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The potholes of justice. By William Byfield*
February 23, 2026 – Henry Francis Lyte, Abide with Me
Is April the cruellest month, as Eliot would have it? January is certainly funeral time. The last one I attended, three weeks ago, had good old Abide with Me belting out. If ever there was a hymn to wring the withers, it is that one and not surprising that it was played on the deck of the sinking Titanic, along with Nearer, My God, to Thee.
I found myself humming it recently inside a famous legal building not very far from the Temple, the Gothic portals of which you enter shiveringly as a young barrister. There were a number of encouraging notices inside about the age and importance of the building, but it wasn’t by chance that the famous words I quoted above were in my mind and on my lips.
Decay in public buildings is a common sight. As one of my few remaining friends in the House of Commons tells me, we are governed downwards. I trust his judgement on these things. He has been a member of at least three political parties to my certain knowledge and has almost certainly thought about joining more. He is unashamedly non-political but he knows how the system works from top to bottom. I will call him Gerald. That isn’t his real name, but I do not want references to him or me turning up in the distribution of 3,000,000 pages of someone else’s correspondence emanating from the United States in ten years’ time. He tells it thus: the most important thing is the press release informing the public of a new piece of legislation. Next, come the debates in the two chambers of our Parliament. Then, the law is passed and we are treated to yet more publicity from the relevant minister and commentary from pundits about the difference it will make in all our lives.
We wait until it is brought into force. This can happen very quickly or not so fast as the mood takes our masters.
Last comes enforcement: the sticky business of actually catching people for breaking this law. This part is not so popular unless it has been one of the rare offences to be near the top of the agenda for senior police officers and the Crown Prosecution Service. As Gerald puts it: for every new law whose consequences we feel biting, there will be at least ten more which fade into insignificance, probably only dragged screaming into the light of day by an imaginative prosecutor or police officer who keeps up with continuous professional development. For the rest, you might as well stamp them ‘Job Done’ once the poor Bill becomes an Act and joins the mountain of legislation collecting dust somewhere.
Take the detestable crime of strangulation which seems to be a national epidemic if a visit to the local Crown Court is anything to go by, compared with notices on lampposts in my local borough telling of dire consequences if you rev your engine too loudly for which I doubt a single prosecution has ever been brought despite the racket most days in the summer season. I won’t even mention pedal bikes and similar powered contraptions bombing across pedestrian crossings and through countless red lights without fear of any retribution unless the rider is really, really unlucky,
Gerald and I mused over this as we drank tea in the Palace of Westminster as MPs from virtually every political party, bar one, stopped to chat with him as though he were one of their own.
‘Of course,’ said Gerald, ‘all of that just pales into insignificance, William, when you look at simple maintenance of the buildings meant to show our national splendour. This place could fall down at any minute.’
If he expected my sympathy, he was mistaken. I told him of the hideous condition of virtually all courts except the top one and of the only modern Crown Court we had in the metropolis which they predictably sold off. ‘I heard that,’ he said. ‘Apparently, you wouldn’t be allowed to house a prisoner in some of the judge’s retiring rooms in London. It would breach their human rights. Not enough oxygen.’
We sipped for a minute or so in silence. Then Gerald cheered up: ‘Have you heard the latest?’ I looked blank. ‘They’re honestly, genuinely, cross my heart and hope to die, on my baby’s life, going to bring in a Bill to make it a criminal offence for an MP to lie.’
I looked at him and realised that he was telling the truth before we both collapsed into raucous laughter amid puzzled glances from the nation’s rulers.
William Byfield is the pseudonym of a senior member of the Bar. Gutteridge Chambers, and the events that happen there, are entirely fictitious.
February 23, 2026 – Henry Francis Lyte, Abide with Me
Is April the cruellest month, as Eliot would have it? January is certainly funeral time. The last one I attended, three weeks ago, had good old Abide with Me belting out. If ever there was a hymn to wring the withers, it is that one and not surprising that it was played on the deck of the sinking Titanic, along with Nearer, My God, to Thee.
I found myself humming it recently inside a famous legal building not very far from the Temple, the Gothic portals of which you enter shiveringly as a young barrister. There were a number of encouraging notices inside about the age and importance of the building, but it wasn’t by chance that the famous words I quoted above were in my mind and on my lips.
Decay in public buildings is a common sight. As one of my few remaining friends in the House of Commons tells me, we are governed downwards. I trust his judgement on these things. He has been a member of at least three political parties to my certain knowledge and has almost certainly thought about joining more. He is unashamedly non-political but he knows how the system works from top to bottom. I will call him Gerald. That isn’t his real name, but I do not want references to him or me turning up in the distribution of 3,000,000 pages of someone else’s correspondence emanating from the United States in ten years’ time. He tells it thus: the most important thing is the press release informing the public of a new piece of legislation. Next, come the debates in the two chambers of our Parliament. Then, the law is passed and we are treated to yet more publicity from the relevant minister and commentary from pundits about the difference it will make in all our lives.
We wait until it is brought into force. This can happen very quickly or not so fast as the mood takes our masters.
Last comes enforcement: the sticky business of actually catching people for breaking this law. This part is not so popular unless it has been one of the rare offences to be near the top of the agenda for senior police officers and the Crown Prosecution Service. As Gerald puts it: for every new law whose consequences we feel biting, there will be at least ten more which fade into insignificance, probably only dragged screaming into the light of day by an imaginative prosecutor or police officer who keeps up with continuous professional development. For the rest, you might as well stamp them ‘Job Done’ once the poor Bill becomes an Act and joins the mountain of legislation collecting dust somewhere.
Take the detestable crime of strangulation which seems to be a national epidemic if a visit to the local Crown Court is anything to go by, compared with notices on lampposts in my local borough telling of dire consequences if you rev your engine too loudly for which I doubt a single prosecution has ever been brought despite the racket most days in the summer season. I won’t even mention pedal bikes and similar powered contraptions bombing across pedestrian crossings and through countless red lights without fear of any retribution unless the rider is really, really unlucky,
Gerald and I mused over this as we drank tea in the Palace of Westminster as MPs from virtually every political party, bar one, stopped to chat with him as though he were one of their own.
‘Of course,’ said Gerald, ‘all of that just pales into insignificance, William, when you look at simple maintenance of the buildings meant to show our national splendour. This place could fall down at any minute.’
If he expected my sympathy, he was mistaken. I told him of the hideous condition of virtually all courts except the top one and of the only modern Crown Court we had in the metropolis which they predictably sold off. ‘I heard that,’ he said. ‘Apparently, you wouldn’t be allowed to house a prisoner in some of the judge’s retiring rooms in London. It would breach their human rights. Not enough oxygen.’
We sipped for a minute or so in silence. Then Gerald cheered up: ‘Have you heard the latest?’ I looked blank. ‘They’re honestly, genuinely, cross my heart and hope to die, on my baby’s life, going to bring in a Bill to make it a criminal offence for an MP to lie.’
I looked at him and realised that he was telling the truth before we both collapsed into raucous laughter amid puzzled glances from the nation’s rulers.
The potholes of justice. By William Byfield*
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