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It’s heating up everywhere, observes William Byfield
May 25, 2026
– Steven Wright
We have become a society which has in this century changed its Lord Chancellor more often than its underwear. It appears that we have decided to take the same approach to our Prime Ministers. I lost my interest in party politics aged about 25 and certainly some of them have been a touch ‘rum’ in recent years. But, as the union of heads of chambers, an unofficial support group with surprising clout, would say: you can’t solve longstanding problems that have defied resolution over decades in a year or two. That must be all the more true for prime ministers.
HOCs are spared the 24-hour news coverage. The chambers year is punctuated by a series of key moments from which one lurches to the next: meetings of the General Management Committee, accidentally stumbling into revolutionary gatherings of the juniors after entering the wrong room in search of somewhere to draft an Advice, and culminating in the dreaded AGM, which makes questions in the House of Commons look like a piece of cake.
There are, though, the bright spots where you can mingle with members and guests without feeling too like Julius Caesar (on the fateful Ides of March) deciding it was time for a quick chat with the Senate. A head of chambers is safe generally at the chambers dinner (where the major concern is the damages being incurred in some increasingly posh venue as a result of too much grog), chambers parties (particularly if solicitors have been invited) and super-party occasions such as the one I have just attended to celebrate our new silk, Vad Enson.
These events used to be held in the Inns of Court. They are not so much now. Whether this is because of cost considerations, minutely analysed by chambers administrators, or, more likely, to increase the fun, is not entirely clear but the COVID pandemic sped up the demise of black tie events or indeed anything more formal than smart-casual.
Predictably, the women still wear fantastic outfits and the men now just look a mess, but there was something wonderful in celebrating in the first real warmth of the year – heat is much more bearable in May – on top of an amazing high building, beginning with cocktails that had a certain kick in them and moving on to champagne, together with the non-alcoholic drinks. At the first hint of a member mentioning fees, chambers’ rent, the appalling conditions in courts or anything to do with the Bar Standards Board, the head of chambers can quickly glide (a little harder than it used to be) to another group containing an old member whose name has just left the mind and younger, optimistic faces who are possibly newish tenants, pupils, new staff, guests or the hosts themselves of the glitzy bar. I have a suitable facial expression to cover all eventualities.
Now, I have always thought that barristers slightly enjoy crises in which they are not themselves involved. A dreadful crime is horrible to see on the News, but might there be a brief? The ears prick up to catch the location. Has a colleague who abandoned the law for the lure of Westminster come a bit of a cropper? Is somebody getting an even worse deal from the government than the legal profession? None of this is malicious or unkind and is only a guilty little secret in the hinterland of the heart.
Everything the day before the party was the same except for the weather, but what a change that brought about in our spirits. It has been a long, grey winter. Despite the breeze, which the height of the building enhanced, it still became very warm and it may be that we all found the liquids on offer thirst quenching (always a danger). But even with a slightly sensitive head the next day, I still had a happy face. Until, that is, Hetty Briar-Pitt, our equestrian obsessive, called in without notice and took me out for a coffee.
‘There will be a drought by June,’ she said, in a passable imitation of an ancient Greek prophetess. ‘Horses can’t cope with heat,’ she went on. I had a vague memory of horses in hot climes but suppressed the thought. ‘We’ll all be ruing it,” Hetty went on. ‘Hosepipe bans, sunburn, parched grass…’ I didn’t listen to the rest. I went back to my house to sign the petition against jury restrictions, looked at the doom-ridden headlines in the broadsheets, put my feet up on the couch and nodded off. The interlude was over.
William Byfield is the pseudonym of a senior member of the Bar. Gutteridge Chambers, and the events that happen there, are entirely fictitious.
May 25, 2026
– Steven Wright
We have become a society which has in this century changed its Lord Chancellor more often than its underwear. It appears that we have decided to take the same approach to our Prime Ministers. I lost my interest in party politics aged about 25 and certainly some of them have been a touch ‘rum’ in recent years. But, as the union of heads of chambers, an unofficial support group with surprising clout, would say: you can’t solve longstanding problems that have defied resolution over decades in a year or two. That must be all the more true for prime ministers.
HOCs are spared the 24-hour news coverage. The chambers year is punctuated by a series of key moments from which one lurches to the next: meetings of the General Management Committee, accidentally stumbling into revolutionary gatherings of the juniors after entering the wrong room in search of somewhere to draft an Advice, and culminating in the dreaded AGM, which makes questions in the House of Commons look like a piece of cake.
There are, though, the bright spots where you can mingle with members and guests without feeling too like Julius Caesar (on the fateful Ides of March) deciding it was time for a quick chat with the Senate. A head of chambers is safe generally at the chambers dinner (where the major concern is the damages being incurred in some increasingly posh venue as a result of too much grog), chambers parties (particularly if solicitors have been invited) and super-party occasions such as the one I have just attended to celebrate our new silk, Vad Enson.
These events used to be held in the Inns of Court. They are not so much now. Whether this is because of cost considerations, minutely analysed by chambers administrators, or, more likely, to increase the fun, is not entirely clear but the COVID pandemic sped up the demise of black tie events or indeed anything more formal than smart-casual.
Predictably, the women still wear fantastic outfits and the men now just look a mess, but there was something wonderful in celebrating in the first real warmth of the year – heat is much more bearable in May – on top of an amazing high building, beginning with cocktails that had a certain kick in them and moving on to champagne, together with the non-alcoholic drinks. At the first hint of a member mentioning fees, chambers’ rent, the appalling conditions in courts or anything to do with the Bar Standards Board, the head of chambers can quickly glide (a little harder than it used to be) to another group containing an old member whose name has just left the mind and younger, optimistic faces who are possibly newish tenants, pupils, new staff, guests or the hosts themselves of the glitzy bar. I have a suitable facial expression to cover all eventualities.
Now, I have always thought that barristers slightly enjoy crises in which they are not themselves involved. A dreadful crime is horrible to see on the News, but might there be a brief? The ears prick up to catch the location. Has a colleague who abandoned the law for the lure of Westminster come a bit of a cropper? Is somebody getting an even worse deal from the government than the legal profession? None of this is malicious or unkind and is only a guilty little secret in the hinterland of the heart.
Everything the day before the party was the same except for the weather, but what a change that brought about in our spirits. It has been a long, grey winter. Despite the breeze, which the height of the building enhanced, it still became very warm and it may be that we all found the liquids on offer thirst quenching (always a danger). But even with a slightly sensitive head the next day, I still had a happy face. Until, that is, Hetty Briar-Pitt, our equestrian obsessive, called in without notice and took me out for a coffee.
‘There will be a drought by June,’ she said, in a passable imitation of an ancient Greek prophetess. ‘Horses can’t cope with heat,’ she went on. I had a vague memory of horses in hot climes but suppressed the thought. ‘We’ll all be ruing it,” Hetty went on. ‘Hosepipe bans, sunburn, parched grass…’ I didn’t listen to the rest. I went back to my house to sign the petition against jury restrictions, looked at the doom-ridden headlines in the broadsheets, put my feet up on the couch and nodded off. The interlude was over.
It’s heating up everywhere, observes William Byfield
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