Despite myself I actually enjoy these affairs and I am equally happy for them to be social or work-related, the best contain elements of both and the #lawblogs night, kindly hosted by 1 Crown Office Row certainly fell into that category. The panel were three well known blawgers (the merits of that term was debated) in the shape of David Allen Green, author of the (in)famous Jack of Kent blog and legal correspondent for the New Statesman; Carl Gardner, former government lawyer, writer and author of Head of Legal; and Adam Wagner, junior barrister, host and editor of the UK Human Rights Blog. Ably compered by Catrin Griffths, editor of The Lawyer.

For me the event was confirmation of a suspicion I have long held – that lawyers are, in the main, frustrated writers. While the panel were excellent, as was to be expected, the real value for me was in the mingling afterwards. The diversity in attendance was heartening from law students to the professional press to well respected lawyers, what was lacking was any form of snobbery or superiority, what united most was a deep interest in the law and the need to write about it. I have never considered myself a law blogger having always thought there were many far more qualified to comment yet what I saw was that that there is a place for almost every level – as one of the panelists commented, bloggers are not in competition with the main stream media, they provide a check and balance function. – For me this translates as there being a place for everyone if they want it, even the wildly insane commenters we all seem to attract.*

I see a real place for events such as these as a way of breaking down barriers, swapping ideas and information, especially in a profession under the spotlight for its perceived elitism. Sadly I had to rush off early but not before I had managed to offend the lads from Legal Week. Special mentions to the people who I did get to talk to: Ashley Connick, Emily Allbon and a man who knows how to find a really flattering profile picture: Tim Bratton.

I believe the next event is to be held 12th May 2011 – details, I assume will be on http://www.ukhumanrightsblog.com/

* This sounds terribly close to Tony Blair’s big conversation, doesn’t it?

I have been asked to write my own leaving email to the firm and have decided to keep it brief:

TITAN! to whose immortal eyes
The sufferings of mortality,
Seen in their sad reality,
Were not as things that gods despise;
What was thy pity’s recompense?
A silent suffering, and intense;
The rock, the vulture, and the chain,
All that the proud can feel of pain,
The agony they do not show,
The suffocating sense of woe,
Which speaks but in its loneliness,
And then is jealous lest the sky
Should have a listener, nor will sigh
Until its voice is echoless.

Titan! to thee the strife was given
Between the suffering and the will,
Which torture where they cannot kill;
And the inexorable Heaven,
And the deaf tyranny of Fate,
The ruling principle of Hate,
Which for its pleasure doth create
The things it may annihilate,
Refus’d thee even the boon to die:
The wretched gift Eternity
Was thine–and thou hast borne it well.
All that the Thunderer wrung from thee
Was but the menace which flung back
On him the torments of thy rack;
The fate thou didst so well foresee,
But would not to appease him tell;
And in thy Silence was his Sentence,
And in his Soul a vain repentance,
And evil dread so ill dissembled,
That in his hand the lightnings trembled.

Thy Godlike crime was to be kind,
To render with thy precepts less
The sum of human wretchedness,
And strengthen Man with his own mind;
But baffled as thou wert from high,
Still in thy patient energy,
In the endurance, and repulse
Of thine impenetrable Spirit,
Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse,
A mighty lesson we inherit:
Thou art a symbol and a sign
To Mortals of their fate and force;
Like thee, Man is in part divine,
A troubled stream from a pure source;
And Man in portions can foresee
His own funereal destiny;
His wretchedness, and his resistance,
And his sad unallied existence:
To which his Spirit may oppose
Itself–and equal to all woes,
And a firm will, and a deep sense,
Which even in torture can descry
Its own concenter’d recompense,
Triumphant where it dares defy,
And making Death a Victory.

I think that is punchy and to the point, no?

I have also been involved in some top tier contractual negotiations of late:

A – You owe us money

B – Do we?

A – Yes, we paid for X and it turns out you were supposed to.

B – But you paid for it, we asked if you would pay and you did.

A – Yes, but I’ve just checked the contract and it turns out you were supposed to pay

B – Where in the contract does it say that?

A – I’m not going to tell you

B – No seriously, if it says it tell us where

A -If you don’t know I’m not going to tell you.

