Niamh Walsh’s Manifesto
Could Wayne Rooney be Rumpole Of The Bailey?
SO WE learned this week that Wayne Rooney became so engrossed in his wife’s ‘Wagatha Christie’ libel trial that he considered studying for a law degree.
The former England soccer star was, by all accounts, fascinated by the courtroom style of the opposing barristers in the case.
I must say, I have a soft spot for the Rooneys. For all their welldocumented strife, they really do seem to love each other ‘just the way they are’.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. Wayne Rooney. The fella can’t even go to his local pub for a few pints without getting caught red-handed in some sordid deed.
So is Rooney really equipped with the necessary smarts to argue a case in a court of law, when he can’t even hold his counsel in his own home?
But before you snigger, I speak as someone who has sat in on more than a few legal cases, and I know that smarts isn’t always at play.
I remember in particular one bright-spark barrister who very nearly had the book thrown at him in court, such were his nonsensical arguments when pleading for leniency for his client, who at the time was serving a prison sentence of three-and-half-years.
Throwing himself on the mercy of the three-judge Court of Appeal, this barrister asked for his client to be freed from jail as the man had ‘lost his business’.
This plea earned the lawyer a swift rebuke from the bench, with the judge reminding him that the enterprise in question was a ‘criminal business’ and one that had ‘never paid a cent in tax’.
Undeterred, this great legal mind muddled on, imploring the judges to free the inmate and saying that ‘a prison sentence would impose a hardship’ on his client.
In complete and utter exasperation, the judges eventually had to literally explain to the barrister that in fact the very purpose of prison was to impose hardship as a deterrent against pursuing a life of crime.
Needless to say his client was swiftly dispatched back to jail to serve out his prison sentence.
So while Wayne Rooney may not be the brainiest chap on the planet, I don’t think he can be any worse than some of the legal eagles I have seen in action.
The lady doth protest too much
GETTING dragged away by the scruff of a puffer jacket and thrown in the back of a police van appears to be a rite of passage in the world of eco-warriors.
Greta Thunberg looked pleased as punch as she posed for her obligatory ‘prisoner-for-the-planet’ picture after she was – very briefly – detained in London last week.
But these capers make Greta look less of a less serious activist and more like a serial nuisance.
Before her ‘arrest’, Greta issued a banal battalion call to her band of warriors saying, ‘Reclaim the Power’. How terribly Braveheart of her. It leaves me wondering what power she wants to reclaim? From whom does she want to reclaim it? But most importantly what exactly will those who reclaim the power do with it? So many questions, wo few answers.
Being organised is a thankless gift
ORGANISATION is a skill I do not possess. I am habitually late for everything, and if I’m not forgetting something, I’m losing or breaking something. Destruction could very realistically be my middle name. So this year I decided to bestow on my nearest and dearest the greatest gift, a drama-free Christmas. With 65 days to go, I set about planning for December 25 and invited the entire family for dinner.
I settled on my yuletide theme. Simple crimson, gold and green intersprinkled with my favourite Disney characters.
Guests and theme sorted it was time to start filling my Santa sack with trinkets.
Delighted with my haul, I ferried it to my parents for storage until it is time for it to be unpacked and wrapped and for the house to be made Santa-ready. However, to say my parade was rained on would be an understatement.
My whole big Christmas dream went up in smoke when my mother, in full Grinch mode, stood puzzling as she stared at bags brimming with ribbons, tied up with tags and a pile of packages, boxes or bags.
Slowly she said: ‘It’s OC-TO-BER’ (every syllable enunciated). ‘Why, might I ask, is my house full of Christmas stuff?’ Ask you might mother. Organisation.
So my gift of pre-planning was brutally rebuffed. Rejected and dejected, I couldn’t help but think that this organisation malarkey isn’t really all it was cracker-ed up to be.
Grateful for our small mercies
WHILE I am aware that it can be enormously erroneous to conflate conflict in faraway lands to our own troubles at home, this week I realised how truly lucky we are here in Ireland.
Yes, it is unarguable that some of our politicians could be considered a bunch of bumbling dimwits, but should we not be most thankful they’re not warmongering despots?
As too many households and businesses here are faced with the rising cost of living, at least we are not counting up the dead.
And although the storm last week caused chaos and utter devastation for some, should we not count our lucky stars that we are not living under a daily deluge of missiles and rockets that engulf us in untold misery, death and destruction?