Initially my reaction was ‘what a load of bull’, but considering the respective positions Sven and Pompey find themselves in; this could make perfect sense.

Sven is having a rough time and may well be sacked as coach of Mexico if the USA beat them in the upcoming match. Some sources suggest he’s unhappy and could even walk away. But like a high class hooker, Sven doesn’t come cheap. It seems fairly certain though, that Pompey have a few million to spare, a few million to gamble with to avoid the spectre of relegation and selling nightmare that would bring.

Perhaps Pompey will offer Sven a package and bonus for avoiding relegation that adds up to 3 or 4 million pounds if he’s successful. If he accepts it will be a short term contract, renewable in the summer. We’d be talking £100k to £250k a game; what you’d expect to pay a prime time slut like Sven, who flitters from one nectar laden flower to the next, like football’s loosest butterfly. Rumours abound that Pini Zharvi was furious with Adams for not sanctioning the signing of Dos Santos on fitness grounds. Perhaps that’s true and seeped into Sach’s pores, who desperate to sell the club has thought – s0d it, I’ll use that money as an incentive for a decent manager, we must stay up.

So that gives us Sven earning loads of money and escaping his Mexico hell & Pompey feeling much better about staying up. But it might be even cuter than that. Sacha may well feel that with Sven at the helm, not only does he safeguard the Premiership status necessary to achieve a summer sale – he actually raises the club’s profile and offers for sale, a Premiership team with a world class manager in situ. Hence the short term contract for Sven. The WIIFM for Sven would be not only millions for survival, but the chance to stay on if a sugardaddy comes in. Sure any consortium will have their own ideas about a manager when they come in, but if Sven kept us up and we were sold, do you really think he wouldn’t get the chance to start the next chapter and spaf some cash? City have given Hughes a crack of the whip, you can bet your @rse that whoever bought Pompey, their status saved by Sven, would give him a chance in the longer term.

If we went down, Sven simply claims he’s not a miracle worker, didn’t get to sign anyone, flaps his wings and takes his open crotch to another cash cow. If we stay up he enhances his reputation and either gets a plum european job or a chance to spaf loads of money at a newly taken over Pompey.

Of course this is all speculation and extrapolation; and it has Zharvi’s name throught it like a stick of rock, but Sven coming to Pompey most definately isn’t as far fetched as it first seemed. For what it’s worth I don’t think it will take a brilliant manager to keep us up. I think the majority of names mentioned would be successful to this extent, including Sven, though I most want Bilic. But if the sex fiend Swede is in any way a key or catalyst to a successful takeover, he is surely the best option?

Also, did it not strike anyone as odd that the club has announced it’s in no rush to appoint a manager over the next couple of weeks? Here we are, sliding towards the Premiership trapdoor with 15 games to go and the club comes out with that! It’s not as if Adams was sacked for gross misconduct and we’re sitting pretty in the top half of the table. Everyone knows we’re in trouble, everyone knows Sacha’s bricking it. In my opinion that statement was designed purely to give somebody the time and space to manoevre, and I’m increasingly thinking that person is Sven.

Some senior players likened their first day of training with Capello to their first day at school. Out with the mobile phones, WAGs, sandals and shorts. Cynics suggested this was a populist ploy from a man more in tune with the English than his translated press conferences suggest. An early marker designed to win approval from a footballing public that in some quarters still smarts from the appointment of a foreign coach.

The truth is Capello knows no other way. Nor should he. What was trumpeted as a drastic regime change was merely a world class coach implementing some basic prerequisites for success. Fans bickered about whether to pick a footballer who hasn’t been playing football. Commentators questioned the selection of those who’ve been star performers in League competition. Others doubted the wisdom of an ethos that placed so much emphasis on dress code, punctuality and surnames. Such protestations simply highlight why England have been high profile failures in recent years and serve as a damning indictment of previous regimes. The fans need educating as much as the players.

Tonight’s game was never going to be a revolution. Whilst only three players who started against Croatia made Capello’s first whistle, the primary objective was always to exorcise that painful failure. In truth that will take more than a friendly win against a weakened Switzerland, shorn of their leading lights up front. But England’s head coach has talked all week of the need to instill a winning mentality in his ‘group’, and tonight’s patchy victory is a vital first step.