B -Riiiiight. But you’re asking us to pay money back so is the onus not on you to show us where it says we should?

A – *silence*

If anyone needs me I will be in Vienna.

It is with honour and a sense of trepidation that I have been asked to write this short piece on Remembrance Day. As I sat at my computer I wondered how I could possibly do justice to such a theme, I can’t but I can at least try and explain what it means to me…

Let us put the charity aside for a minute and concentrate on the topic. We can ignore the tub thumping jingoism, grim faced politicians and the donations of profits from memoirs; what does that red flower mean? To me it is apolitical and I think this is the most important point to remember. I admire and support anyone wearing the white poppy, really I do, but I think it misses the point slightly. Remembrance Day and the symbolism that goes with it is not about the rights or wrongs of wars it is about the wrongs, it is about the people who died in them not the causes they were killed for. I will always avoid using phrases such as ‘Died for his country’ or ‘made the ultimate sacrifice’ because, for me, this implies that all the wars in which our young have died have been worthy of sacrifice; some have but we need to be very honest and admit that the overwhelming majority have not been.

War is hell. It is horrific and is the ultimate example of our failings as a society. Those that died were victims; they may not have been innocent, they may have been brave, they may have been guilty, they were often stupid and quite possibly they were the vilest individuals to walk the earth. However, that does not make them any less a victim of something that was not of their own doing, they were sent to face the forefront of scientific, processed, mechanical destruction and they did not return.

Every red poppy I see on a lapel encourages me. It means you remember people like my great-great uncle Walter who died in the trenches; you remember Mac, Stew and Cocky who were killed in Afghanistan last year and Steve who killed himself after numerous tours. For me Remembrance Day is just that, it is to remember. It is to think of those that are not here today to be with their families or who never had the chance to have a family. It is not just to think of those that died from our own countries; think of the lost of in Baghdad, Basra, Helmand, Belfast, Freetown, Berlin, Oman…

What Remembrance Day is not is a time to celebrate our martial prowess and we should be very careful of that. They are not ‘our brave boys’ they were boys, just boys. Do not turn this into a circus or pantomime but use it as a time to be thankful that you are well and your family are with you. Be grateful it is not your son or daughter that has been killed to sate another man’s ego but think of those who have. And never, ever believe the old lie: Dolce et decorum est pro patria mori…

1. We were training to become detachment commanders in a mortar platoon. Three of us, one on each tube, each with two other guys in our team. The commander would call out the coordinates and we would shout them back and adjust our mortars accordingly only Stu could never remember them. I would be aligned on the target and he would be stuttering. The punishment was the same every time: The Spitfire. He had to run to the end of the field and back, in each hand an 81mm mortar held out like bombs under the wings of a plane while shouting ‘neeeeeeeeeeeeeoooooorrrrrrrr’. Everyone would be laughing at him; he would be laughing too. We would begin again, the coordinates would be shouted out, I would shout them back and he would stutter. Even with his number 2 writing the digits down and holding them in front of him, he couldn’t do it. Again, the Spitfire. I left and he went on to become a mortar fire controller, he was very good at his job and it was something he wanted to do; he loved being on the net and providing the cover that allowed his mates to get out of trouble.

2.Mac had a hell of a reputation. A fierce soldier and rugby player who scared everyone. He also giggled like a girl and at this point looked like a girl, the kind of big girl squaddies loved. We were in drag and in the mess, I had been sent back to change as I wasn’t allowed to be drinking in a female clerk’s uniform. I returned to find him mincing out of the ladies loo, a true method actor. There we were pinching each other boobs when another group of girls turned up. They looked good, they were big but they clearly knew how to dress, high-heeled shoes the lot. However, this was our bar and we were not going to let those bitches in, well Mac wasn’t, I was fine with the situation. Banter turned to abuse turned to a scrap in the car-park as two bunch of transvestites, one group with better shoes, went toe to toe. Fists were flying, wigs were ripped off and heels used as weapons. Nobody was winning by the time the military police turned up, they didn’t catch us though as we sprinted away in the night to Mac’s infamous ‘HEE HEE HEEEEEEEEEEEEEE’

RIP lads.

