Author: Moobs

The Law has been blighted by the invention of the photocopier. Back in the good old days for which all barristers pine (the 1780s in case you were wondering), getting a document copied meant sending it to a copyist who would dip a quill in ink and painstakingly transcribe. No 4000 page bundles in those days. To cope we have had to resort to trolley bags to drag our instructions around. I have a range of them and my current favourite is an enormous and stylish Mandarina Duck one. Before today it had only be used once: to carry home P’s dirty laundry from Scotland.

My client today is the World’s largest Law Firm. That is quite a client to have. I was pleased. They wanted me to represent them by which I mean someone was suing them and they want me as their lawyer. I was most pleased. Anxious to make a good impression I broke out the quality luggage and made my way to their Canary Wharf Skyscraper.

Having been shown into a plush conference suite, I chatted lightly as I unpacked my files. Opening the zip with a flourish I noticed that a pair of P’s knickers had somehow lain hidden in the depths of the bag and were now flopped nonchalantly across the top of my papers. I cast a glance at the clients but they were all filling bone china cups with delicious fresh teas. I could still get away with this. I flicked at the underwear with my hand and it dropped into one of the bag’s recesses and, mercifully, out of sight. I then piled the files onto the table and zipped the bag shut again. I paused to regain my composure and began to set out my advice. I found it unnerving that none of them were looking at me. Instead they were focused on a point about a foot in front of me. I looked at my files nervously. No underwear appeared to be attached. What was it that had so grabbed their attention? Could it, I wondered, be the sturdy and extravagantly curled pubic hair that was sat atop the uppermost file?

I grabbed the file and followed their eyes as the hair slipped from its surface, twirled to the table top and then slid onto their handmade carpet. At that point I didn’t know where to look so I focused on the other file. Well now, what a coincidence! It too was sporting a merry-looking pube. As everyone in the room was thoroughly professional no-one asked me how well I’d got to know the papers. 

On Friday night the perfect storm of work that is presently engulfing me abated for a moment and P and I went to see Cirque De Soleil as guests of a particularly generous client. We followed that with some Italian food and a little wine and staggered home, waxen-faced with tiredness.

I climbed straight into bed and P sat awhile at her PC before creeping up the stairs. “Are you awake?” she whispered. I was, barely, so I lay doggo for fear she might be about to ask me about what colour the curtains in the new house should be or something else I’m ill-equipped to deal with at the best of times.

Cautiously she edged into the darkened  bedroom. My eyes sprang open as I heard a sound that could only really be P crushing my glasses under her heel. “Oh CRAP!” she whispered. She waited to see if I had woken, scooped the bits into her hand and headed for the bathroom with the debris in order to examine the damage. There she was apparently overwhelmed with remorse as I could hear distinctly saying:

“Ha ha I never liked them anyway”.

Where I feel happiest

There are a number of candidates but having forced myself to decide the answer was, until 15 years ago: in bed, at night with a storm rattling the windows. For the last 15 years it’s been much the same but now I am lying spooning with P, one arm draped over her listening to her sleeping breaths as the storm rages.

Things I avoid

(1) Argument By this I mean debate whether it be political, philosophical or ethical. The problem is that I enjoy it way too much. Once we have begun to argue, I simply will not stop until you have accepted my position and renounced the feeble nonsense that you call your own. I am not one for relativism of principle and my overweening sense of self-righteousness is matched with a diabolical relentlessness. Long past 3 am, well past the point you have lost the will to live, I am pursuing you out of the door as you search for a cab, a horse, a bicycle, anything just to get you away. It is not enough to surrender, oh no, I must believe that you believe. I will not be placated. Keep me away from that stuff and we’ll get away fine.

(2) Competitive Games Never break out the Trivial Pursuit when I am in the room. Do not weedle at me until I relent and play Pictionary. When you see me sweating and refusing to play that is the sweat of an alcoholic, 12 years off the bottle, faced with a bottle of cask strength Talisker. It is not that I need to win (though I notice that when I do things run more smoothly for all concerned) it is just that I develop a sense of fairness and propriety that classifies almost any gentle warping of the rules (which I have read and memorised in preparation) as a sin reaching past fratricide in terms of infamy. Indeed fratricide is always a risk when we play games as a family. May the Lord forbid that anyone should have any fun.

(3) Nostalgia There are songs – songs I once loved – that I simply cannot bear to listen to now. They make my heart ache. I feel a welling emptiness into which I gently implode. I become drowsy and confused as if dosed with morphine syrup. C S Lewis thought that powerful longing, induced by music or some other beauty, was the soul longing for God. It overwhelms me so utterly that I have to stay focused on the gravelly future instead; eyes narrowed and walking forward like Lot.

Jobs I wish I done

(1) Cartoonist I was cartoonist for my University newspaper. Not a particularly good one but good enough and reliable when it came to deadlines. As it became more obvious I was heading towards the Law and still more obvious that the I would never be even a scintilla as good as any of those handful of cartoonists that appeared to make a living at it, I put the pens aside. When webcomics took off, I had another look at the situation. I was encouraged to find that most webcomics were appalling bad. Unfunny in a million different ways (900,000 of them being demonstrated by strips like PvP); either drawn left-handed by right-handed artists or else by people whose artistic talent would not stretch to finger-painting on a good day. Some truly abominable piles of shite seemed to have a baying audience of near-obsessive fans. That’s what I wanted, an army of unthinking moobsophiles ready to buy T-Shirts and to pay for me to fly to Hawaii to be snide to them at conventions. Then I came across Beaver and Steve and snapped the digital artpad in two. James’s strips are amongst the best I have read in any format at any time. I hope he appreciates how good he really is. He is not alone. For a taste of the best have a look at Beardy Rick’s blogroll.

(2) Astronomer I did an Open University course in Astronomy and Planetary Science and haven’t felt so excited by every word I read since R and I found his father’s frankly astonishing collection of pornography when we were 10 (“What is that thing?!!”). However, ultimately I fail to meet the two minimum requirements for the job. First, every time I try to grow a beard it largely congregates under my chin making me look as if I am wearning a ruff woven from red and black pubic hair. Secondly, I am way too stupid at maths (bah).