“Verily,” the old man goes, “I say unto thee that this Constitution – adopted, as it was, by a generation long since dead – cannot be said to represent the sovereign will of the living. And verily, I submit to the court . . .”
The judge cuts him off. He’s like, “I understand that counsel is inexperienced in these matters, but it’s not necessary to add all these linguistic embellishments – let’s leave the verilys and the say-unto-thees to another forum, shall we?”
There’s, like, laughter in the court. He’s making a complete orse of himself, as I predicted. Still, it’s funny. And it sure beats working for the day.
He goes, “Apologies, m’lord.”
The judge goes, “Perhaps if you dispensed with your efforts to approximate the kind of courtroom language you’ve heard on the television and just concentrated on the substance of your claim, which is that the Constitution of Ireland is unconstitutional.”
“If that should please m’learned friend, then that is how I shall henceforth proceed.”
“Hang him!” I shout, just for the sheer crack of it. “The dude should swing for what he’s trying to pull here!”
The judge goes, “And if we have any more outbursts like that from the public gallery, I will start jailing people for contempt of court. Proceed.”
The old man’s there, “If it should please his honour, then I shall. I’m asking the court this morning to consider this question – can a constitution be considered unconstitutional? I confess, it’s not a question that we ordinarily ask ourselves. I suppose it’s rather like asking can the Bible be considered unbiblical? And yet it’s a question of profound importance for every citizen living in a country with a constitution, either written or unwritten. To what extent should we, the people, be bound by the whims of our ancestors, especially when those people were, well, probably a bit backward?”
A knowing chuckle
Counsel for the State stands up. I’m thinking, go on, get stuck into him.
“You have an objection?” the judge goes.
“Many,” the dude goes. “If it’s true, as I suspect, that Mr O’Carroll-Kelly’s motivation in presenting his own case is to drag it out for as long as possible, thus ratcheting up the expense for the State, then I would ask you to dismiss this now and award costs against him.”
The old man picks up a book and goes, “Can I ask you to read something for me?”
The dude’s like, “I beg your pardon?”
He hands the book to the dude. “I’m going to ask you to read something to the court.”
“No, you’re not. You haven’t called me as a witness. You haven’t called anyone as a witness.”
“Perhaps if m’colleague would just indulge me in this.”
The dude just rolls his eyes, then laughs. He can well afford to – he’ll be on the golf course in about an hour and he’ll be billing for a full day. Fair focks just about sums up my attitude.
“Okay, what would you like me to read?” he goes.
The old man’s there, “I’ve folded down the page and I’ve highlighted the relevant section, if it should please the court.”
The dude opens the book, has a little knowing chuckle to himself, then storts reading. “In the Name of the Most Holy Trinity, from whom is all authority and to Whom, as our final end, all actions both of men and states must be referred . . .”
“I’m going to cut you off there,” the old man goes. He’s standing with his two thumbs hooked into his orm pits, the way barristers do in, like, movies? They possibly do it in real life as well. “To whom is this passage referring?”
Without batting an eyelid, the dude goes, “The Holy Trinity is the three consubstantial persons, namely the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, who are central to the Christian faith.”
Hoping for a better response
See, you need brains to be a barrister. They don’t just take any half-thick with two passes in the Leaving Cert, like other jobs I could mention, but won’t.
The gords, for instance.
“And,” the old man goes, “the people or persons from whom the Constitution of Ireland derives its authority – for thou hast just said it. Thou hast read it out to the court.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Well, my question is this – who are these three persons? Is there any proof, in other words, that they even exist? For if they do not, then I submit unto the court that the Constitution of Ireland has no moral authority.”
The other dude isn’t having any of it, in fairness to him. He’s like, “The section I’ve just read is the preamble to the Constitution. It’s not a part of the legal document.”
“Says who?”
“Says almost 80 years of case law. I can spend the next two to three weeks in the court citing precedents but it would be rather expensive and I suspect that you may ultimately be picking up the tab for this case.”
The old man doesn’t know what to say. It’s hilarious to see him taken down a peg or six.
“Hang him!” I shout again.
The judge is like, “Silence!” and then he turns to the old man. “Do you have anything else? Any other argument to present to the court?”
“No,” the old man goes, “I’m afraid that was my big finish. And I have to say I was rather hoping for a better response.”
The entire thing lasts about nine minutes, then the judge waves it over. From the old man’s reaction afterwards, you’d swear he’d actually won.
“Did you hear that?” he goes. “The chap has reserved judgment until January!”
I’m like, “So?”
“Don’t you see what that means, Ross? Far from simply throwing it out of court, I’ve given him something to ponder over the holiday period. I probably should pop back in there and apologise to him for ruining his Christmas.”
“I don’t think it means that. I think it means he has to at least look like he took it seriously before delivering you the inevitable kick in the knackers in the New Year.”
“Well, either way,” he tries to go, “I think the entire country is going to be on tenterhooks. Do you know something, I think nine holes in Elm Park might be just the way to celebrate this historic day!”