We flew into Sierra Leone by way of a stopover in Senegal. Clearly the army and RAF didn’t want their soldiers to be staying anywhere that would be putting them at risk and so the decision was made to allow a company (around 100 men) of infantrymen to stay in the Presidential Hotel, Dakar. We landed at the airport and were ferried in rickety buses to a shining oasis in that chaotic city. We arrived, dressed in jungle fatigues, and were greeted by the RAF equivalent of the holiday rep.

‘Here are you room keys, you drink the mini bar you pay for it. Do not get pissed’ he warned us.

A few years prior to that an RAF officer decided to visit our camp in the UK. He was prancing around in his nice blue uniform when he came upon two Riflemen in much more practical green uniforms. They walked past him still talking; he clearly did not like this:

‘Don’t you salute RAF officers in your regiment?’ he asked

‘Fuck off, we don’t have RAF officers in our regiment’ one replied

And they carried on their way. The army don’t like being told what to do by the RAF and so the holiday rep’s warnings were met with fits of hysterics.

We proceeded to the buffet served by very tall African ladies in headdress, it was amazing. We ordered a few beers, a few more beers and then many, many beers and were soon shit faced. One group decided they were going for a swim in the sea, the very sea we were told contained sharks. However, my room mate Tony and I had had enough and headed to bed. By this point I was having some issues with walking and standing, I staggered to the beautiful glass lift and was soon joined by a smartly dressed gentleman. I slumped on to him, using his shoulder to support myself.

‘Hello’ I said ‘I’m here with the British army, what about you?’

‘I’m the Egyptian ambassador’ he replied, rather haughtily I thought.

I finally got to my room to find Tony already there. He had got talking to some very friendly ladies in the foyer and had invited them back to our room for drinks. Soon after I returned there was a knock at the door and they appeared, however, even in my drunken state I could see there was something amiss. I took Tony to one side and explained that I thought they may be prostitutes, in hindsight I may not have been as quiet as I thought I was being and this may have angered them some; we made a command decision that we didn’t want much to do with them and told them that we were tired and going to bed. They did not like this.

From nowhere reinforcements arrived. We found ourselves trying to keep around ten women of the night from entering our room, something they were set on. We tried slamming the door but a foot appeared to stop this and we were literally forced aside. We retreated.

So there we were, standing on the balcony with ten prostitutes in our room intent on carrying out their profession regardless of what we wanted. Tony asked them to leave, they wouldn’t. He tried grabbing one by the wrist, she slapped him. So we bribed them with the contents of our mini bar and finally we were able to lock the door.

Relieved we sat down when it occurred to me to look at the price list, it was outrageous, something like £6 for a can of coke and we’d just emptied it of brandy, vodka, wine, whisky and beer without touching a drop. There wasn’t much we could do so went to sleep and caught the bus back to the airport in the morning. When I say bus what I actually mean is a series of vans with wooden benches nailed to the floor and windows actually cut out of the walls. I sat in the front, still drunk and giggling with a stereo on my lap having escaped without paying the bar bill. And so we drove catch our plane, me sat next to a very confused looking driver as the Pogues blasted out of his van into the hot Dakar morning.

I never paid that bill but in the same tour I did provide a guard of honour for the American ambassdor to Sierra Leone for some sort of celebration. The function was in a brothel.

We had been briefed that there were no working trains in Iraq and the tracks had all been destroyed or stolen so it came as no surprise when we got crashed out to guard a de-railed train. Slap bang between two oil refineries and next to a small run down hamlet there lay a train. I am still confused as to how it crashed, I understood that a bit of track was missing and that this had more than likely been the work of the local villagers. What confused me was that is was a very gentle crash, the engine had come off the tracks but it was parked quite serenely in the sand, the rest was all intact and still where it should have been.

The train had been carrying supplies for the US forces further to the north. One of our patrols was already on the scene, they had been stationed at the nearest refinery but had to head back quickly to make sure it wasn’t attacked. We turned up to relieve them, two teams of four, I commanded one, Paul the other. The guys we were relieving had already caught one potential looter which was unfortunate for him as I wouldn’t have gone anywhere near somewhere guarded by McThug.

