gardai Policing

Drink Driving Charges

Gonad the Ballbearian was in a skittish mood when he accosted me today. He was chuckling. He was sniggering. In short, he was anything but his normal boorish self.

What the hell is up with you?, I demanded, abandoning my crossword clue: Primitive African xylophone.

Oh, he said, I was just thinking of a case I saw in court a while back.

I stayed silent. When Gonad is in this mood, it doesn’t do to upset him. The slightest annoyance will provoke a heavy bill, and possibly a Writ, which he’ll also charge you for.

Drunk driving case, he went on, after a long pause while he examined the contents of his inner ear. Not mine.

I used to do that, I volunteered. When it was legal, of course.

It was never legal to drink twelve pints and drive a hundred miles at high speed while playing Talking Heads albums at full volume, smoking a huge spliff and slugging a bottle of Wild Turkey while screaming insults at old people.

Sometimes Gonad can be very cutting but I said nothing. Primitive African xylophone. Seven letters. What could that be?

Anyway, he went on, there was a drunk driving case recently and I thought it raised a very nice legal point.

No you didn’t, I said.

True, he agreed. What would I know about legal points? I’m only a lawyer.

Exactly, I concurred. But go on.

Oh, he said, this cop was giving evidence, the usual shit. You know how they talk.

They don’t talk, I said. They mutter.

Anyway, Gonad brushed my objection away, this cop says

I noticed the car being driven erratically, and I activated my siren and switched on my flashing lights and I pulled him over and when he wound the window down I noticed a strong smell of alcohol and I noted that his eyes were bloodshot and his speech was slurred and I formed the opinion that he was intoxicated and I asked him to breathe into the Intoxilyser . . .

Indeed, I nodded. The evidence formula.

Yup, said Gonad. Only this time his lawyer didn’t plead mitigation.


No! He stood up and he strolled over to the cop and he said

So, you noticed the car being driven erraticaly?


And you switched on your flashers and siren?

I did.

And you noticed a smell of alcohol?


And his eyes were bloodshot?

They were.

And his speech was slurred?

It was.

And you bagged him?

I did.

Tell me. Were both of his eyes bloodshot?

They were.

At this point I interjected, Gonad, fascinating though this might be, what are you talking about? The crossword beckoned. Primitive African xylophone. Seven letters.

Bear with me, said Gonad.

Were both of his eyes bloodshot?

And the cop said, they were, and with that the lawyer whipped out a sheet of paper from his arse pocket, and he handed it to the cop and he said

Would you mind examining that?

What was it? said I.

I’ll tell you what it was, replied Gonad with a triumphant leer. It was a doctor’s certificate to the effect that the man had –

Ah no! I ejaculated. you can’t mean –

I certainly can, said Gonad. The man had a glass eye.

Case thrown out! I said.

Indeed, confirmed Gonad. Cop’s powers of observation in serious doubt.

I sat back and stared at my unfinished crossword. Primitive African xylophone.

Which is why they’ve changed the evidence formula, Gonad went on.

Aha! I said. Marimba!!

Yes, he nodded. Now they say: I noticed that his eyes were glazed.


related posts:

It’s a Client’s World

Flasher Nabbed

The Christmas Crib

Dead Accountants’ Society

More Legal Stuff


Tribunal Lawyers’ Fees (and Hospital Consultants)

So the lawyers aren’t going to suffer a crippling reduction in fees after all. What a relief.

It looked for a while as if they were going to be forced to manage on a measly €1,000, but no.  Common sense prevails and their fees remain at a richly-deserved €2,500 per day.

Now, I know that some begrudgers are saying uncharitable things about the fine fellows who struggle by on this pittance.

Bah! say I. Year after year, at the Planning Tribunal, these splendid intellects have toiled away for a paltry  €650,000 a year in the service of the Nation – as fine an act of patriotism as you will ever see. Foresaking the thrill of going out and competing for work, they have instead chosen the dull and unglamorous drudgery of the Tribunal, with the dreary boring sound of its week-by-week cheque for €12,500 flopping onto the carpet. Oh Jesus, you can hear old Tribunal lawyers groan, Not another fucking €12,500 cheque for me to lodge.”

I feel their pain.

Quite properly, they point out that they gave up the chance of earning far higher fees to work at the Tribunals. True. I had the same experience. By taking a day-job, I gave up the chance of becoming a Texan oil-billionaire.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I wish the lawyers the very best, and I certainly wouldn’t want to seem churlish, but there’s one thing I can’t help wondering: as the Tribunals are not courts of law, why do they need to be run by lawyers? If they’re looking for people with a high level of professional training and administrative skill, why not consider other professions? Can accountants not read and speak? Or geologists? Or physicists? What about union negotiators? Architects? Doctors?

