Twitter off to Galway

It's New Year's Eve (again) so here is my last blog of 2010.  Full of Christmas cheer and without having thought of work for over a week, this blog, unashamedly, has absolutely nothing to do with the law.  It is a tale from 2010 about deep technical despair but even deeper contentment arising from my favourite hobby: travel.  It was a tale that leapt into my mind when trying to install by kids' Xbox Kinnect on Christmas Day.  I love Father Christmas as much as the next man...but delivering the presents, frankly, is the easy bit! 

It was on a day in mid September that I went to bed feeling particulary irritable and exhausted.   I felt really old.  This must have been how my gran felt, I thought, when her bank sent a cashpoint card in 1987.  I remember having to go on the bus with her to Harrow to impart my youthful experience of such things.  She was the strongest person I’d ever met in my life, but I felt so sorry for her that day – unable to cope with technological change; a new-age incompetent.

In fairness to my dear old gran, she’d taken 71 years to reach this depressing moment of acknowledgment (I suspect in everyone’s life) that the tools of life are moving too quickly for us to catch them up.   Within those 71 years, she’d witnessed the switch from horse and cart to motor car.  She’d witnessed the switch from propeller planes to commercial jet airliners.  She’d witnessed the still more staggering developments in flight technology which saw men being shot up to the moon for goodness sake.  Why then at just 41, I thought solemnly,  had I also become a new–age incompetent; a technophobe?  Why had I becoming isolated from the rest of society?  When, I thought, had I become such a complete and utter loser?

That day had started badly.  I needed to be away at 6am for a training seminar.  The Law Society require all solicitors to undertake "Continuing Professional Development" which creates few great lawyers but, presumably,  makes somebody lots of money.   Unfortunately the alarm on my new mobile didn’t ring.  It was an iPhone chosen by my 10 year old son.  He’d set a new ring tone (Hersham Boys by Sham 69) within 3 minutes of the thing coming out of the box. I had a photo of Paulo Di Canio as my IPhone “wallpaper” inside 10 minutes.  He then took a video of his 6 year old sister pretending to be Lady Gaga and competed in the Olympics against his cousin (resident 6 miles away!) before boredom finally set in.  If only I’d got him to set the poxy alarm!

In my car 2 hours later at 8am, I frantically stabbed and fumbled with my wife’s TomTom.  But could I get to the post code entry screen as explained so nonchalantly to me the night before?  No I bloody couldn’t.  Nor could I even get the device to stay stuck to the dashboard.  Between my home and my training seminar in deepest Deptford, the device fell into the crutch of my trousers 6 times.  To add insult to injury, these were the only occasions when the bloody thing spoke to me.

These periodic TomTom blows to my midriff did nothing to abate my anger, nor reduce my blood pressure.  Throughout my road rage the new iPhone vibrated half a dozen times in my pocket.  Each time a “bluetooth disabled” command roared from the central console of my dashboard.  I stopped at a lay by with a view to asking my son what a blue tooth was and how it could help me in life.  Despite more erratic poking,  I couldn’t even get the phone to make a call.  I couldn’t see a green phone sign on that plasma screen for love nor money.

On arrival I sprinted to the sound of sirens through the reception area towards a conference room marked “meeting in progress”.   I was pulled back by a security guard wielding a large plastic probe.  I thought my gonads had been given enough attention by my wife’s TomTom - but that was wishful thinking.

As I emptied by pockets I could see that my iPhone was showing 16 missed calls.  “But I haven’t heard Sham 69 once this morning, for f##k sake” I wailed to myself in despair.  “Keep that vulgarity to yourself” responded the security guard as he poked his bleeping probe into the small of my back.  “You’re not on Facebook now” he added.

“What the f##k is Facebook?” was all I could muster before being escorted out of the building in a half nelson.

