Speed

Since becoming a Magistrate I've become a rather strange animal - a 20,000 mile a year motorway driver who obeys the speed limit.

Well, I'm more compliant than I used to be anyway.

You might think my improving behaviour was because of first-hand experience of the real impact of the fines and bans I've been involved in handing out. It does makes me cringe to think of the shame involved if I ever had to come to court to be punished for driving misdemeanours. I'd especially hate to be in the position of pleading "exceptional hardship" in order to save my licence so that I could continue to do my day job. Plus, there's an outside chance that the local papers might enjoy a "Magistrate in Speed Ban Scandal" headline. There would certainly be some uncomfortable disciplinary meetings I'd be eager to avoid.

All this is reason enough to back off the gas, but the real incentive to change has been the careless/reckless/dangerous driving cases I've seen. In far too many of these, excessive speed has been a factor in the resulting injuries and deaths - so much harm could have been avoided or reduced had the speed limit been obeyed.

Here's a device that's worth some serious consideration. It's a speed limiter that uses GPS satellite technology to stop drivers from accelerating to above the prevailing speed limit. The usual knee-jerk response is nicely encapsulated in the feedback to the article in The Times above :-

"I like the idea but what scares me about these is: What if I need a little extra speed in order to finish overtaking a car instead of crashing into oncoming traffic? What if a lower speed limit starts while overtaking? Is this system intelligent enough to recognise these situations?"

The answer is "No, of course it isn't that intelligent, you pillock. It's up to you to be intelligent enough not to start overtaking unless you can finish without breaking the law."

Modern cars are full of technology that assumes that drivers are idiots and steps in when they are in danger of hurting themselves. ABS forces you to brake like a professional driver, traction control forces you to accelerate smoothly, Air Bags stop you breaking your face on the windscreen. They all make decisions for you.

You are never in total control of what a car made this century is going to do. This means that people who learned to drive last century have needed to learn to drive in a different way, but the overall effect is that driving today is a lot safer than it used to be.

Some will say that it's a lot less fun, but none of those people have ever sat through a trial involving road deaths at a Magistrates' Court.

Nick Harper @ The Horn, St.Albans

I didn't have any expectations at all for this gig. It was a convenient excuse to meet up with m'ex-colleague Kenny and have a few beers and do a few crosswords listening to the Horn's eclectic jukebox. In fact, I told Mrs Stan that I hoped the gig would be cancelled so that I could feign disappointment and we could carry on setting the world to rights and arguing about 3 down.

I don't know what the words "Folk Rock" mean to you, but in my mind they don't translate to "A Good Night Out". However, Nick Harper turns out to be one of the best guitarists I've ever seen, he writes better poetry in his lyrics than many a professional poet, he's a very talented vocalist, a comfortable performer with a real rapport with his audience and he is a more than adequate stand-up comedian.

Sometimes the special effects strayed into what Bill Bailey would describe as "Let's Go Inter-Stellar!", but otherwise the gig was a total delight and made me want to seek out some of his albums and tell everyone I meet that they should too. It also gave me a new appetite for live music.

The back-room at The Horn where Nick played is only big enough for a medium-sized wedding reception, which was great in terms of atmosphere but it must have led to a rather stingy box-office return. Although, saying that, I saw Hue and Cry play a large Glasgow theatre quite a few years ago, and the distant response from the audience led Pat Kane to moan all night that they should have played two nights at "King Tut's" instead. I hope Nick keeps playing these intimate venues, but equally I hope he finds a way to make it pay.

Speaking of which, you should definitely download "Blue Sky Thinking" which was the highlight of the show and very representative of what he's about. Clever lyrics and one man and a guitar making it sound like a whole band's playing.

I think you'll enjoy it, but it won't sound nearly as good on your iPod as it did Live.

You Are The Magistrate

This lady has been sentenced to unpaid work. She can only wear high heels (she says). The work involves wearing stout boots. There is no compromise. She is heading towards your court to be resentenced.

Whatever punishment you choose, the tabloids are likely to make fun of you. And bloggers and anonymous commenters will say mean, mean things about you.

Would you replace the Community Payback with :-

1. A fine
   
2. A curfew, with electronic tag
   
3. A short prison sentence
4. Or just ask the Probation Service to find her a job that can be done in four-inch heels
   

Personally I'd love to impose an extra sentence for her use of the cliché "It's health and safety gone mad", but I'm sure my spoilsport legal adviser would advise me against it.

And yes, I just noticed that I've used the words "high heels", "boots" and "punishment" in close proximity. Apologies to all those guided here by Google in the expectation of something a sight more kinky.

Can You Hear Me, Young Stan ?

In 1973 Stephen Fry was 16, and he wrote a rather snotty letter to his older self. I wonder what kind of stamp he put on it. I didn't think Royal Mail delivered to the far future.

The Guardian recently printed the letter the older self decided to write in reply. This would have been even harder for a postman to deliver.

Stephen Fry aged 16 comes across as being spectacularly mixed up, painfully vulnerable and incandescent with anger. Not a happy bunny. And quite reasonably so - I'm sure 1973 was not a great place to be ferociously intelligent and gay.

Fry The Elder reassures him that things will work out for him despite the travails to come, while seeming sad that he's lost Fry the Younger's intensity.

I'm not sure such a letter to my 16-year-old self would be strictly necessary. Stan the Younger was a very focussed kid, happily studying Maths and Science and noticing very little else, except a bit of Sci-Fi. Although, he did feel a bit of a freak for not having the same ambitions and priorities of the other kids, so maybe I could have reassured him about that.

Looking back, it doesn't seem healthy for Stan the Younger to have such a limited world. It would be tempting to tell him to open himself up to the world a bit more, try some new things. But I'd be scared that if I changed one little thing about my past it would be one of those Butterfly Effect deals and I'd end up sniffing glue alone in a bedsit in Lowestoft.

Oh, what the heck, I'll take the risk. If by some freak of the time and space my younger self gets to read this blog, the following pieces of advice are definitely recommended:-

1. When you leave University and have the choice between Accountancy and Something Else - choose Something Else.
2. You are physically incapable of growing a non-risible beard. So don't try.
3. Toddlers have very sensitive palates. So when you're talking to Stanetta about chilli peppers, don't invite her to have a lick.
4. The red button in that hired flat - don't press it. It sets off the burglar alarm and you don't know the combination.
   

Poetry

It's all going to be OK.

Bolton aren't getting relegated this season, Swine 'Flu is just a bout of the sniffles, the economy isn't heading all the way down to zero, and the right woman got the Poet Laureate gig.

Sorry to keep banging on about Carol Ann Duffy. I just love the way she attempts to describe the indescribable by putting ordinary words together in artful ways. And now she's taken on a job that drove the previous holder of the office to write an ill-advised, poorly executed rap for Prince William on the occasion of his 21st birthday.

In honour of her appointment, I have written the following :-

Carol Ann Duffy, when you take on the laurel.
Please don't waste time finding rhymes for "Balmoral".

My favourite poem of all time wasn't written by her though. It was written by the Brazilian poet Pelé in 1970. Receiving the ball on the edge of the Italian penalty area, does he prosaically dribble between the centre backs and round the goalie ? No, he pauses and side-foots the ball to an obscure unoccupied piece of green by the touchline so that a Carlos Alberto-shaped blur could come from nowhere to bullet that ball into the net. The poem doesn't have a name, but I call it "Brazil 4 Italy 1".

Who says poetry has to be about words ?