Post Truth Trash: the best body balm in the world and other lies.

Every body needs a little care. Even the aging, much abused but still serviceable body of a grafting criminal barrister. I may be growing cranky and cynical with age but I am not totally without optimism. Even I want and hope to have aches soothed, pains reduced and broken bits fixed. So it was with some excitement that I viewed the array of promising personal items in my hotel room during my latest work trip.

Black tubes, longer than most, was an encouraging sign.

Stylish black tubes, longer than most, was an encouraging first sign. According to the blurb printed in white along their length, this collection of body products was officially amazing. Today I tried them all. This morning after my first jolt of coffee, instead of reading and re-reading briefs, I used those hopefully remarkable fluids and lotions. They promised to make me feel good and absolutely unstoppable in court and elsewhere. Today I would shine, which is good, because lately I’ve emitted nothing but a dull glow. The Urban Skincare Co’s range of body products would change that. How did it go? Read on.

The Nude Selfie Movement: from toss shot to selfie stick and beyond.

Thirty-two years ago I tossed a camera into the air, smiled at the sky then heard the device smash to smithereens at my feet. An inauspicious beginning for the photographic technique that delights the world today. Of course, I didn’t give up at one smashed camera, or two or three. I kept trying till I perfected the toss-shot then went on to invent the selfie proper: it turns out that any inanimate object or slow moving animal can be used to create selfies. Your camera, rested on a rock, wedged in a tree branch or taped to a koala, will give you a basic selfie. This technique was a triumph of invention. Then came the stick.

Choose a stick of appropriate weight and length.

The World's First Selfie: how I invented the toss-shot and what came next.

A typical early 'toss shot'.

It is 32 years since I invented the selfie. Little did I know how the technique would sweep the globe. How today, everyone has held out an arm to snap a shot of themselves, sometimes even wearing clothes. How with a click of the finger it’s possible to record yourself with friends, politicians, sportsman, actors, animals and food. How the crude selfie-stick I made decades ago has developed into the slickest, most high tech lengths of composite in the world. How the world’s first go-pro that I fashioned with VHS and string has become small, robust and waterproof.

Thirty-two years. If it were a marriage it would be the diamond anniversary plus two. So it seems fitting to record how it all began. In this piece I'll reveal the story of the selfie's creation. Next week I'll write about how far the selfie has come and how a remote village in South America is challenging the world to return to the selfie's simple beginnings.

Beware the Crows: the curious case of the barrister and the beak.

Barristers must sometimes walk about in the open. You see, unlike dentists who magically appear by your side as you recline sporting protective glasses, like an astronaut awaiting launch, barristers must move about: between chambers and court, between court and lunch, back to chambers, off to the bar and sometimes home. Cars are used for the longer journeys. Usually something small and foreign, but given the state of the Australian car industry this is a necessity rather than a mark of status. While cars are safe enough when operated at moderate speed by a driver uneffected by alcohol or other substances, walking is an entirely different proposition. It is dangerous and becoming more so. Barristers just walking about are at risk.

The Truth About Travel: time spent in a tube of farts.

Criminal barristers travel to where their trials take place. Sometimes that's a city, sometimes a town, sometimes it's a whistle stop with nothing but bad coffee and dust to recommend it. Nothing to be jealous about there, right? Wrong. Travel, even travel for work fires jealously in the inexperienced. Tell them you’re flying and staying at a 4-star and they’ll call it a junket quicker than you can gag them and twist their ear.

A tired travelling waiting to board a tube of farts.

         In truth travel for work is nothing like travel for pleasure. Obviously one reason for that is the work itself. Unless you are one of those lucky individuals who are passionate about what they do, then working away from home is just work with a higher degree of difficulty.

'What the fuck you lookin' at?'

Justice Ann Lyons: 'Benjamin Milward, I sentence you to life imprsonment ...'

At 10:35AM on the 26^th of October 2016, Queensland’s Justice Ann Lyons, looked a convicted killer in the eyes and said, ‘Benjamin Milward, I sentence you to life imprisonment for the murder of Sophie collombet’. Unusually, Justice Lyons’ sentencing remarks were recorded and later broadcast on television.

A quality blog, after my own heart. Consider ...

Consider ... https://thesecretbarrister.com/

SEO Secrets - Search Engine Optimization: One idiot's experience.

Learn about the Ten Best, Fifty Best, One Hundred Best, Seventy-six, Pretty Good SEO Ideas. Learn the Secrets of, and, How to. Must See. Don't Miss the Must Sees or the Dangers of. Watch out for our SEO Scams Revealed. Or for the ultimate, learn the truth about How to Break the Internet with your popularity. All this and other half-true tales ... coming soon, or, not.

