My thoughts turned to dining recently with a High Court judge mate and his grumbling about the tedious cases before him. He, or indeed any judge, would pay serious money to preside over a cake-decorating stoush, while the public gallery would be packed.
Judges rightly weigh the cost to the taxpayer of doomed cases or deranged litigants, but a wise judge would be aware that brawling over cake decorating, for God's sake, is worth any price for the pleasure provided taxpayers reading about it, as we certainly did when a brawl erupted two decades back, in a Wellington chess tournament.
With a Methuselah's share of court cases under my belt I'm aware that a compensating factor is the hilarity that inevitably occurs. Judges necessarily maintain an aloof demeanour but they are human, and it soon became evident to me that they enjoy these occasions as much as everyone else.
Their work can be intensely gruelling, thus periodic comic interludes provide a healthy relief.
I discovered this a quarter of a century back. In the 1980s the Securities Commission was headed by a show-boater called Colin Patterson.
The problem in those boom years was, like barristers, he had nothing to do, issues mostly arising after recessionary-induced collapses. So he created inquiries over trivia and acquired a reputation for bullying - corporate executives being craven types and thus easy meat to intimidate.
One day, he wrote asking why we'd cancelled a hitherto announced building acquisition. It was of no moment, not justifying his involvement, nevertheless I replied advising of the perfectly valid grounds for our action. He then telephoned and said he didn't want written explanations but instead a formal inquiry. I told him this was childish and that, unlike him, I was too busy to waste my time, whereupon he served a summons on me to attend a hearing.
The problem with his summons was it missed an apostrophe which, call me pedantic, I genuinely took offence at.
Nevertheless, we bowled along to his bogus inquiry, filled with his staff and lawyers. Anticipating trouble, Patterson was unctuously all over me, pouring my coffee and such-like. Then he began.
"I'm not saying a word until you put the apostrophe in," I said. "No I won't," he snapped. "A ball-point is fine," I added helpfully, but Patterson was not going to give me my apostrophe and a stalemate ensued. "We're wasting our time and are leaving," I said. "You'll stay right where you are," Patterson shouted. I kicked my chair over, stood up and asked, "Which bastard here is going to stop me." They all looked out the window and we walked out.
The fun then started when Patterson prosecuted me. Six months later, in the witness box, after the judge rose for lunch, I remarked to his secretary sitting adjacent that she must find this dull after murders and what not. "You're joking," she replied. "I've never known the judge so excited." Puzzled, I asked why. "He's euphoric; he can't contain his joy having this case. He thinks you're all silly buggers, with armies of QCs arguing over an apostrophe."
Knowing that, I had fun thereafter. "Look at your securities staff up there in the gallery," I said to the prosecuting counsel, "clutching one another like fear-ridden elderly spinster librarians, not game to give evidence." The lawyer looked pleadingly at the judge who, plainly enjoying this, lowered his head to his writing pad to avoid his eye. Emboldened, I added, "And Patterson took the easy way out."
Patterson had died the previous week but even that tastelessness only earned a mild bench rebuke with, "Oh come, Sir Robert, that's a bit rich."
Subsequently the judge wrote a learned 120-page report in our favour, which construction I sensed gave him great pleasure.
So shame on the unimaginative Sydney judge for denying us the splendid entertainment of cake decorators slugging it out.
