Friday February 16 - Sherry Mason

My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been one month, 15 days and 18 hours since my last drink.

But, God, do I want one.

It was my own fault. I shouldn't have boasted. At 1.30pm today I was merrily explaining to another journalist - himself a blogger - that I was finding the whole no-booze thing relatively easy. "I need something to make it a bit harder," I simpered.

Within three hours, my wish was granted.

It is now 6.30pm and I am seriously gagging for a drink. Not to quench my thirst. Not to celebrate the end of a week. Not even to mark the glorious fact that I'm going skiing tomorrow and don't have to work for the next nine days.

No, I want a drink to douse the incandescent rage that it is coursing through my body.

The man who lit the fire was - perhaps unsurprisingly - a solicitor. A pompous, jumped-up, pen-pushing, beetroot-faced little turd of a man at Liverpool Magistrates Court.

This man was so incensed by me and other journalists attending court to report on his client - a little shit who has repeatedly flouted a driving ban imposed for killing a teenage cyclist - that he refused to give his (the solicitor's)name. That's right. A legal professional working in our so-called "open justice" system, and he won't even identify himself.

When I (very politely) inquired why, he gave me and another couple of reporters an absolute gobful of abuse. The long and short of it was, effectively, his client is exceedingly hard done-by and we are utter scum for daring to publicise the case.

To be honest, I don't really care about the abuse. Most people hold my profession in contempt - sometimes I dare say we deserve it - and you can't be over-sensitive about these things.

But being abused by a small-time defence solicitor? Someone whose main contribution to society is trying to ensure that its pondlife criminals remain at liberty? I'm not having that.

There followed a frank exchange of views, in which he put forward a number of brilliant arguments, of the type you would expect from a legal professional. These included:

1. I'm surprised you can actually read.
(Oscar Wilde, eat your heart out.)

2. You should do your homework properly.
(Er, that's what I was trying to do when I asked your name, which you refused to do.)

3. My brother's a journalist, so don't tell me about journalism.
(Ah, a vintage playground classic. I should have told him that my dad is bigger than his.)

As it happens, I got his name anyway. Quick tip for any solicitors who wish to withhold their name from the press: don't walk around with it emblazoned on your files in large type. Dickhead.

I won't give it here, but I should probably give him a pseudonymn, for the record. I'm torn between:

Arsehole of the Bailey.

Cavanagah QC (Quite a Cock)

Or - judging from his rather florid complexion - Sherry Mason.


I left the argument there and walked out of court, absolutely seething. I'm still seething now. I thought writing it down might help. It hasn't.

What I'd love now is to go out to the pub with some mates - preferably other reporters - and wash the stain from my memory with several pints of lager, and a few laughs.

I won't, though, mainly because I don't want him to win. My pride will keep me dry tonight.