More Court Lingo. Secrets Revealed. Part 3 of 3.

Here are some useful phrases. You may not get to use these ones, but you’ll do well to understand them. Knowing them may mean the difference between surviving your day in court, or dieing there.

Court Lingo Revealed. Part 2 of Several.

Charles Dickens wrote in The Pickwick Papers.

"'Why, I don't exactly know about perjury, my dear sir,' replied the little gentleman. 'Harsh word, my dear sir, very harsh word indeed. It's a legal fiction, my dear sir, nothing more.'"

I wonder what the fuck that means. Anyway, back to Australian legal idioms ....

One Night In Dublin. An Aussie lawyer walked into a bar.

People have long been interested in legal language. That doesn't mean they like it. Legal formalities, conceits and obfuscations are ridiculed and demonised in popular culture. Lawyers who use the language to confront and confuse are mocked, except for those who, sadly, are appointed to the bench.

Australian lawyers, especially those working in the regions are less frequent offenders. Those who speak to juries in criminal trials are the least offensive of all.

They, the good ones, speak a more accessible language. Plain English, with a twist. But that doesn't mean that there is never any confusion. Sometimes there is.

'I Hope You've Brought a Toothbush': Peter Cook n' Australian Legalese. Part 1 of more.

Every profession has its own language. Medicine has its archaic tongue of body parts and procedures, engineering its dialect of structure and form. While the Law, being a discipline of ideas, relies more heavily than most upon language.

Legalese is formal, often dated and sometimes unfathomable – even for lawyers. Sometimes the concepts being expressed are to blame: just ask any judge who’s had to explain self-defence against provoked assault to a jury. Sometimes the practitioners are to blame: especially those who seek to shroud their own ignorance in jurisprudential gobbledygook.

But there is another legal language. One that is lush and fun and just a little anarchic.

World First Exclusive: The North Korean Justice System.

Legal Lingo Explained. 'nod the nut' and other phrases exposed.

Ever wondered if legalese really is a language? Ever wanted to know what a barrister means when she says with a flourish of her gown, 'I appear, Your Honour.'? Ever pondered, 'what does "respect" mean in the legal context?'  Ever sat in a pub nursing a beer and asked yourself, 'what does "nod the nut" mean when it falls from a barrister's mouth'. (And what does 'falls from a barrister's mouth' mean anyway???)

If you answered no to each of these questions then go away now and don't come back for a week. If you answered 'yes' to even just one of them, then stay focused because I'm going to tell you the answers over the next week or so.

How the Internet Killed Experience. Or, How I Learned Never to Iron in the Nude.

Today there are websites and posts for everything. 'How to' sites that make the mind boggle: Banana juggling for beginners, how to yodel, fart music. There are sites that answer questions to settle the most bizarre bets, like are whales fish? and did man really visit the moon? There are cautionary posts too, like safe chainsaw use and the dangers of the mile high club.

I think the world is a poorer place for all this screen learning. What happened to experience?

Lawyer: 'Representing fraudsters  is like juggling bananas.
You never know where the bent bastards will end up.'

Long Tan Remembered. 'Thank the Jesus it's over there ...'

The battle of Long Tan was remembered last week. The battle, fifty years ago last Thursday 18 August, saw a little over 100 Australian infantrymen fight a North Vietnamese force at least ten times that size. With the aid of artillery support and helicopter resupply the Australians survived the enemy's onslaught and inflicted hundreds of casualties. It was a kind of victory.

'It'd scare the fuck out of yer flying ducks,' said Harry.

Is China's Island Building in the South China Sea Offensive?

Has the international law of the sea been violated by this enormous penis shaped island? Who knows? But one things is certain ...

The Savage. Part 8 of 8.

The day Bob died Merle opened the suitcase for what she told herself would be the last time. With her husband still beside her she set the cash tin on the sheet. Insider were her husband’s insignia, rising sun hat badge, wage book, tobacco tin, a dozen monochrome photographs and the letters bound together with string.

She looked through the photographs. There was one she liked. Bob and a half dozen other soldiers and nurses on a tropical beach somewhere. They were toasting the end of the war. Bob held his beer bottle high, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. She smiled and put the photograph with the others.

Going to Court is Bad. Very, Very Bad.

Let me be brutally honest, after most trials someone is left choking on what might as well be a mouldy sock stuffed with dehydrated testicles. Going to court is bad. Not just a little bit bad but very, very bad. The BreakingBad kind of bad. The Bad Santa kind of bad. The ‘fuck me officer, those cuffs are awfully tight’ kind of bad.