When I got back to the office, an irritating junior colleague asked whether the seminar had been presented via “Power Point” or “Keynote”.  I shrugged and just said   “Who cares?” before going to my office, ringing my wife and begging her for an immediate holiday.  Two forgotten internet passwords and a pint of lager later, I was in town taking the old-school “see a travel agent” option.  It seemed preferable to navigating through Google, buyacheapflight.com, donotusebuyacheapflight.com and doyoufeeluselessyet.com – where I would inevitably lose my credit card details and personal ID to some clever little sod in Nairobi.

To be fair to the travel agent, he threw me back on a road towards salvation.  After unleashing my technological woes upon him and expressing my urgent need for peace, he told me I needed to go to the West of Ireland…to Galway, specifically, for the International Oyster Festival.

So it was to Galway that I flew, with my wife, the day following those sullen thoughts about technological advances and my gran’s descent from greatness.

We flew with the little known Aer Arann from Luton.  The plane had propellers on each wing. I had never been on such an antiquated plane but, peculiarly, I found the little propellers quite comforting as we spluttered across the Irish Sea.

On arrival at Galway airport we discovered that flights were incoming but temporarily not outgoing.  There was apparently a very dangerous oil slick on the runway.  There was a fire engine on hand but sitting idle along with its crew.  They all watched as 3 men in luminous jackets took it in turns to brush away the oil with a large broom.

As a consequence of the oil spill, the departure lounge was heaving.  To my surprise (but helping the process by which  tranquility, as a concept, was becoming reunited with my aching brain) there wasn’t an ounce of stress to be seen.  Some played cards; others drank Guinness; most were just talking and laughing.  There was not a phone or a laptop anywhere

.

“I’m going to like it here” I told my wife as we queued for a taxi. 

 Unfortunately our cab then ran out of petrol a mile out of the airport.  It was like water off a duck’s back to the driver – and by then to me as well. “That’ll be the children again - driving here, there and feckin everywhere without asking me….Still, serves me right for all those impure thoughts, eh?” 

He had no phone to call for assistance.  As he started to walk up the road with a green plastic container from his boot, he shouted back that the gaelic football club 2 fields across would be a decent way to spend some of the afternoon.  “When God invented time, he made plenty of it - so enjoy the craic and I’ll pick you up in a bit.  The oysters will still be there tomorrow!”  We followed our orders.

Three hours (and a very exciting match) later our cabbie arrived back.  He appeared to be with his wife. He was fully suited and booted. The pair were clearly both  there for a good night out.  I caught our driver’s eye as he marched to the bar.  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I forgot all about you – I must get you both a pint now.”  He then turned slowly to his wife:  “For f##k’s sake I forgot to fill the cab up too.”

“You’ve a head like a colander” mused his wife “only not as useful” she continued.  “I wondered what you were doing with the petrol can when you came in” she concluded, her husband nodding to give full acknowledgement to his own ineptitude.

“We’ll get you a ride to your digs after I’ve told you the one about the four nuns at the farmyard….” said our errant taxi driver before proceeding to tell us every joke in his repertoire.  Time became lost after that.  We drank loads but we laughed loads more. 

By midnight we were on the football field learning the art of gaelic football with a cabbage…and between 1am and 3am we were back inside the clubhouse dancing to the Pogues and singing to U2.  All in all it was indeed a great craic!

The next morning we awoke in our B&B to the smell of bacon.  The bacon was accompanied by eggs collected from the backyard that morning by the owner’s daughter.  I had 3 mugs of tea to wash it all down – and it was heavenly.

Immediately after breakfast we were collected by our new friends from the night before. 

“Still no taxi, but it’s ok, we’ll walk to Morans in Kilcolgan – it’ll do us all the power of good."

Kilcolgan meant nothing to me, but after seven miles of wind in our faces and sun on our heads, we were there, by a weir, picking oysters from their shells and supping the creamiest Guinness within God’s creation.

The walk had been invigorating; the company enthralling; our destination both charming and reinvigorating in equal measure.    I felt alive again…and at no disadvantage at all for the absence of a tweet.  My wife sent a text to our son from the weir side: “C U L8er my luv. dad says iphone is yours. he luvs u 2!”

