Low life
Choked
Jeffrey Bernard
It's extraordinary to me — more like infuriating, really — that the smallest atom of what's considered to be 'class' can turn a ne'erdo-well, lounge lizard of scoundrel into an object of sad conjecture and sentimental waffle from before and behind the bench and in the Press. I know barristers and journalists have to live, but really.
Take the case of Carian Cosgrave, twenty-year-old son of the former Irish premier Liam Cosgrave. He cheated a couple of London shops out of £700 worth of goods when he went on a little jaunt with a stolen credit card. At the Marlborough Street court last Monday he was fined £85. Not a bad investment you might think; but what would have been the return if it had been Paddy O'Hooligan from Camden Town who'd been up in front of the same beak? I know they're getting more and more reluctant to imprison people nowadays, thank God. But just what goes through the heads of magiitrates when confronted by the fallen strikes me as being as unpredictable as tomorrow. Next case.
Olga Deterding chokes and dies on a piece of meat while holding 345 mil ligrammes of alcohol in her system. Not nice, especially for her. Then came the expected avalanche of printed guff about poor little rich girls (the next person who tells me that a few million quid in your current account doesn't necessarily make you happy is going to get punched straight between the eyes). I know peoeple who could choke to death on an English pub sausage — who couldn't? — and the guvnor would simply ask whether it had been paid for.
The third case up before me this morning concerns a typical countryside tale of life down on the farm. Alfred Moffat, a rich farmer, got into a terrible tizzy when he thought his lover, Mrs Jennifer Beer, was going to end their affair. He put agricultural poison in Mr Beer's rum. Mr Beer merely sniffed it. After Mrs Beer found him in a terrible state she took a drink out of the same bottle to 'steady her nerves'. Would • you believe it? but before that, while Mrs Beer, with one of the baby Beers was visiting daddy Beer in hospital, the neighbour, who'd been called in to babysit, also took a drink out of the same bottle of rum to 'steady her nerves'. Knowing the medical profession as I do I'm • surprised that the entire staff of the hospital didn't shoot round later to the Beers for a nervesteadier.
So it's sad and squalid, people have been made unhappy and Mr Moffat is now serving four years, but just listen to his counsel, Mr William Howard, pleading. Moffat, he said, was 'the best sort of Englishman. He is a straightforward and honest man who from a humble beginning has built up his business and been generous to the community.' What if he'd been a farm labourer? How was he generous to the community apart from dispensing free weed killer? It was also stated during the hearing that Moffat had a violent hatred of Mr Beer's agricultural trade union.
Yes, there are definitely rules to be observed. Never keep dark rum in the house. I've noticed that it's a disasterous as well as digusting drink. When you're in front of the judge always remember to wear a grey flannel suit, shirt and tie — however paltry the offence. I usually try to imitate the voices of well-known BBC personalities like the late Richard Dimbleby and the ever-present Richard Baker. Have an old school tie somewhere — unfortunately Pangbourne College has slipped, I fear, rather into obscurity. Never say anything in the dock that might start what the nasty Sundays call a 'titter to circulate in the court'. Stand up straight, plead guilty and then tell them that you hate all trade unions, once had an uncle who was an Admiral of the Fleet, are well on the way to owning half an acre in Wiltshire, fear God and honour your Barclaycard. You'll still be a monster, but a sad broken one that we on the bench and in Fleet Street will love and may the Lord have mercy on your soul.
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