*/
March 24, 2025 – Hesiod
The Bar is grating with me at the moment. Work is flat because of the ghastly backlog mess. The buildings, some of which I remember from when they were brand new, are unloved, uncared for, poorly maintained (if maintained at all) and emanate failure, fatigue, and decline. What are laughingly called facilities either don’t exist at all or are poor and public with the occasional and honourable exception. Everywhere, there is a dispirited, fatalistic and sometimes despairing atmosphere from top to bottom.
So, raiding the pension fund, I found myself last week in a popular holiday spot in somewhere warm. Not for the first time, I had made the mistake of believing that you can escape the Bar. Many years ago, I was in a long and difficult case concerning football hooliganism and suffering from some mild hypochondriacal malaise. I left court to drive to a beautiful part of Worcestershire to forget the law, the Bar, my client and the case for a long weekend-plus bank holiday.
Stuck in an inevitable motorway hold-up, sunroof open, I noticed that in the slow lane to my left was a stationary prison type vehicle with a huge amount of loud banging and shouting coming from the inside. Yobs, I thought, until I realised that they were chanting William in a drawn-out football crowd way. Then, first, I recognised the voice of my lay client and second, realised that those familiar darkened windows only made the inside invisible to those on the outside - not the other way round. The defendants in the football case were being taken on remand to some nearby penitentiary and could clearly see me. I learned later that it made their weekend, speculating as to where I was off to in the fancy car.
Arriving at the lovely Queen Anne period hotel near Worcester, I went down to dinner. There was a group of about 20 very loud people in dinner dress at a large table at the far end of the room and my headache caused by the long drive began to pulsate. I was about to ask the rather slimy sommelier if he could present my compliments to the assembled company and ask them ever so nicely to pipe down. I was forestalled however by their sending a message to my table asking me to join them. ‘Are they Rotary?’ I asked. I thought the messenger replied that they were ‘messy,’ which seemed an odd and somewhat intriguing comment. Anyway, I did wander over, only to find it was a dinner of some members of a Midland Bar Mess and that I had been recognised by a couple of practitioners. It was in fact a very good evening and they were extremely generous hosts. We ended at 3am and I concluded that, while very enjoyable, it was not a particularly good start to the ‘get away from it all’ break.
A few years later a member of Chambers, Maurice Grimble, who was suffering from exhaustion brought on by burning the candle at both ends, told me that he went to Amalfi for his first holiday in four years and was rowed out by an Italian sailor a little way from shore where he was to have a Mediterranean Sea picnic. This was rudely interrupted by another small boat hitting his, accompanied by ‘Hello there! Maurie Gerbil, isn’t it, what?’ delivered in a voice that would have been audible even in the town. It was a very booming silk of that era, Michael Winde, who carried out one-sided shoutathons with a shattering decibel count, ending every sentence with the word ‘what?’.
So here, at last, I was sitting alone on a hotel promenade in 2025 drinking a rather delicious fruit juice and feeling the slight spray from the sea as it lapped against the ramparts. Suddenly, an elegant silk swept in, wearing a kaftan and clutching a Marguerita. ‘Oh my days!’ she said, ‘it’s William.’ It was Angelique Herren. She was followed by four elderly male silks and a Circuit judge, in far less stylish beach attire and clutching a variety of drinks. ‘Billy’s here,’ she yelled over her shoulder. Billy? No-one called me Billy. ‘We’ve all retired,’ shouted Denzil Gray, a few paces behind, ‘and formed a little holiday club – Temple Tours. No more weekend work, lazy holidays, decent food, fun… you should join us. Leave the family behind, burn Archbold, forget sentencing guidelines. We have “fun guidelines” now.’ ‘And “drink guidelines”,’ said Ali Wilson, wobbling in behind Denzil. There truly is nowhere…
William Byfield is the pseudonym of a senior member of the Bar. Gutteridge Chambers, and the events that happen there, are entirely fictitious.
March 24, 2025 – Hesiod
The Bar is grating with me at the moment. Work is flat because of the ghastly backlog mess. The buildings, some of which I remember from when they were brand new, are unloved, uncared for, poorly maintained (if maintained at all) and emanate failure, fatigue, and decline. What are laughingly called facilities either don’t exist at all or are poor and public with the occasional and honourable exception. Everywhere, there is a dispirited, fatalistic and sometimes despairing atmosphere from top to bottom.
So, raiding the pension fund, I found myself last week in a popular holiday spot in somewhere warm. Not for the first time, I had made the mistake of believing that you can escape the Bar. Many years ago, I was in a long and difficult case concerning football hooliganism and suffering from some mild hypochondriacal malaise. I left court to drive to a beautiful part of Worcestershire to forget the law, the Bar, my client and the case for a long weekend-plus bank holiday.
Stuck in an inevitable motorway hold-up, sunroof open, I noticed that in the slow lane to my left was a stationary prison type vehicle with a huge amount of loud banging and shouting coming from the inside. Yobs, I thought, until I realised that they were chanting William in a drawn-out football crowd way. Then, first, I recognised the voice of my lay client and second, realised that those familiar darkened windows only made the inside invisible to those on the outside - not the other way round. The defendants in the football case were being taken on remand to some nearby penitentiary and could clearly see me. I learned later that it made their weekend, speculating as to where I was off to in the fancy car.
Arriving at the lovely Queen Anne period hotel near Worcester, I went down to dinner. There was a group of about 20 very loud people in dinner dress at a large table at the far end of the room and my headache caused by the long drive began to pulsate. I was about to ask the rather slimy sommelier if he could present my compliments to the assembled company and ask them ever so nicely to pipe down. I was forestalled however by their sending a message to my table asking me to join them. ‘Are they Rotary?’ I asked. I thought the messenger replied that they were ‘messy,’ which seemed an odd and somewhat intriguing comment. Anyway, I did wander over, only to find it was a dinner of some members of a Midland Bar Mess and that I had been recognised by a couple of practitioners. It was in fact a very good evening and they were extremely generous hosts. We ended at 3am and I concluded that, while very enjoyable, it was not a particularly good start to the ‘get away from it all’ break.
A few years later a member of Chambers, Maurice Grimble, who was suffering from exhaustion brought on by burning the candle at both ends, told me that he went to Amalfi for his first holiday in four years and was rowed out by an Italian sailor a little way from shore where he was to have a Mediterranean Sea picnic. This was rudely interrupted by another small boat hitting his, accompanied by ‘Hello there! Maurie Gerbil, isn’t it, what?’ delivered in a voice that would have been audible even in the town. It was a very booming silk of that era, Michael Winde, who carried out one-sided shoutathons with a shattering decibel count, ending every sentence with the word ‘what?’.
So here, at last, I was sitting alone on a hotel promenade in 2025 drinking a rather delicious fruit juice and feeling the slight spray from the sea as it lapped against the ramparts. Suddenly, an elegant silk swept in, wearing a kaftan and clutching a Marguerita. ‘Oh my days!’ she said, ‘it’s William.’ It was Angelique Herren. She was followed by four elderly male silks and a Circuit judge, in far less stylish beach attire and clutching a variety of drinks. ‘Billy’s here,’ she yelled over her shoulder. Billy? No-one called me Billy. ‘We’ve all retired,’ shouted Denzil Gray, a few paces behind, ‘and formed a little holiday club – Temple Tours. No more weekend work, lazy holidays, decent food, fun… you should join us. Leave the family behind, burn Archbold, forget sentencing guidelines. We have “fun guidelines” now.’ ‘And “drink guidelines”,’ said Ali Wilson, wobbling in behind Denzil. There truly is nowhere…
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