My day in court
The previous year I was charged for drinking on the train. I would have paid the fine except it was $400 and with constant train delays I was sick and tired of funding Bob Carr’s chronically bad infrastructure system.
So I decided to have my day in court. Going to court is like going into a public hospital system. Every freak known to mankind is present and most of them badly dressed.
If I was a magistrate, dress standards would apply in my courtroom.
I would ban white pants, midriff tops, three quarter jeans, jeans full stop!
Facing the magistrate was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. I was even given the opportunity to cross examine the ticket inspector who charged me while he sat in the witness stand in his little Railcorp uniform.
I had entered a plea of ‘Not Guilty’ on the basis that the fine had incorrectly stated that I was charged at Wynyard Station at 9:30pm when in fact I was charged at Chatswood Station at 6.00pm in the evening.
In the end, it didn’t matter when and where the ‘offence’ happened, the fact was I was guilty because I was drinking on the train, according to the magistrate.
Fortunately I was only charged $65 in court costs and given a firm warning and dressing down from the magistrate.
Courts are very intimidating places. They’re not exactly warm and fuzzy places and with police – with a penchant for Robert Ludlum books - everywhere and robed barristers. It’s not an environment that one would experience in their everyday life.
From my experience, however, the magistrates were very sympathetic to us freaks who represented ourselves.
One magistrate was particularly tolerant of a young man with a strong resemblance to Eminem who simply told him to fuck off when he approached the bench uninvited.
Having represented myself, they were very patient, instead opting to give the arrogant barristers a run for their money.
I can’t imagine Alan Jones et al sharing my praise.
So I decided to have my day in court. Going to court is like going into a public hospital system. Every freak known to mankind is present and most of them badly dressed.
If I was a magistrate, dress standards would apply in my courtroom.
I would ban white pants, midriff tops, three quarter jeans, jeans full stop!
Facing the magistrate was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. I was even given the opportunity to cross examine the ticket inspector who charged me while he sat in the witness stand in his little Railcorp uniform.
I had entered a plea of ‘Not Guilty’ on the basis that the fine had incorrectly stated that I was charged at Wynyard Station at 9:30pm when in fact I was charged at Chatswood Station at 6.00pm in the evening.
In the end, it didn’t matter when and where the ‘offence’ happened, the fact was I was guilty because I was drinking on the train, according to the magistrate.
Fortunately I was only charged $65 in court costs and given a firm warning and dressing down from the magistrate.
Courts are very intimidating places. They’re not exactly warm and fuzzy places and with police – with a penchant for Robert Ludlum books - everywhere and robed barristers. It’s not an environment that one would experience in their everyday life.
From my experience, however, the magistrates were very sympathetic to us freaks who represented ourselves.
One magistrate was particularly tolerant of a young man with a strong resemblance to Eminem who simply told him to fuck off when he approached the bench uninvited.
Having represented myself, they were very patient, instead opting to give the arrogant barristers a run for their money.
I can’t imagine Alan Jones et al sharing my praise.
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