The inclusions of James, Upson, Bentley and Jenas in the starting eleven, caused debate across the land. It needn’t have done. All four have played as well as anyone in their position, since Fabio arrived in the New Year and kicked off his appraisals at Villa Park in the FA Cup third round. A baffled fan simply shows their lack of empathy for a man who has arrived in England and judged players on their performances. It is to England’s benefit that Capello has shown no prejudice or taken the easy option of selecting on reputation while he beds into his new role. Players now know they have to stay on top of their game to stay in England’s first team. Michael Owen is just one man who’ll be fearing for his future tonight. The flip side being the likes of Defoe will have real hope for their future; knowing good performances are more likely than ever to give them the chance to fulfil their international ambitions. With the selections Capello made, it seems a brick wall has been removed and players have true autonomy over their England aspirations. Of course England are missing Terry and Lampard, who should give the team a more familiar look upon their return – but rest assured neither will be taking their place for granted. Terry won’t be texting Capello to tell him how close he is to fitness, as he did with Steve McLaren. In this new regime he’d look like a fool, he must wait until he is spoken to. Terry, like all of England’s players will feel the acute need to do his talking on the pitch; for precious little else matters in Capello’s selection process. If this is ‘going back to school’ then so be it. The cream will eventually rise to the top and fill England’s starting berths.

By his own admission Capello has studied copiously the video disaster of England’s last qualifying campaign. The first 45 minutes at Wembley tonight gave him the opportunity to see several of those failings in the flesh. Hurried and inaccurate passing, hecklers in the crowd; a disjointed and uninspired performance that lacked cohesion and confidence. A machine that stuttered so badly it belied the quality of it’s components.

Jermain Jenas scored the first half’s only goal, peeling off his far post marker to hook in from close range after Joe Cole’s scintillating wing play. Chelsea’s diminutive number 10 was the game’s outstanding player, and after leaving Lichsteiner on the turf he used the time and space to surge into the area and look up to find the Tottenham man.

Just four minutes earlier Jenas had squandered a golden chance to earn the favour. Played clean through by a quick Bentley pass, he dithered fatally when a simple square ball would have given Cole a six yard tap in. As it was, Cole was the one player England could rely on to create openings in a fractious first period. After ten minutes he span and produced an instant pass into the path of Rooney, whose cross shot deflected off the on rushing Swiss keeper for a corner. Cole played his position to perfection, providing width when needed yet coming in field frequently to find space and prompt England attacks when others seemed stifled or short of ideas. England fans have grown increasingly accustomed to such performances from the Chelsea man, arguably the best player to wear the three lions at the last World Cup. The only blot on Cole’s copybook was an impetuous foul that presented Switzerland with their single real chance of the half. Rio Ferdinand was caught napping from the resultant free kick, but two Swiss heads could only conspire to put the ball wide of James’ far post.

On the other side of England’s midfield, David Bentley was beginning a journey that will surely see him similarly revered and required during Capello’s rebuilding. Here was the man denying a national icon his 100th cap. Under such pressure he produced a performance that not only vindicated his new manager, it virtually consigned the Beckham debate to history. Opposite Cole, he was England’s brightest spark in the first half. It was Bentley’s vision that released Jenas for the crossing opportunity he so badly squandered, and the Blackburn man’s exquisite long pass to put Rooney through in the 40th minute was eerily reminiscent of the namesake he’d displaced.

Tension eased by a half time lead, England came racing out the traps at the start of the second period. Cole and Bentley combined to create chances with play that exuded self confidence and belief in eachother. It was very much against the run of play when a slick Swiss attack saw young debutant Derdiyok, sweep an early shot past an unset David James. Rio Ferdinand once more seemed to be a fraction of a second behind play.

The goal came but seconds after Capello shuffled his pack with the introduction of Crouch and Wright-Phillips. To England’s credit they bounced back with aplomb. An excellent flick by the increasingly influential Rooney sent Gerrard away down the left. His well placed low cross was hit home by the shorter of Capello’s introductions, but Wright-Phillips proved to be a poor replacement for his Chelsea colleague Cole. His all-round play thereafter was beset with poor passing and decision making. Possibly he was too eager to impress; the same could be levelled at Wayne Rooney. England’s young talisman showed constant glimpses of his exceptional talent; chips, flicks, desperate lunges and tackles – his performance was more that of the raw 16 year old who first emerged at Goodison Park.

