In Court with Billy Joel
“I guess you’d rather be a martyr tonight”.
“I guess you’d rather be a martyr tonight”.
A man, an albatross and a black dog walk into a bar. The horse behind the counter asks “why the long face?”.
I am that man, that innocent man, this is my albatross and the howling you can hear belongs to my black dog.
“Some people stay far away from the door
If there’s a chance of it opening up
They hear a voice in the hall outside
And hope that it just passes by
Some people live with the fear of a touch
And the anger of having been a fool
They will not listen to anyone
So nobody tells them a lie”
Thursday 19th January — I still have 8 days to complete my written statement. I’ll give myself a long weekend, enjoy myself. I’ll knuckle down on Monday. Still plenty of time.
Friday 20th January — Panic. Even a cursory glance within The Matrix fails to secure that form I was going to wait until Monday to panic about. I call Ruairi, my Irish friend and comrade in the Citizens Advice Bureau and he returns my call much later on a now dark Friday evening. I swear a lot. I’m panicking. I sob a little. We’ve had some telephone calls Ruairi and I over these last months. One was beside a canal in an August heatwave, another in the darkness of a garden and the depths of despair. I like the cut of Ruairi’s jib. I want to ask the young Irishman whether he’s from the south or the north (I’m presuming the north based on nothing but his distinctively strong accent) and why is a young man such as himself in the English city of Manchester? I’ll never ask him. Why ruin the enigma? I’ll just stereotypically label him as a mad keen Manchester United fan born in Ireland who made the pilgrimage to the famous canal city to follow his favourite football team and see another side of life. I picture my Manchester United supporting Mum looking on in approval. She’d have liked Ruairi.
He’s helped me immensely during these four hellish months.
“I know you’re only protecting yourself
I know you’re thinking of somebody else
Someone who hurt you but I’m not above
Making up for the love
You’ve been denying you could ever feel
I’m not above doing anything
To restore your faith if I can
Some people see through the eyes of the old
Before they ever get a look at the young
I’m only willing to hear you cry
Because I am an innocent man
I am an innocent man
Oh yes I am”
Saturday 21st January — A free day and wall to wall football. It’s a mighty cold weekend so whilst I panic over that damn form for the Court I hunker down with a hot water bottle, wrap myself like a sausage roll in a duvet and try to enjoy the bread and circus of footballing contest. My beloved Liverpool Reds are as equally dreadful as the Chelsea Blues in a dour, soulless game before I watched the “Hammers” burst the bubbles of “The Toffees” and the natives from the fair footballing city of Liverpool are getting very restless indeed. I watched a third game of football and you could pay me all the tea in Sri Lanka and I still wouldn’t be able to remember. Similarly, the two one-sided games of American Football I watched long into a cold, early Sunday morning. When I say “watched” please picture your humble narrator with one eye on the football and one eye on a piece of rambling prose. I wrote a lot on Saturday. I managed to pen two film reviews as well as strangling 1,000 words from the darkest recesses of my tiny mind on a game of football that deserved no more than 50.
I was imitating my literary hero Hunter S Thompson once more.
I’m thinking of summoning his ghost to represent me in Court.
Sunday 22nd January — The worst day of a weekend I was determined to enjoy. I’m still panicking about that fucking form for the Court and I’ve written my statement over and over inside my head to the point of tremendous tedium. All work and no play makes Stephen a spectacularly dull boy and I’m throwing a tennis ball in the house again.
I escaped from a genuine argument with my son. I had to announce “We are not having an argument today!” before silence fell for a large part of the day. We laughed our way back into the rhythm of our life later in the afternoon. I blame the autism and the sword of Damocles permanently above a curmudgeonly old man in an upside down world that has never felt the right side up for him.
I finish Sunday writing once more, thinking of my son and largely crying in despair. I watch some football from the snow of Buffalo and the sunshine of San Francisco. The better team(s) win, watching football in the snow was a rare joy, and I bet my old friend Hunter would have loved watching the snowy shenanigans in the Southtowns suburb of New York.
I only have one telephone call to make tomorrow and a visit to my local Citizens Advice Bureau. To twist a favourite quote from a great man, “I’m a shell of my former shadow” and dreading every impending Monday minute.
I’m thinking of summoning the ghost of Hunter S Thompson to represent me in Court.
“Some people say they will never believe
Another promise they hear in the dark
Because they only remember too well
They heard somebody tell them before
Some people sleep all alone every night
Instead of taking a lover to bed
Some people find that’s it’s easier to hate
Than to wait anymore
I know you don’t want to hear what I say
I know you’re gonna keep turning away
But I’ve been there and if I can survive
I can keep you alive
I’m not above going through it again
I’m not above being cool for a while
If you’re cruel to me I’ll understand
Some people run from a possible fight
Some people figure they can never win
And although this is a fight I can lose
The accused is an innocent man
I am an innocent man
Oh yes I am
An innocent man”
Monday 23rd January — That one telephone call lasted nearly 60 minutes in which for 59 of those minutes I was repeatedly told my call was important by a machine who played the same music over and over and over again. The other minute, scrub that, 30 seconds, was me saying “Yes I can hear you” to a lady in India who clearly couldn’t hear me and she ended the call.