Oh. Now don’t get me started on that.

All right, then. Go on.

Hospital consultants. Now there’s another crowd of fine individuals, for sure and certain.

These are a bunch of guys who want to have a contract to work as public employees, including a guaranteed salary, pension and all the rest, which is fair enough. But they also want to be able to run a private practice, and why not? I can see how there would be no conflict of interest at all there. That’s why, here in Ireland, you can just walk into any hospital and say I’m sick – fix me, and they’ll ask you if you’re a private patient or a public patient, but it won’t matter. You’ll receive instant attention either way, isn’t that right? Not like in that parallel Ireland invented by the media where you walk into a hospital and they ask you if you can pay, and you say no, and they tell you to come back when you’re dead. That was all made up by commies in the media, wasn’t it? And consultants won’t put you to the top of the list just because you can pay them. Of course not. And they don’t have the use of facilities already paid for by you in your taxes – do they? Oh Jesus no. They pay for the whole lot. Of course they do.

It’s just like when you walk into your local Council, and you meet the planner and you say

I want planning permission for my bungalow.

And the planner says Fuck off!!

But I can pay, you protest.

And the planner takes you by the elbow. Why didn’t you say so? Come in here to my consulting rooms paid for by the public, and I’ll draw up your plans on the computer bought out of your taxes and it’ll all be sorted out by the morning for you and don’t worry one bit. Would you like a coffee while you’re waiting?

That’s right. Nobody would mind that, would they? Of course not. And that’s why we allow hospital consultants to do the same thing.


It’s a Client’s World

I bumped into my lawyer, Gonad the Ballbearian, today.

Well Gonad, I said. What are you doing to celebrate International Women’s Day?

Doing? he replied, What am I doing? If you have to ask, there’s no point, is there?

Eh? What’s that you say, Gonad?

You shouldn’t need to ask!

What the fuck are you on about? I said.

Oh, that’s lovely, he said. That’s a nice way to talk to me.

I was baffled. What’s wrong with you?

Nothing! he whispered, brushing away a tear and pushing his hair back.

Gonad, I said. This isn’t like you.

He rounded on me with his eyes flashing fire. What the hell would you know about me? I might as well be fucking invisible. All you care about is me slaving away in my office, issuing writs and suing the ass off media moguls for you. But you never see the real me. The real Gonad behind this suit. I’m just another piece of brief to you, aren’t I? Admit it.

I was staggered. Good Lord, Gonad. I had no idea.

No, he spat. You didn’t, did you? No idea what I go through. Oh, it’s all right for you. You don’t have to get up in the morning and wonder if last night’s wig and gown will still fit you. You’re not seized by sudden inexplicable mood swings. Oh no. Not you. Typical client. Fucking clients are all the same. I’m finished with them. Fucking clients!

Gonad, I said.

There was a long silence as he stared into the distance, a small tear running down his cheek, his lip trembling.

Gonad, I repeated.

He sniffled. What?

Look, Gonad. Let’s go someplace warm where we can talk this over.

He sniffled again and nodded.

Tell you what, I suggested breezily. Why don’t we go to that new Café, what’s it called?

A little smile crept across Gonad’s tear-stained face.

Planet Chocolate, he said.

That’s right, I said. Let’s go to Planet Chocolate and we can get an extra-large choco-choc-chocburger with chocolate topping and a chocolate-sauce frappachocaccino.

That’ll be grand, said Gonad. And then we’ll have a few pints. Did you see the match?

Sexuality Stupidity

More Latvian Hookers

Jesus, what is it with Latvian hookers these days? I remember a time when you’d hardly see a single one in the whole country, but now, all of a sudden, they’re everywhere.

I loved the story on the front page of yesterday’s Limerick Leader. Two Latvian hookers were in court, accused of operating a brothel, which on the face of it doesn’t seem to be such a bad thing. In other countries, such as Australia, these things are considered normal, and are regulated. But anyhow, Ireland is still in the process of moving on from its screwed-up Catholic past and who am I to take issue with that?

What a question. This is for future Bocks. In the meantime, back to the Latvian hookers. Local lawyer, John Devane, spoke up in their defence after they were convicted. Pleading mitigation, Mr Devane addressed the court as follows:

They were sucked into a messy situation.

Oh God. How lucky we are to have such people protecting us.


