no longer. Except to say this: just remember, in real life it is UNACCEPTABLE to swipe someone left if you don't like them.

Happy swiping folks!

* Yes I did just make that word up.

Why it's all about swiping left

My recent reintroduction to single life has taught me several important things: the importance of remembering my keys ... that a six-pinter of semi-skimmed milk can go (very) off before you have time to finish it ... that if I want a dessert I'm gonna have to just order one cos I can't do that trick of "no, I'm totally full thanks but YOU should have one." But there is one area in which I feel my learnings could be particularly useful to others: namely, the complicated science of using Tinder.

After a lot of practice I've got quite good at it (who knew I'd have a talent for judging people by appearances?) and sharing is caring. So, over the next two blog posts I will be publishing what I'm calling The Gay Idiot's Manual to the Practice of Tinder Initiation in Today's Society, or GIMP TITS for short.

Part One - Getting 'matches'

When you start exploring certain things quickly become clear. The majority, who can be quickly swiped left, are either old or ugly. And by old, I of course mean over 30. And by ugly I mean fugly. I mean let's not get too choosy at this point or we'll be here all day.

One tribe you'll quickly encounter are the shirtless (and occasionally headless) folk. Tempting but best avoided. If a six pack is the most interesting thing about you, get yourself back on Grindr where you belong. Swipe left.

Then there are the spiritual ones. They've basically read a few Paulo Coelho novels and they think they're Wittgenstein. They can be spotted by their 'about' sections, which will usually be written in quote form, often of lyrics from Enya. Obviously, swipe left.

The next tribe are the people who write in imperatives as to what you must be: "Be spontaneous and fun. Be funny and clever." or worse, what you must not be: "Don't be needy. Don't be too into yourself." It will take all your self-restraint not to message them saying "Don't be so frickin choosy - there's a reason you're on Tinder." Don't be mean. Do swipe left.

Then there are the People Who Are Not From London. Like almost all of us who live in London, these people are not originally from London. But unlike almost all of us, these people have chosen to define themselves entirely by this fact. So much so that when asked to write a few lines about themselves they've opted for "Northener, living in't London" / "Irish fella looking for some craic in London" / "Welsh lad in Lyndyn" / "American, new to London - awesome!" Swipe left.

Every now and then there's a girl who's got confused. Or Perhaps she's just an über fag hag. Put her out of her misery: she needs to find a real boy before she becomes Karen Walker. Swipe left.

Likewise, people from Essex who set their distance settings wrong. Do you really want to commute to Billericay for dates? Swipe left.

This should have covered about 95% of your Tinder experience. This is a marathon, not a sprint. Hang on in there.

We come now to the ones who, at first glance, could go either way. These require examination of further photos and careful consideration. By which I mean at least one and a half seconds.

The first lot, and by far the most abundant, are the one-hit wonders. "Ooh," you think, looking at their cover photo, "he's cute." Then you swipe to the next photo. *Shudder*. "How do they do it?" you ask yourself. "So attractive there but so much like Madge Bishop there." Fact: anyone can take one good photo. It's an optical illusion. Swipe left.

The next lot are your classic Monets. They know they look good from a distance and hence have uploaded five photos of themselves on the end of a distant peer / waving from the top of a tower / on the other side of the road / in a pool - at the deep end / sitting on top of one of the Trafalgar Square lions. But perhaps knowing they'd be pushing their luck with all six, the last photo reveals the truth close up: they're no oil painting. Impressionism may be a good first impression but that's all. Swipe left.

Of the remainder the vast majority will be either Ants or Decs. Like Ant and Dec they are, at first sight, almost attractive. But on closer inspection they fall neatly into one of two camps. The Ants (or the Decs - who knows which is which?) are kindof handsome but when you really study the images you realise they're actually about five feet tall. Like Nicholas Sarkozy (or Ant or Dec ... or whoever he is) they have carefully staged all photo opportunities to make sure they look like a normal-sized person, but a trained eye will notice you can never see below their waste lines and they're never stood next to a normal-sized person.

The Decs (or the Ants) on the other hand, are all forehead. It's something to do with selfies. These should be swiped left. Life's too short. And so is Ant. Or Dec.

Following these simple guidelines you'll soon find there are a handful of people from the hundreds you've scrolled through that you haven't swiped left. Assuming you haven't made any of the above errors yourself it's possible that one or two of these haven't swiped you left either. Congratulations, you have 'matches' (haha). Now here's where the really depressing part begins: the chats. And these I shall deal with in my next post. Until then ... keeeeeeeeeeep swiping.

Why everything doesn't have to be rubbish

I can’t remember if I’ve mentioned it before but I’m not a big fan of Jeremy Clarkson. So the last thing I want to be is a Clarkson-esque comedy ranter. However, some things just demand rantification (things like Jeremy Clarkson). And this week, my chosen topic is “all the stuff”. I am aware that someone has written a book loosely on this subject, entitled “Is It Just Me Or Is Everything Shit?”. I have not read the book – it sounded a bit not-really-worth-writing-a-book-about for my tastes. But the sentiment is fair. I say this not to be funny or controversial, but to make a serious point. A call to arms, if you will: against rubbishness. 