It’s the kind of bad that comes when someone owes you so much money that paying lawyers thousands of dollars to get some back seems like a good idea. It’s the sort of bad that comes when your once blissful marriage is so busted that some stranger has to tell you who gets what and when you see the kids. It’s the kind of bad that happens when you’re blamed for something so appalling that society wants you gaoled.

The Savage. Part 7 of 8.

Bob’s confusion did not return until his seventy-fifth year. But when it did it stayed with him and Merle for the rest of their days together.

Initially Bob’s mix-ups and muddles went un-named. The children were the first to label their father’s condition. They called it ‘SOBS’ or ‘Silly Old Bugger Syndrome’. They called it this even after the medical profession had adjudged the symptoms and passed sentence. ‘Alzimers’.

The Savage. Part 6 of 8.

The war began on his seventieth birthday. The children and their families had gathered along with friends. Bob had celebrated by drinking more than he was used to. He downed ten or more stubbies in the course of the day and night. It was late when he joined Merle in bed but he didn’t stay. Sometime in the early hours of the morning he left the bed and the room. Merle started but drifted back to sleep only to be woken again when the first mango crashed into the tin. But this was not mangoes falling onto the tin roof as sometimes happened. These crashing sounds were coming from down the slope, down at the Bradshaw’s chicken run.

Saltwater by Cathy McLennan Launched at James Cook University

Saltwater, Cathy McLennan's powerful memoir was launched at James Cook Univeristy recently.

Cathy spoke powerfully of her time working as a defence barrister in North Queensland. She related her time at the Townsville Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Legal Service and spoke movingly of her defence of Aboriginal children. At times close to tears she described how the experience marked her. She was just 22 years old at the time.

She said her book did not provide answers to the problems of justice for Aboriginals, but rather was a book of questions. She expressed the hope that the book would generate debate that may lead to solutions.

The book is a must read for anyone interested in this troubling area of justice.

Murdering Point published recently by Smashwords is a fictionalised account of a lawyer working for the same legal service. Unlike Saltwater, Murdering Point portrays an older and more jaded lawyer struggling with his defence of Indigenous Australians. This novel powerfully describes the helplessness of one defence counsel forced to work within a justice system ill-equipped to deliver justice to Aboriginal people. The story unfolds in Tully, Townsville and Palm Island and reaches it's thrilling climax at the place called Murdering Point.

The Savage. Part 5 of 8.

Merle’s daughter was born in January, her sister-in-law stayed until March. During that time the young mango tree remained in its juice tin on the corner of the veranda. By then the tin was rusting and its label sun-faded and torn.  On the day Merle’s sister-in-law left the two women conspired to plant the mango.

Saltwater by Cathy McLennan: Another Must Read.

Cathy McLennan's Saltwater, like Murdering Point before it, is a must read for anyone interested in the Australian justice system and its catastrophic intersection with indigenous people.

Australia Barristers Go Walkabout.

Barristers in Australia frequently go walkabout. The vast size of the country means travel for work is essential. Those based in cities travel to regional towns. Those based in regional towns travel to remote communities and those based in remote communities sometimes disappear up their own clackers.

I've never been based anywhere but cities and towns so have not yet disappeared up anything. However I have enjoyed occasional forays into remote places.

Coastal North Queensland

A certain sense of freedom comes with driving or flying into the bush. It is a privilege to experience this expansive place. Driving especially allows you to appreciate the land: the passing landscape melting into night, the smell of freshly turned earth and in summer, the warmth and weight of the air itself.

You can't capture the feelings but you can keep a visual record. It's not perfect but a few photos at least remind you of each journey into the land. Here are a few snaps from a recent trip to the tropics.

The Savage. Part 4 of 8.

By and large Bob had kept the greenery in check. Even now, some sixty-five years later the evidence was all about Merle: the dusty slope below the veranda, the sparse shrubs down the sides and the heavily pruned frangipanis at the front. But she had succeeded in one thing. She had planted and saved the mango tree. Now it dominated one side of the back yard, its roots lifting and toppling the old stone BBQ.

Merle kicked one of the mangoes at her feet. It rolled across the wonky boards, under the railing and dropped. It landed with a thud in the dirt and rolled down to the dilapidated chicken run. The slope was bordered by spindly grevillea and bottlebrush. None of them were big. Bob never allowed them to grow as nature intended. It was only with his physical and mental decline that they had been allowed to shoot above a metre high. But then came the long drought so they remained thin and grey and the Buffalo grass crackled under foot.