The Christmas Crib

I bumped into my lawyer, Gonad the Ballbearian recently on the street. He was talking earnestly to a small plaster effigy of General Franco and sweating like a criminal.

Aha! I said. Gonad! The very man. There’s a few fuckers I want you to sue for me. I have the list here somewhere.

No, he shouted. Stop. I can’t sue anyone after the hellish experience I’ve just had.

I could tell he was serious. His recessed eyeballs had sunk even deeper beneath his ape-like brow and the twitch was more obvious than I’ve seen it in a long time. Gonad was clearly troubled.

Clearly, you’re troubled, I told him.

I am, he agreed. And if you saw what I saw, you’d be fuckin troubled too.

This was serious. Gonad never swears in the presence of Franco.

Pray tell, I invited him.

Exactly, he said.


Precisely, said Gonad, like a madman. I was on my way back to work and I took a quick tour of the block to have a smoke. It’s my habit.

It is indeed, I assured him.

Anyway, he said, things were on my mind so I decided to slip into the church for a few minutes.

The church? I demanded. Are you mad? What the fuck were you doing in a church? Did anyone see you?

Ah, he said, I just wanted to sit down in the peace and quiet and maybe reflect for a few minutes ponder over all the shit and do a bit of reflection a small bit of contemplation evaluate the coming year and see if I can find a little bit more space for myself in the face of all the conflicting demands of other people.

When Gonad speaks without commas, I know there’s trouble.

Go on, I encouraged him.

Well, he said, I sat down in a seat next to the Christmas crib and I was looking up at the ceiling with all the holy angels painted on it, thinking to myself Jesus I bet it cost a fortune to get that painted. And then I was looking up at the altar with the candles and stuff and kind of starting to contemplate when suddenly a movement in the corner of my eye distracted me.

What? I said.

It was the crib, he said. I had a hallucination that a giant rabbit was waving at me from the crib.

Now I was certain he was losing the plot.

Gonad, I said, do you know fucking anything? Of course you saw a giant rabbit in the crib. And tell me, did you also see a giant owl, a giant armadillo, an aardvark chasing an army of killer ants and a water buffalo next to the three wise-guys?

He nodded.

Well, I told him, there you go then. Those are the animals listed in the Bible. The giant rabbit went on later that same day to crucify Santa Claus and was shot by the Romans as he tried to escape from custody.

Oh, said Gonad. I see. He began to sob. I’ve been such a fool.

Feel better? I asked.

Gonad nodded again. Thanks, Bock. You’re a real friend.


Dead Accountants’ Society

Did you know that the late Kim Il Sung is still President of North Korea? Isn’t that great?

I told Gonad the Ballbearian about this last week, and he jumped up like he’d been farted at by a Donegal detective. I’ll be back to you he said, and he was as good as his word. He called today with details of a terrific new tax-avoidance plan. He’s going to open an accountancy company and all its partners will be dead crooked accountants. Russell Murphy and Des Traynor will be the managing partners.

This is great. I’m going to take all the bribes I got from Shell Oil for introducing them to a crooked Minister for Energy, and I’m going to invest it in Gonad’s scheme. Every penny of it. You see, Gonad has had a stroke of genius here. This won’t be the Cayman Islands, or the Isle of Man or any of that shit. No. Gonad’s partners are going to keep your money in the Afterlife. The ultimate offshore account.



My lawyer, Gonad the Ballbearian, isn’t a 300-pound Samoan, but you can’t have everything. He ran away from the circus to become a lawyer but ended up working in Limerick, which just goes to show that there’s no escaping the K Twins: Kismet and Karma.

I invited him out for a drink recently and, I must say, his bill was quite reasonable in the circumstances. I have it here in front of me.

To Services Rendered
Listening to unmitigated drivel — 234 euro
Offering opinion on Munster’s chances — free
Enduring self-pitying whine — 135 euro
Refresher — 828 euro
Helping with crossword — 153 euro
Accepting free pints — 432 euro
Refresher — 828 euro
Offering opinion on Munster’s chances — free
Listening to more shite — 324 euro
Supplementary refresher — 1647 euro
Counsel’s opinion — one pint
Special Refresher — 1233 euro
Offering opinion on Munster’s chances — free
Rugby opinion supplement — 1836 euro
Pints for counsel— 99 euro
Postage, photocopying, searches,
bollock-scratching, leering at secretary
and looking out window — 14,571 euro
CASH TOTAL — 22,320 euro and one pint

Not unreasonable, I thought, for an enjoyable half hour in the pub.