As early as the 30th minute, Rooney was dropping into Barry’s watch infront of the back four, so eager he was for possession and a chance to impress. No doubt Capello will have been thrilled by his committment and skill, the fans certainly were, giving him a raptuous reception when he finally exited the fray with four minutes to go. But Capello’s pleasure will surely have been tempered by the enormity of the task he must know he faces, in giving Rooney the necessary discipline to truly hurt tougher opposition.

These are early days indeed. Like the previous six incumbents of his job before him, Capello has begun his term with a win. At times England showed a panache that we all yearn to be shown on a regular basis, but more important than that we saw motivated players that look happy to be on board. Next month’s French examination will prove a far sterner test for Capello’s class of 2008. What’s happened on and off the pitch so far, suggests a group determined to graduate to football’s top table, having been held back for years. That said, the need for patience is paramount. It will take time, for there is still so much for them to learn.

I fully accept that many people will view this article as jaundiced, coming from the keyboard of a devout Portsmouth fan. All I can suggest in my defence is that people review this transfer after eighteen months, if I’m wrong I’ll take it on the chin.

Poached by West Ham from Charlton at the age of fifteen, Jermain Defoe has always been revered in the game as a player destined for the top. When Harry Redknapp loaned him out to Bournemouth in his formative years, he broke the division’s record by scoring in 9 consecutive league games for the Cherries. A take on the Baha Men’s number one single; ‘Who let Defoe out?’ was the chant from the terraces at the time. I knew many a Bournemouth fan during this period, they were all certain this boy wonder would play for England. Like Rio Ferdinand before him, they knew this was a player they could never entertain dreams of keeping.

With West Ham’s relegation came an ill-timed transfer request, and the inevitable move to a ‘big club’; Tottenham Hotspurs. The jump in profile led to England recognition; but the lack of games has curtailed his progress thereafter. Yet look at his record. Despite playing second fiddle to a once nomadic and now settled Robbie Keane, Defoe has notched 64 goals in 177 games for Spurs. A better than 1 in 3 strike rate puts him in the upper echelons of Premier League strikers. When you consider nearly half those appearances were as a substitute, given to a young man who hasn’t experienced regular football since his Upton Park days; you begin to appreciate the latent potential Portsmouth have just contracted. From the age of 21 to 25, this hugely precocious striker has been used as a bit part player – yet still produced a strike rate to shame most Forwards who play week in and week out. It is the prospect of being the main man that has lured Defoe to the south coast once more, and it is the prospect of what he might achieve in this role that has Portsmouth fans salivating.

There has been much negative press about Defoe over the past two seasons. A common depiction has been that of a young man only too happy to pick up his monstrous wages and live the high life in the capitol. Yet this analysis simply doesn’t withstand closer scrutiny. Defoe knows his talent and his true worth, as all great players do, and it’s clear he was determined to make a success of his move to Spurs. Not once in his four year stint did he chuck his toys out the pram and demand a move – when called upon he did the business and found the back of the net. And while Spurs managers constantly reiterated their desire to keep him, fine judges such as Sir Alex, have been monitering his situation. When interviewed after his winning goal for England in Poland, late 2004, we saw not a man saying ‘I told you so’, begrudging his domestic situation. Instead we saw a man who couldn’t hide his delight or his hunger for more.

Defoe is underestimated not just as a player but as a person; and it may be this is what has allowed him to fall into the clutches of Portsmouth. Were there not doubts about either aspect of him, he’d surely be plying his trade at a more grandiose base than Fratton Park. But Pompey fans should prepare to be excited, for the timing of this move coincides with a seismic shift in Defoe’s life. A prodigous and talented youngster, Jermain has spent life from 21-25 without regular first team football. On 31st January his employers effectively told him he could leave, by accepting Portsmouth’s offer. And on the very same day he was ignored by England’s new manager, who instead opted for the past glories of Owen and the untried potential of Agbonlahor. Defoe should be in England’s team and he knows it. He’s chased his Spurs dream and now half way through his twenties he’s found himself not playing and shunned by the national team for lesser lights.

