People often ask me, “Judge, what is the secret of your success?” I would be delighted to give them a long and fulsome reply, except for the fact that a similar number of people ask me, “Judge, what went wrong?” I assume each question refers to my upward trajectory from junior barrister, to silk and upwards through various judicial posts, and the latter to being summarily tipped off my judicial perch, one reason for which I mentioned in an earlier post (see Introducing Elephants). Being a person who is not immune to flattery I prefer the former question to the latter, but in the interests of transparency, I will refer to another matter which I fear threw a spike strip in front of whatever vehicle was carrying me forwards.
There was a judge I will call Michaei, principally because that is his name, who enjoyed cycling to the very lovely Royal courts where I spent much of my time. Michael complained to me one day that cycling, especially post-Covid, had become a far more popular form of transport which, in many ways, was a positive outcome. However, what he could not abide was the lack of road manners displayed by said cyclists, none of whom in his view seemed to have passed their cycling proficiency tests. It so happened that I had a wanton and furious cycling case on appeal that day in my very court, so I took the opportunity to develop the common law to exclude cycling without displaying excellent manners to members of the judiciary within 500 metres of my court building. Common law is, of course, judge-made law, and sits alongside, and often clarifies and elucidates, what has been written in statute in a dusty office in the corridors of governmental power.
When I informed Michael, I must say he seemed rather taken aback and I sensed at lunch the following day a certain discomfort from my judicial colleagues rather than the frisson I had expected from their collective admiration. A short time later my new common law judicial protection approach was overturned by another appeal court (comprised of judges who shall remain nameless but they know who they are) and the judgment was excoriating in the extreme, including the accepted submission that all cycling judges would have to wear distinguishing clothing or features (such as their long-bottomed wigs) in order for their fellow cyclists to know they were judges, and thus to be aware that they must be kind to them. There was also a rather large amount of road traffic and human rights freedom of expression law which I shall not bore you with here, but suffice it to say, I lost.
Lunch after that was never quite the same, and never again did I do Michael such a generous favour or listen to his protestations about his journey to court. I do, however, enjoy jumping on my bicycle occasionally wearing my full wig and Dirty Rotten Law sash and riding alongside Michael with an exacerbated wobble to put him off his pedalling. And when he protests I tell him that he, like all of us, is subject to the rule of law, and despite my best efforts the law right now is that he just has to suck it up, or take the bus. Better still, I said, referring to the song by The Who from 1968 (his era), take the Magic Bus: “Every day I get in the queue, To get on the bus that takes me to you, I don't care how much I pay, I wanna drive my bus to my baby each day.” That, I told him, sounds a whole bundle more fun than cycling to court.
