Yes, I know, I seem to be writing a lot about the courts these days, but how can a fellow not? They apparently exist in a parallel universe which draws on this one for it sustenance, its laws, its dramatis personae and - by God - its money, but otherwise they work according rules known only unto them.
Now, if you were to do a population survey in homes for the bewildered, you would probably find the largest single category of inmate is former teachers of 14-year-old males. The school has not been made, the iron-bar not forged, the leather-strap not tanned, which can keep order amongst such boys.
Michael Whelan was 14 when he decided to ride a horse in the Palmerston area of Dublin in April 1995. So there he was, the Clondalkin cow-puncher ambling along the lone prairie of Ronanstown, just north of the Rio Grand Canal, when his newly acquired mount decided to head the bad guys off at the pass.
And so it galloped for all it was worth down the Neilstown Road, across a roundabout and collided with a bus - a 78A, as it happens - knocking its youthful rider unconscious. Dublin buses, 78As as much as any other, are to be avoided at the best of times, and young Michael suffered quite serious head injuries - a brain scan showed right frontal-lobe contusion, and he reportedly suffered from double vision.
Let us turn now to Eric Clarke, another high-spirited 14-year-old from greater Clondalkin. (My, how the area breeds them.) One day he took his exuberant self down to Crumlin swimming pool, where he slipped on the side and hurt his knee. Poor little lad.
What does a modern 14-year-old do when his boyish boisterousness causes him some hurt? What? Why, he sues of course - which is what Michael Whelan, The Clondalkin Kid, and Eric Clarke, The Condalkin Scamp, duly did, and their cases were dealt with last week.
The Clondalkin Kid sued two organisations - South Dublin County Council, and Dublin Bus, in the High Court. No, he did not say that either organisation had lassoed the horse for him. Nor did he say that either organisation encouraged him to ride the horse. Nor did he allege that they gave him a foot up. Nor that either had slapped the equestrian rump, propelling it roundaboutwards.
In essence, it seems South Dublin's role was that it "allowed" wild and dangerous horses to roam around the area. No doubt: so wild indeed were they that one of them even allowed a small boy to mount it and ride it away.
And Dublin Bus's role in all this? Well, the allegation is that its drivers hadn't been trained in the avoidance of runaway horses leaping off roundabouts, which is probably true. Nor have they been trained how to evade intergalactic comets, incoming cruise missiles, Zulu impis or Arctic icebergs. Shame on you, Dublin Bus.
You would think, wouldn't you, that this is an uncontestable case. The boy freely chose to get on to a horse, and disaster then befell him. There is no known way of containing 14-year-old boys, and the high jinks they get up to must be surely be limited, if at all, by their parents or those in loco parentis; the rest of society should not be expected to discharge those primary duties, should we? Ah dear: how naive can you get? For, no doubt contemplating the record of our courts in such matters, counsel for the two defendants agreed to settle. Michael Whelan's little bareback jaunt earned him €75,000 damages shared between the two companies, plus €25,000 costs. We may presume the defence cost another €25,000: €150,000 against the public purse.
That same day, the case of Eric Clarke, The Clondalkin Scamp, appeared in the Circuit Court, before Mr Justice Esmonde Smyth, who was ruling on a settlement offer from Crumlin Swimming Pool. The judge warned that not all accidents can be the subject of a successful case in court. The Scamp's counsel had told the court that there would be evidence that The Scamp had already been remonstrated with by swimming pool officials for allegedly running around the pool, a remonstration that had apparently fallen on deaf ears. The judge said that there was a legal risk attached to the case, and it was wiser to accept the settlement. And so The Scamp was given €6,500.
What a shame that the judge had not withheld his counsel: maybe if the case had gone to trial, The Scamp might well have lost, and had costs awarded against him. Alas, it was not to be. Instead, July 13th turned into a bracing day for 14-year-olds everywhere, and an assurance to their parents that if their loved ones break loose and hurt themselves, the courts will always be there to put the brown-paper and vinegar of public compensation on their wounds.
Is there a limit to all this? Will the day ever come that courts will declare, NO NO NO, teenage boys being teenage boys is none of our business? Most especially of all, it's nothing to do with us because we all know that little boys know there is real danger in such high jinks - which is why, of course, they engage in them. And once upon a time, in a more robust epoch, such urchins took their knocks with rue. Modern youngsters take their knocks and sue.
Enter Maurice Chevalier, in a barrister's wig: Sank heaven for little boys: they grow a leetle more leetigious every day.