So if you nothing else in 2011, get yourself to Galway.  Happy New Year!!

Sweating and Squatting

A recently published guide, issued by the Ministry of Justice, is intended to thwart the insurgence of squatters upon our private property. Housing Minister, Grant Shapps, has roused us all into stopping “anti-social, undesirable and unfair practice”. Very well said Minister...but do you know that these anti-social undesirables can make lots of money from these unfair practices too?

A client of mine gave me a flyer last week which advertised the following key features to an event: 

·    The venue for a 3-day rave (my client’s commercial warehouse!)

·    The time the rave started and finished (9.00pm on Friday night right through to 5.00am the following Monday!)

·    The price for entry to the rave (£10 per raver!)

·    The names of five “disc jockeys” (not called this on the flyer, but I am the nostalgic sort... there is plenty of nostalgia to follow!) brought in to keep the raving masses entertained.

For a very brief moment, I felt ecstatic (no pun intended) by my client’s gift: I thought I was being invited to a “do”. Unfortunately, the pained expression on my client’s face, plus the fact it was office hours and I was in my suit,  made me realise that I was being asked to do something legal. My initial ecstasy immediately dampened.   I think, youth of today, that this is called “a downer”.

Now for the nostalgic section.....

In 1987 I attended my first rave. I call it that very loosely. It was a lawfully arranged “soul weekender” at the Prestatyn site of Pontins (tragically now in Administration!). I went with some school mates, Paul Prokopiou and Dave Scourfield. Prok danced (principally to Alexander O’Neill, Luther Vandross and Barry White) for 72 hours. Dave drank Stella Artois with Crème de Menthe chasers for 72 hours. I tried a cheeky combo of these two activities for 72 hours. Hour 73 was no picnic for any of us! I had my first bout of alcohol poisoning; Prok had very sore groins and calves; Dave, bless him, started on the road to nowhere which he paced with liver pickling conviction for the next 17 years of his life.

The Soul Boys returned to Amersham in a mess and a month later I began my law degree at Manchester University. Reasonably fresh from the Prestatyn soul weekender, I attended the much publicised Hacienda Club during my first week in Manchester. It had not, as it turned out, been publicised quite enough in Amersham! Dave Smith (my new mate) dressed up in a suit and tie (á la Rick Astley) and I naively followed (the) suit. For those of you who remember The Hacienda in 1987, we had clearly made some schoolboy errors when choosing our clobber for the big night. The bouncers should not have allowed us entry, but they obviously felt teased into the possibility of some Rick Astley-style dancing to “Pump up the Volume”. Tragically, the bouncers weren’t disappointed. Dave and I were ejected before midnight.

A month later still, another mate from home came up to visit.  I need to preserve his anonymity in this blog.  What I can say is that (a) he dressed like a proper raver (from memory he brought Kickers back into fashion in 1987 after a 3 year leave of absence from the fashion industry) (b) he had hair like a proper raver (c) he took mind distorting drugs like a proper raver (d) he danced like a proper raver and, as a consequence of all the above (e) everyone in the Hacienda and Ibiza-wide absolutely loved him.

 A few years later at my wedding the same friend was still raving and was still the centre of attention – or certainly just left of centre next to my wonderful wife.  Sadly (and the reason for preserving his anonymity here) my friend also caught the attention of 3 constables from the Thames Valley Police Force following an ugly residents’ bar incident at about 3am.  The involvement of the Merseyside Constabulary, arising from the same ugly incident, needs to wait for another blog because I feel myself going off course.  Long story short: the “boyish high jinx” (as it has been classified by my raving “mad” mate) which created a duel force police investigation into my wedding night was, in hindsight, the result of 80s and 90s rave/drug culture. 

Nowadays, simply the thought of spending 3 full days in a drum and base thumping warehouse makes me feel physically sick.  If I’m honest, the prospect of 3 days in Prestatyn doesn’t fill me with love either.  I’m pretty sure my Hacienda loving mate, now in his forties, would still be “lovin it, lovin it lovin it” (as the youth of today might say – must check with my “in tune” teenage nephew!) but, being firmly on the side of the righteous and the good, here’s a bit of law on this subject to help landowning victims of sweating and squatting revellers – sadly I had to get here in the end!