59 minutes and 30 seconds well spent I can tell you. I’ve no idea why I screamed into the garden afterwards and cried like a gibbering wreck.
“Julie” at the Citizens Advice Bureau was rather lovely, kind, compassionate and looked the other way when I let those emotions that lead to you to screaming alone in a garden get the better of you. I sobbed rather than screamed. I seethed at the three current pebbles in my shoes of life. I’m living inside a Coen Brothers movie. I made her laugh by telling my tale of woe in a light hearted way. Kind of.
Julie’s a rebel. She had a righteous glint in her eye for rebellion. I liked Julie.
I emailed her colleague in Manchester, Ruairi. You remember him? I bet he’s a dashingly good looking fellow to go with his strong deep Irish accent. I bet if I saw a picture of him I’d be jealous at how young and ruggedly bloody handsome he is! I have no desire to find out. Why ruin the enigma?
I told that young Irishman from Manchester that I’m completing my written statement today, emailing the contents to the Court this evening and plan on presenting my hard copy to the Court itself in the morning. I joked that they’ve probably moved this “Department” to Europe or the Indian sub-continent. I’d like to think I joked that I may be some time but I probably didn’t.
My funny bone is currently on holiday.
“You know you only hurt yourself out of spite
I guess you’d rather be a martyr tonight
That’s your decision but I’m not below
Anybody I know
If there’s a chance of resurrecting a love
I’m not above going back to the start
To find out where the heartache began
Some people hope for a miracle cure
Some people just accept the world as it is
But I’m not willing to lay down and die
Because I am an innocent man
I am an innocent man
Oh yes I am
An innocent man”
Tuesday 24th January 2023 — I drove to the Court this morning via the “Grand Old Lady” as you may have noticed. It was sub zero fare but I had a chat with the old girl before watching two dozen or so dogs in the locally named “Doggie Car Care” having the time of their short lives. There were two greyhounds, many more in those snug looking doggie coats to ward off a canine English winter, and a rather beautiful basset hound I named “Bruce”. He looked a good age did Bruce but then again, all basset hounds do. When I’m appointed King all known basset hounds will be named Bruce and he, and many more Bruce’s, shall go forth and multiply until everyone has a dog that loves having their ears stroked and played with, and that are always guaranteed to look far more depressed than their human companions. Everyone shall have a basset hound!
By order of The King.
I drove to and from my silly spiritual home listening to the latest albums from an Oxford band named “Foals” before driving to meet my two favourite people in all the world to watch a steam train fly through our local station. My beautiful lad was so excited, shouting “It’s coming!” before that steam driven beauty flew past in a shrill of its wonderful whistle. We’re sharing a bag of sour Jelly Beans as I pen these final words, and sharing tales and telling jokes about rubbish football teams, horror films and the fact that my son has written his own, long form, fan fiction.
My son, the aspiring writer.
I couldn’t be more proud if you paid me, though I am open to offers as I do have a rather hefty legal bill coming my way. For all enquiries, please contact my agent, “Dr Horseman”.
So I’ve completed a form I believe to be the correct form but on my current form, who the fuck knows? I’ll find out in the fullness of time I guess and when that black coated wraith Judge McQueen has the temerity to believe he can argue with me once more. I have the truth on my side Bubba, as well as a nine page written statement, a basset hound named Bruce, a “Grand Old Lady” and an Irishman named Ruairi.
I also, on this occasion, have the piano man himself, Billy Joel, on my side.
Altogether now:
“Sing us the song, you’re the piano man
Sing us a song tonight
Well, we’re all in the mood for a melody
And you’ve got us feelin’ alright”
Samuel Pepys, Charles Dickens and William Shakespeare walk into a bar. The horse behind the counter shouts “Oi Shakespeare. You’re not allowed in here anymore remember? You’re bard”.
I’m here all week.
Please try the veal. It’s delicious!
And please tip your waitress.
Thanks for reading. For less serious fare, here are two recent examples that can be found within the cave of wonders that are my archival lists or, if you’re a glutton for punishment, here are the previous two volumes in this legal saga from a galaxy far, far away:
“Blonde” (2022)
Brutal tale of American heartbreak.medium.com
“The Good Nurse” (2022)
“I think the universe hates me”.medium.com
In Court with Johnny 99
“Judge I got debts no honest man could pay”.medium.com
In Court with Pink Floyd
“Good morning, Worm your Honour”.medium.com