If you believe anything in this article then believe Defoe’s remarks upon signing are genuine. This is a man who’s excited about playing every week. This is a man who’s desperate to make up for lost time. This is a man who has lost his England place and sees Dave Kitson as the top scoring Englishman in the Premier League. I believe there’s a lot of things Defoe feels he needs to put right. With the familiar and motivational arm round the shoulder from Harry, I truly believe he will succeed and the sky is the limit.

This time next year, we should be talking about England’s top Premier League scorer – and whether Michael Owen will ever get the caps needed to usurp Bobby Charlton’s goal record.

A February friendly against Switzerland would appear to be an innocuous start for the Italian, in his bid to restore England to international football’s top table. Nothing could be further from the truth. When Capello names his squad on January 31st, he’ll be penning the prologue for his entire reign. An England set-up that cynics believe has favoured reputations over form and personalities over performance; simply must be challenged for public faith to be restored in the Three Lions. Capello must show no sentiment and stamp his authority on the squad, else this will be a false dawn rather than a new chapter in our nation’s fortunes.

Central to this acid test, is the 99 cap talisman, David Beckham. Sentiment and financial gain are the only two reasons to include him in the squad. The first would suggest that a friendly against Switzerland is the perfect opportunity to allow this fantastic servant of England the chance to reach 100 caps. Some would go further and give him the captaincy in John Terry’s absence. A rousing send off at Wembley, surely the least this man deserves? The FA will no doubt want Capello to play him at some stage. The potential revenue that could be generated would dwarf that received for making Wembley a Grid Iron just weeks before their crucial and ill-fated game against Croatia.

W hile one motive is noble and the other merely cynical, both are demonstrably wrong. Capello has but a handful of games to mould an England side in his image, prior to a World Cup qualifying campaign. Lets be clear, Beckham should have no part to play in that campaign and has got no chance of appearing in the next World Cup finals. The prospect of one of our precious few warm up games being debased into some sort of international testimonial, an ego-massaging money spinner, is one that Fabio must avoid at all costs.

Supporters of Beckham will point to his great attitude, his pivotal role at the last World Cup and how in these respects he compares favourably to other so called big names in the team. But it would be sheer folly to include a man on the basis that he fared better than others during previous inept regimes. This is a man who hasn’t played a competitive game since October, and even then we are associating the word competitive with a footballing pasture across the Atlantic. Consider those who are vying to replace him.

David Bentley has been exceptional for the past eighteen months, blossoming into the midfielder we all hoped he would become when his early promise emerged at Arsenal. He is the outstanding candidate to be given the chance to cement his place on the right of England’s midfield. And guess what? His crossing, skill and footballing brain are now eerily reminiscent of his American based namesake before his legs had gone. What Bentley needs is a run of games in the national team, prior to our qualification bid. A chance to bed into International football before the big questions are asked. To squander such an opportunity against Switzerland in favour of a misty eyed send off to a dedicated and passionate nearly man, would be a dereliction of Capello’s duties, an affront to his sensibilities.

Elsewhere we have Shaun Wright-Phillips beginning to fulfill his potential at Stamford Bridge. His performances have dramatically improved with the faith and responsibility Avram Grant has bestowed on him in his Chelsea team. Whilst the final product still requires much polishing, he offers a different and more direct alternative to Bentley on the right flank. Here we have a pair of players Capello will surely relish deploying against different opposition in differing circumstances. Fast forward to 2010 and only the most deluded individual would profess to preferring Beckham’s 35 year old legs carrying England’s hopes, in South Africa’s blistering heat.

Add to the equation young Aaron Lennon; another pacey and unpolished diamond who  looks more accomplished with each passing month. Elements of his game are noticeably improving and it is hard to envisage that progress not continuing under the stewardship of Ramos. Those who believe Beckham can play a pivotal role in qualification for South Africa are missing the bigger picture. If the younger lights play a mere bit part on the journey to the Finals, they’re likely to come up short when the business end comes around. Think of Scott Carson, think of the familiarity and experience that all tournament winning teams have in abundance. And think of the sad prospect of willing Beckham to repeat his Greece heroics, when he won’t have been performing in a footballing amphitheatre for years.

There is no place for sentiment. There is no place for Beckham. Not against Switzerland, not ever again.