The old Bradshaw place was a contrast. It was green down there were the neighbour’s plants had their roots in the spring water that had only recently dried up. The Bradshaw’s had long since moved but the cottage remained, as did the overgrown old chicken run. Bananas and Pawpaws grew rank in the chicken shit and pumpkin and passionfruit vines scrambled over the wire and tin. Some of the mangoes her husband had rolled down the slope had germinated there and a couple of mango saplings struggled above the vines.

It was 65 years old, its trunk the size of a beer barrel.

Merle smiled at the sight. Yes. She was glad she had fought to keep the mango tree. Now it was the only plant of any size in their garden. It was 65 years old, its trunk the size of a beer barrel; and not one of those dinky metal kegs, but a good old wooden barrel. Bob had been dead against the tree and Merle had fought for it. She remembered.

Bob’s sister had brought the plant with her from Bowen in 1950. Merle was pregnant with her first born and her sister-in-law had come to help out and to welcome her new little relative. She had brought the plant as a gift. She had planted the seed in a big Golden Circle pineapple juice tin. It was two months old when she left for Brisbane. Then she nursed the plant between her feet and watered it during the monstrous, stop-start two day train journey south. Bob and Merle met her at the station. It was summer. No kaki this time. Just screaming sweaty school kids and the smell of mangoes and pineapples in the freight wagons.

Bob thanked his sister for the plant but he neglected to put it in the ground. When Merle asked him about it he warned her about the affect it would have. He told her how big and messy it would become; how what was fine in a vast north Queensland yard would never do on a city block. But Merle knew now that Bob didn’t tell her the truth: he didn’t tell her about his fire lines and the closed in feeling.

To be continued: Next time, Merle defeats her husband as he tries to murder the tree she had planted and loved.

Can Thai Massage Kill You?

The answer to this question is important to any busy professional exploring ways to relax. All professionals need some down time. Trial lawyers, like astronauts and brain surgeons are no exception.

Trials are stressful; tough work at the very coalface of justice. To do well lawyers must master facts and law, conference witnesses, prepare cross-examinations and rehearse opening and closing addresses. Even slack lawyers who dispense with such trifles find trials stressful.

Trial lawyers handle stress in different ways. I know one barrister who starts each trial day by pulling cows' teats and ends them by strangling chickens and pulling more teats. Another liked to commence his marathon trials with separation or divorce; 'decluttering' he called it.

But what if you don't own a hobby farm and aren't inclined to dismantle your domestic life?

The Savage. Part 3 of 8.

Bob returned to Merle briefly in 1944. They enjoyed a frenzied fortnight together before he travelled north again; this time to Far North Queensland to teach jungle warfare to the latest recruits. He only returned for good when Japan was destroyed and the war was over.

Merle met his troop train at Roma Street Station. She recalled the steam and coal smoke and the crush of kaki. Slouch hats were everywhere. Bob jumped from the still moving train, dropped his duffle bag and embraced her. He kissed her and said something she could not hear over the shouts of woman and children and the screeching whistle of the steam engine.

The Savage. Part 2 of 8.

With her husband dead inside the house, Merle remembers how they met and wonders why things went so terribly wrong ...

‘Bugger the papers.’ Merle shook her head at the yellowing pages under the front stairs.

'And bugger that paper boy, man, whoever.' She returned inside, made tea and toast and went to the back veranda. The L-shaped space ran the length of two sides of the Queenslander. Merle sat at an old cane setting and sipped her tea. A few mangoes were on the table and a dozen more were scattered about the smooth-worn floorboards. Most of the mangoes were green; some were scratched and chewed by flying fox and possum.

‘Bob's hand grenades’ she said absently.

The Savage: Part 1 of 8.

Kokoda. Australians know the place. That outpost in the northern wilderness of New Guinea. And they know the track. Just a shoulder's width, winding 96 kilometres south through the mountains and valleys and jungle - from Kokoda to Ower's Corner, just a spit from Port Morseby.

It was here, from July to October 1942 that Australian soldiers killed and died for their country. Outnumbered ten to one their fighting retreat exhausted the Japanese attackers. When finally reinforced they drove back destroying their enemy on New Guinea's northern coast.

The brutality of this campaign, the savagery or it, was unparalleled.

This short story, this imagined life contemplates that campaign and the terrible toll exacted upon the men who where there, and the women and children who came after.

The Savage will be published in eight parts over four weeks (Sundays and Wednesdays). Here begins The Savage.

A Great Australian Road Trip.