I’m coming towards the end of a fairly extensive renovation project on my flat. Actually, you can delete the ‘fairly’. It’s been about as substantial a renovation project as one can do on a one-bed flat the size of a postage stamp. It has involved completely gutting, re-wiring, re-plastering, re-flooring, installing a new bathroom and kitchen, under floor heating, new hardware throughout, and then decorating to my ridiculous tastes. A Young Person with a loose grasp of what words mean would probably say it’s been ‘epic’. It has not, of course, been epic. The Hundred Years War was epic, this has been a large-scale flat renovation.

My frequent companions throughout the project were Lucy Alexander and Martin Roberts. And for those of you who have jobs, they are the presenters of the 10am home makeover programme “Homes Under the Hammer”. As companions go they’re both incredibly irritating. (They seem to have those personalities that only daytime television presenters are allowed to have – where everything they say or do is at once nice, and mildly amusing, but unsettlingly and inexplicably cringe-inducing.) But they do present one of the most dangerously addictive programmes on television so, like that friend you’re only friends with because they have a good DVD collection, I’ve stuck with them.*

The basic format of the show is that Lucy or Martin charge round a semi-detached two-up-two-down in Hounslow or somewhere awful rambling about parking access and ‘potential’, we watch a load of rich people bidding for it at auction, then the buyer does it up in slightly longer than they thought it would take for slightly more than they had in their original budget but sell it or rent it for a ridiculous profit anyway. It’s like a big lovely advert for capitalism. And smiling inanely.

The comforting thing about it all from a property development perspective is that everyone, no matter how atrocious their taste or poor the quality of their handiwork, seems to make a shedload of cash, despite the fact most of it was filmed in the middle of a massive sod off recession (remember that?); the discomforting thing about it from a faith in humankind perspective is that everyone, no matter how atrocious their taste or poor the quality of their handiwork, seems to make a shedload of cash, despite the fact most of it was filmed in the middle of a massive sod off recession (remember that?). Which means people all over the country are buying this shit. In their thousands. With their thousands.

What almost everyone seems to do is take a ‘slightly dated’ property, tear everything out because it’s ‘slightly dated’, and then put back cheap shit stuff, which in 20 years’ time, will probably be torn out again in episode 7561 of Homes Under the Hammer or Homes Under the Space-Computer or whatever they’ll have instead of hammers in The Future, because it will be ‘slightly dated’.

On one episode a seasoned developer was asked what his secret to success was. His response was: “Remember you’re in this to make money and it’s not your own property. Don’t put too much time, effort or money into making the finishing look nice, it only needs to be good enough to get the tenants in.” Lucy Alexander nodded and smiled enthusiastically. “Very wise words”. Wise, perhaps. But am I alone in finding this utterly depressing?

The tragic thing is that he is right, and he is only stating what has essentially become a mantra of the modern world: Don’t make a really good job of things, it’s not worth any more money. You see this phenomenon in many aspects of modern life: in modern architecture, in fashion, in most consumer goods (they should be called consumer good enoughs). Sure, often good enough is good enough, but whatever happened to taking pride in the way things look and feel? Good quality may not necessarily be worth any more money but isn’t it sometimes worth it as, dare I say it, an end in itself? Don’t we want things to be good just because it’s good to be good, not just good enough?

I’m not into all that ‘everything used to be better’ nonsense – they didn’t even have Facebook in olden times – but, though they may have been as mad as a box of frogs the Victorians at least knew the importance of quality stuff for people’s wellbeing. They knew that a rounded brick on the edge of a building would make it look better, even if it cost more and was harder to produce. Because a building will be around for a long time, and people have to live there, and when things around us look and feel better quality, we feel better. It's that simple. And yet we seem to have collectively forgotten this.

I've tried, in my own renovation, to source most things second-hand and have therefore got much better quality pre-loved stuff for a fraction of the price. Good for me, aren’t I wonderful? I know I sound smug (smug is my shtick, deal with it) but I haven’t done it as a duty to mankind; in most cases it’s made my flat better, my budget lower, and sometimes even made my life easier. Though admittedly lifting the cast iron bath up the staircase will be filed in the same compartment of my brain as “that time I fell over in school assembly” and “all the births on One Born Every Minute”.

Whilst attempting to shoehorn the second-hand kitchen, which came from a large farmhouse, into my shoebox-sized flat, my dad literally said 67 times “this would have been a lot easier if you’d just bought a new kitchen from IKEA.” Which is undoubtedly true. But I think even my dad, in his weaker moments, would admit that it’s sometimes worth making the effort for quality. Otherwise everything will just keep getting rubbisher and rubbisher and we’ll all end up sat in our rubbish underpants, on our rubbish Argos sofas eating Morrisons ready meals and watching Topgear. And nobody wants that.

So can I invite you to make a pledge with me, against rubbishness. Join me in the fight to get good stuff just because it’s good, and to resist the lure of the cheapubiquitousgubbins. If this movement had a hashtag, it would be #banishtherubbish. And I will start by swearing not to watch Homes Under the Hammer ever again. Maybe.


*I don’t really have a friend like that. But if anyone out there has a great DVD collection and would like to be used in such a fashion, step this way.