So we were left, 8 of us and a train, alone in the desert, it was getting rather biblical as the call to prayer floated over to us. Needless to say were were soon bored. Paul and I, having positioned the teams into a perimeter set about exploring our charge. It was just shipping container after shipping container, perfectly secure, or so they thought. The Americans were clearly very grateful that us Brits were guarding their train from the baying looters. What they hadn’t considered was two British soldiers armed with Gerber multi-tools and a lot of time on their hands.

The first ‘carriage’ contained a random selection of quad bikes, training pamphlets and parachutes in their bags. Parachute bags are a sought after commodity in army circles, great for stowing all your kit, we took one each but agreed we were better trained than the owners of the train and decided against the pamphlets.

The next container held fuel pods that usually reside under the wings of aircraft, we had no need for them. However we soon hit the jackpot – camp beds, the mother load of camp beds. We had really bad camp beds that were about forty years old and didn’t keep your arse from the floor. They had magnificent structures that let you sleep in unbridled luxury, even with little hole so you could fit a mosquito net. Paul and I stole enough for our teams the went n for a bit more pillaging but found nothing else worth stealing and retired to our trench (when I say trench I mean folding chairs).

We were later visited by the company colour serjeant, the man in charge of stores, he had come to bring us some food. He too got rather excited by our haul of camp beds and promised to return and return he did, with a 4 tonne truck and more men. We then proceeded to unload around 150 camp beds from the train and he drove off into the night. We were forced to seek shelter under the freshly looted train as it randomly started to rain. In the desert. In the summer.

We handed the crash site over to another battalion the next day, it was obviously our duty to report that some heavy duty looting had occurred before we arrived.

We were escorted back to our camp by McThug. His vehicle was in front of mine. We were driving through the middle of the desert when I saw the door of his vehicle open and something fall out. We passed whatever had fallen out and just after we did it exploded. The same thing happened again, he was dropping grenades out of his door!

The beds were kept hidden for the rest of the tour. As the vehicles were being shipped back to the UK they had to be inspected by the military police he sealed them with hologrammed stickers, the vehicles were promptly driven round the back of some buildings, the beds were loaded on and the stickers replaced.

I may owe the US taxpayer a few dollars. Sorry!

I got to see my war.

Imagine driving down a very long, straight highway now devoid of life. The landscape is flat, not a rise or dip as far as the horizon. Neat lines of broken metal hulls flank either side of the road, the steel shine of their surfaces dulled by the wind welted sand. It is a graveyard of the beaten and once proud, their twisted bodies still staring into the distance from which you came. They had been waiting for something and it had come, sweeping through far faster and stronger than they had imagined.

No lights shine in the evening dusk but a flickering orange glow pervades the scene casting shadows, locked in a macabre mazurka, on the road and surrounding desert. You can see the sources far off, either side of the road and to your front. They flare angrily, spitting flames, wounded and suffering, calling out in vain for help.

As you speed along all is silent but for the warm wind whipping at the material covering your face and the urgent whine of your engine. Nobody talks; they stare to their sides half-looking for a lingering, uncertain threat, half wondering what had happened in this unhappy place.

The living had been here once; it is hard to tell how long ago. You wonder where they had gone. Tracks in the ground are still visible as if the wind and sand wanted them remembered; you wonder who made these? This lifeless plain heard laughter once, where are those jokers? Whose hands steered the machines and revved their engines? Are you long dead or are your fresh corpses hidden by the creeping night? Do your families still wail? Do you smile out of frames on a far away wall, looked at once a year by a re-married wife? You hope they ran away before it came to them.

The wind blows too fast for the lingering stench of death and you are grateful for the ignorance.

In the middle distance great hulking caverns loom. They too are dark and broken. As you pass you can see each is punctured, the innards spill out of their hastily assembled mouths; concrete intestenes, livers and lungs. Their structures are alien to you; tall halls shaped like a letter ‘A’, useless now. You doubt if anyone would return here.

You have passed through the other side, the same road but now nothing either side of you as the hum of the tyres rolls you closer to the flames. They hold your attention, blinding you in the night. A sticky sweet smell greets you, offered in cloying waves by the wind, accusing:

‘You did this…’