• For “permanent” squatters, expedited possession proceedings (approximately a 7 day turnaround from application to court order and, where necessary, bailiff eviction) are available specifically to deal with “unknown persons” in occupation of residential or commercial premises.  The legal costs (sadly irrecoverable because there are no “named” defendants to enforce an order for costs against) will be in the region of £3,500 all inclusive.

• More appealing, if (like my client) you have found a flyer post-party giving the names of some DJs, you can apply for something called a Norwich Pharmacal Order which will compel a named DJ to identify the names of the actual rave organiser(s).

• Now with named defendants, via the Norwich Pharmacal route, you can bring a claim for damages against the organisers for trespass, criminal damage and, best still, for an account of all profits made by the trespassers, on your land, from their event.  With thousands of sweating bodies regularly converging on mass at these venues, at £10 a head minimum, the arithmetic is easy!

If you have recently been a victim of this highly organised crime, please feel free to contact me, Sian Nath or Jackie Revell through our website (www.cwd-law.com)

Private Wheel Clamping

One of the things I really hate is private wheel clamping.  Well boys, your days are numbered! 

Next month (November 2010) sees the Freedom Bill begin its passage through Parliament.  If its passage through the Commons and the Lords is successful, it will be unlawful to implement any clamping operation on privately owned land.  So it will be good riddance to the hired thugs who charge £150 for the release of a wheel clamp installed (usually as you approach your vehicle) just moments earlier - and who then extort another £150 from you for the 5 minutes it takes for you to return from a cashpoint machine!

I recently helped a client who was clamped, whilst sitting in his car, with the engine still running,  next to his 18 month old baby strapped into her baby seat!  Dad and daughter were waiting for wife and mum to exit the adjacent chemists with every parents' favourite recreational drug: Calpol.  My client came to me £470 poorer than when he turned his left indicator towards the gaping and alluring space by the (apparently private) kerb.

But what can we do now when faced with intimidating demands for obscene amounts of money from the fat boys in luminous jackets?

Well the starting point is to require sight of the clamper's written authority to clamp.  To become a licenced private wheel clamper, you need more than a warped desire to cause people distress and misery - you need, amongst other things, to abide by Clause 6 of the British Parking Association Approved Operator Scheme Code of Practice.  This regulatory little beauty requires you to have written authority from the private landowner where you are operating.  When you are near shops or similar (ie where parking would appear to be an uncontroversial thing to try!) you might well find that, whilst the clamper has a written authority from "somebody," it is really just a "nobody" - in the legal and "property owning" sense.

If handing over cash is the better immediate alternative to arguing about the rights and wrongs of the Clause 6 authority, then don't despair.  You or your solicitor can write to the clamping company after the event to ask for the written authority from the landowner.  I suggest you do this under threat of an application for something called Pre-Action Disclosure (for the legal anoraks amongst us, see Part 31.14 of the Civil Procedure Rules...taken best with a very large brandy!)

If the clamping company refuses to co-operate with your reasonable written request, the Court will often Order that the disclosure of the key document  be accompanied by a cheque to reimburse legal costs!  That always feels good.

For a better feeling still (if through this process you discover that there is no valid authority for the particular piece of land you were parked upon) advertise locally for other victims of the same scam and bring a group action to recover all of the money improperly extorted during the clampers fleeting but highly profitable visit to your town.

If the Freedom Bill becomes law, then old fashioned "no parking" signals will come back into vogue - like the building of walls and the erection of gates.  If however, before that day comes, you would like help in tackling some luminous jackets, then please contact me via our website:  http://www.cwd-law.com/.

