I should explain at this point why I am suing this newspaper for post-traumatic stress disorder, my interests being represented by the splendid legal firm of Writ, Bluster & Settle. They assure me that my case is irresistible and the bullying oafs of The Irish Times Inc. will plead with me on the steps of the court not to proceed, and thus that whatever is theirs is mine, my pick of the younger female staff, et cetera, writes Kevin Myers.
Messrs Writ, Bluster and Settle have told me to have no contact with representatives of The Irish Times Inc, and if our eyes ever accidentally meet, mine should develop a tic. Mr Writ, a large saturnine man with fat fingers and productive oleaginous glands thinks I should roll on the floor. Mr Bluster, thin and musteline, thinks I should groan hollowly. Mr Settle, nervous, edgy, and a daily communicant, is of the opinion that too many histrionics can spoil a case, and that just the tic will do.
And their secretary, the fair if ample Miss Caridge O'Justice, thinks I should play it by ear.
It was her advice which enabled a milkman to claim post-traumatic stress disorder for sights he had seen from his milk-cart 40 years ago. She devised the story that every time he saw his wife's bare bottom, he would hop out of bed and try to deliver two pints of milk to the wardrobe. Playing it by rear, as she explained. They are living now in a chateau in Normandy.
Melting ice-cream
And it was Caridge who started me upon my career as a litigant against the cruel and unspeakably tyranny of TITI. One warm day, while I was eating an ice-cream, a couple of drops fell on my tie. A generously proportioned blonde lady swept up to me declaring she was a witness, and that for 50 per cent of the proceeds she would give evidence on my behalf that the ice-cream seller had recklessly sold me an ice-cream that melted in the sun.
More enchanted by her physique than her argument, I accepted. She promptly stormed in and threatened the ice-cream seller with the awesome might of Writ, Bluster & Settle. Minutes later, we walked out with € 1,000, plus a gagging order.
Morning bath
"How did you do that?" I cried.
"Played it by ear. So what do you do for a living, big boy?" she simpered, licking her ice-cream voluptuously. I replied that I worked in The Irish Times Inc., where I gave the editor his morning bath, polished his toenails, ironed his socks. Soon, I mused, I would be making the acquaintance of a new set of toenails, socks, or tights even, and so on.
Her eyes were glittering like diamonds in a coalmine. She hissed: "We've never done The Irish Times Inc. Ever. You'll have to meet the boss."
She took me to the office of Writ, Bluster & Settle, where she introduced me to Mr Writ. "Good morning," he intoned. "We Specialise In Personal Injury, e.g. Road Accidents, Accidents in the Work Place, etc. First Consultation Free. No Foal No Fee. Any Slips or Falls or Small Encounters with State-Owned Objects. Any Mishaps, Tiny or Otherwise. Most Cases Settled Out Of Court."
It was the Golden Pages for the Blind. "What are your crippling injuries, please?" he continued.
"I have none," I replied. "Picture of health."
"Good day," he hissed disdainfully, and turned away. (np) "He works for The Irish Times," Caridge hissed.
"A newspaper!" Mr Writ slapped his leg, snorting joyously, his oily jowls wobbling with glee. "Lawyers love suing newspapers, because newspapers never win in court, regardless of justice, eh, Miss O'Justice?"
"No sir, never," declared the delectable Caridge. "And he's suffering from such severe post-traumatic stress disorder that he doesn't even know he's suffering from it."
"The beasts!" Mr Writ cried as the door opened and a stoat-like figure entered. "The fiends! Did you ever hear the like of that, Mr Bluster?"
The newcomer mumbled something into his handkerchief.
"Sorry?" I said.
"Deaf too!" cried Mr Bluster. "Monstrous, perfectly monstrous!" He winked at his partner. "I smell The Big One, Mr Writ."
"How so?" I cried. I had never seen such handsome toenails as the editor's, I protested. His carbuncles were joy itself, and as for the elegance of his. . .
Incorporated Law Society
"Hush," whispered Mr Writ. "There's nothing for which we cannot and do not sue. Have you ever dropped the soap? Trauma! Got shampoo in your eye? Personal injury! Scratched yourself on the royal toe-clipping? Industrial accident! We sue for everything, regardless of rights or the wrongs of the matter, and the Incorporated Law Society backs us every time! It's wonderful! Fancy a spanking new yacht? A home in Juan les Pins? A Bentley? How's your hearing now?"
"My what?"
"Quite," declared Miss O'Justice approvingly. "Playing it by ear."
KEVIN MYERS