Flowering sugar cane

Australians are spoiled for choice for great road trips. The sheer size of the place, the diversity of landscapes and and small population make for endless opportunities. Many of them are known internationally: the Nullarbor, the Great Ocean Road, Tassie's east coast, the Adelaide Hills and WA's Margaret River. There's another one that's little known. It's way up north in Queensland. A diversion that sneaks off the highway at Silkwood and ends further north at Innisfail.

Cross-examination: It's the climax that counts. A personal perspective.

In recent posts we've looked at the 10 commandments of cross-examination and asked is cross-examination an engine of truth or something to do with goats? Now, I want to give you a personal perspective. It's a good time for this because I've just completed several trials and the cross is fresh in my mind.

What do Barristers Wear Under Their Robes?

OK, so barristers are all flowing black robes, sparkling white bibs and curly-haired dignity on the outside. But what about on the inside? What is worn under those traditional old markers of counsel? What lies beneath? Whatever it is, is it dignified? Traditional? Legal?

A Place Made for Murder.

North Queensland is a harsh and ancient land of scorching heat and suffocating humidity. A vast and isolated place where dead things leave nothing but bones. A place made for murder.

Cross-examination: an engine of truth or a man with a goat?

As a student barrister I attended a presentation on cross-examination. The presenter asked 'what is the purpose of cross-examination?' We were being assessed for participation so I uncharacteristically raised my hand and answered 'to elicit the truth.'

The presenter paused, raised a finger and said 'we'll return to you later'. He moved on to other more acceptable answers, leaving me feeling like an amorous farmhand caught with a goat.

Murdering Point.

by John McCool. A legal thriller set in north Queensland.

Cross-examination: Sexy or What!

Cross-examination is the sexiest part of any trial. Along with the impassioned closing address it is the very stuff of court room drama. Think of Kaffee's cross-examination of Colonel Jessup in A Few Good Men. Or Vincent Gambini's brilliant magic grits cross-examination in My Cousin Vinny. Or the classic, authoritative and measured testing of the lying rape victim in To Kill a Mocking Bird.

The Good Lawyer

Most lawyers want to believe that they do good. Sometimes it is hard to believe such a thing. The jokes tell us otherwise. Sometimes our outcomes tell us otherwise. And our daily submersion in the miseries of others tells us otherwise. Yet most of us do want to believe that we do good. One place in which we find hope for such a thought is in the arts. Literature and film sometimes tells us 'you're OK'. Here is an example.

Bar Jackets and Jabots: unsung heros or soup catchers.

The bar jacket and jabot are the forgotten elements of judicial and legal dress. Their appearance, history and significance minimised as merely ‘associated accessories’ to the wig and robe. But do they deserve any more? And just what is a jabot anyway? Some kind of half-arsed robot. A ineffectual jab. Something worn in the pants. Here is the third part of our series about how barristers dress. Perhaps it will answer these questions but I doubt it.

Barristers' Wigs: the terrible truth.

The finest barristers’ wigs are made from the hair of Australian brumbies and Mongolian ponies. I’d like to tell you that wearing one improves performance, charging one’s submissions with the power and majesty of those wild beasts. But that would be a lie.

Here is a short history of wigs and the truth about wearing them. It is the second instalment in a series of three about court dress.

Wigs and Gowns: barristers' curious obsession.

Why do barristers wear wigs and gowns? How did the practice begin? I mean, why not corsets and suspender belts? Good questions indeed. This is the first of three articles that answer the questions.

English judges have worn wigs and gowns in court since the Royal Decree of 1635. Some wear them out of court too, but that is an entirely private matter.

         Barristers were not subject to the decree but stupidly followed suit nonetheless.

         Colonial good sense meant that the practice was resisted in Australia. The notion that a mullet-cut horsehair beanie and woollen man-gown somehow bestows dignity was met with suspicion. That doubtfulness and the heat meant that they weren’t widely adopted until the mid 1800’s.

World's Best Joke Lawyer (sorry, Lawyer Joke)

A crusty old judge was about to sentence a man convicted of indecently dealing with a chicken. He peaked over his glasses and asked the man’s barrister.

‘Mr Fotherington, what does your client have to say for himself before sentence?’

Mr Fotherington looked at his client, who dutifully leaned towards him and whispered, ‘Fuck all Your Honour.’

Mr Fotherington looked away and nuisanced his brief.

‘Well’, demanded the judge, ‘what does he say?’
Fotherington cleared his throat. ‘Fuck all Your Honour.’

‘Really,’ replied the judge, ‘I could have sworn I saw his lips move.’