Fish Fatalities & Fitness For Purpose

I was in the pub on Saturday and my mate was moaning. His wife had bought a hair dryer which he thought was too hot. His wife was happy with her purchase but my (balding) mate had suffered what he described as a serious “melting injury” in his rush to get ready for the pub. My mate has always been prone to theatrics. When we played football as kids he had a season ticket in the St John’s Ambulance.  He was a total embarrassment to his poor dad, who was regarded locally as the hardest footballer ever to walk the earth. My mate had an awful lot to live up to – and, in all honesty, he didn’t!

His severe melting injury manifested itself as very mild “redness” to the crown of his bald head. He said he was going to take the hair dryer back because it was not “fit for purpose”. I could tell he’d been reading the Citizens Advice Bureau website again so I tried to get his (red) head straight.

As a local lawyer, I’m often asked to explain legal concepts in the pub. In my experience, people hate paying lawyers, so if you can get your knowledge, for free, on a Saturday night and avoid asking any questions between 9 and 5, Monday to Friday, you’ve had great result.

I explained the position to my mate like this. Under consumer law, you have a statutory right to reject any goods, bought in a shop, which are not fit for the purpose for which they were sold. If you buy something in a shop which is not “fit for purpose”, you are entitled to a full refund, providing the problem is brought to the shop keeper’s attention within a reasonable time – and you have not done anything which would reasonably be construed as showing your acceptance of the goods: using the hairdryer every day, for example, or perhaps smashing it up!

I explained, as nicely as I could, that a hairdryer which pumps out hot air to dry hair would seem (in my eyes at least) to be pretty “spot on” in terms of functionality. I had my work cut out though.  He’s a hard guy to please.  This was the mate who criticized Nelson Mandela for falling short on his economic policy after bringing the apartheid regime to an end. “It’s not as if he’s had no time on his hands” was how he assessed Nelson’s shortcomings. I persevered by telling him about my daughter’s fish....a very sorry tale indeed.

In the summer, when I disappeared to watch England’s embarrassing attempt to win the FIFA World Cup, I left my daughter in charge of the fish. She promised to feed Tommy (a goldfish) and Midge (type unknown...but it was really little!) every single day. I gave my wife a supervisory role in case my daughter “fell short”, Nelson Mandela style. Well to cut this part of the story short, mum and daughter both let themselves down and when I returned from my trip, Tommy had eaten Midge in preference to starving to death himself.

“But what’s this got to do with fitness for purpose?” my pal asked . We were close to last orders and his fear of running over into the “charging zone” was palpable.
I explained that in a fit of guilt, my wife had sent me and our girl down to the pet shop to buy some presents for Tommy; basically some new gravel (lucky boy!) and anything else which took our fancy. What took my daughter’s fancy was a little fishy pergola and a little clay model of an open jawed Moby Dick. She was delighted with her purchases, but forgot all about the fish again once we were home and everything was in the tank.

I was a bit nervous about Tommy’s immediate reaction to Moby, but he seemed to calm down a bit the following day and all was well again in fish world.

To my horror though, when I went to feed Tommy before work on Monday morning, he was nowhere to be seen. The tank was fish- free! After I’d checked my wife’s movements (she hadn’t fished out the fish) I had a ridiculous conversation with our decorator who was the only other person present and capable of fishnapping. If I’m honest, he seemed a bit affronted, and certainly very surprised, by my line of questioning. In hindsight, he definitely had the moral high ground: what self respecting decorator would steal a very old fish?

It was only in the evening, when I was following up on my wife’s theory that dead fish don’t always float, but sometimes bury themselves in gravel (I know....ridculous!) that I made a gruesome finding. As I accidentally nudged Moby Dick onto its side, I saw Tommy’s orange body lodged fairly, squarely and very uncomfortably into the base of the model. Moby Dick, the new fish toy, had eaten Tommy the fish. Now that, I pronounced, is what can properly be described, in a legal sense, as “not fit for purpose”....a fish eating fish toy!

My rather uncharitable mate finished his pint with the following words: “ Well I have to say I think Tommy got exactly what he deserved ” . He had a point.

Next week’s blog takes me to Amersham fair (for replacement fish) and to the thorny legal issue of private wheel clamping...watch this space!