The romance and passion of the FA Cup was there for all to see at Anfield. Yours truly was among the pundits predicting a rugby score, but Havant & Waterlooville played to the very height of their powers and fully deserved to briefly ‘live the dream’ as they twice led in the first half. In truth the scouse giants defended terribly, particularly in the build up to the Hawks’ second goal when a Bramble-esque travesty of control let in a young man called Potter, who appeared to be made of matchsticks, to pop the Hampshire minnows in front.

Fair play to the Anfield crowd, they rose to a man to applaud the non-league battlers off the pitch at the final whistle. Watching that parting gift and hearing the post match interviews, laden with delight, pride and disbelief; made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It reminded me why I love football so much and why the FA Cup is the finest club cup competition in the World.

Whilst Liverpool’s back line will be embarrassed by their display, they were put in the shade by the sheer woefulness of Derby’s exertions. If Lee Camp isn’t already on prozac he surely soon will be. The Rams would have fared better by selecting a wheely-bin in place of the tragic carthorse, Andy Todd. Stevie Wonder could have produced a better back pass than that which set up Preston’s first goal at Pride Park. Heather Mills would have fared better in trying to stem North End’s attacks thereafter. I have to feel for Paul Jewell, who approached his post match interview with all the relish of a man being invited to eat his own eyeballs.

It was a predictable procession for Arsenal against Keegan’s Newcastle. A tasty Nicky Butt own goal added a touch of comedy to the Geordies’ realisation that this season was going to be just like every other since 1969. Chelsea’s comfortable despatching of Wigan and Man Utd’s hard fought slaying of Tottenham, ensures the big four progress to the last sixteen unscathed. But this predictability is tempered by the fact that from the top flight, only Portsmouth and Middlesborough have joined them in the next round. Ten of the sixteen clubs left ply their trade outside the top division, with Bristol Rovers being the lowest ranked side left in the competition.

Both Middlesborough and Portsmouth can consider themselves fortunate to have progressed without a replay. Plucky Mansfield, from the basement of the league, gave the Teesiders a good going over; but ultimately paid the price for not possessing the killer touch in front of goal. Plymouth showed plenty of quality to create openings against their naval rivals, but were denied a deserved replay by England’s finest goalkeeper, David James.

Manchester City continued their dismal away form this season by being quite comfortably turned over by Sheffield United, in the final game of the round. Having heard Bryan Robson interviewed prior to the match, it struck me as quite surprising that his players were even awake for the Referee’s first whistle. I nominate Captain Marvel as the most uninteresting man in football, and should he ever find himself out of work then I’ve no doubt he could make his fortune selling recordings of his football musings to insomniacs. For now, Robson’s cup dream lives on, and Eriksson’s men will be returning to Manchester with gloves intact but egos bruised.

The prospects for this year’s competition look good, with ten of the last sixteen coming from outside the Premiership, the prospect of a ’small club’ reaching the business end of the Cup appears reasonable. The football neutral will be looking for the big four to draw eachother in Monday’s fifth round drawer; and then everyone can start dreaming of Wembley. As a Portsmouth fan I’m somewhat torn. The salivating prospect of facing Southampton is a tempting one, but a home draw against Huddersfield would offer a virtual guarantee of a quarter final birth for my beloved team – provided Luke Beckett stops scoring!

Past history suggests that as Portsmouth cup dreams begin to catch light, a draw against Arsenal quite rapidly extinguishes them. Call me a bottler but I’d happily take a minnow in the next round, and the prospect of being just two games from Wembley at the final whistle.

The 50th Anniversary of the Munich air crash will be marked prior to the Manchester Utd V Manchester City match in the Premier League this weekend. The decision by the hosts to request a minute’s silence is being contested by certain City fan groups, who have stated their preference for sixty seconds of applause.

The introduction of applause has at times been a fitting and refreshing breath of fresh air. United fans will no doubt remember the raptuous and respectful applause for George Best at Fratton Park. Hardly a dry eye in the house; a wonderful and united celebration of a fantastic life, a great tribute to a great man.

The anniversary of Munich is no such occasion. This was an horrendous disaster that cut down young men in their prime. A tragedy that robbed families, friends and football fans of lives & careers that had only just begun. If those affected at the time were told that their loved ones would be remembered in fifty years time with a minute’s applause, I can only imagine they’d have been incredulous and deeply offended.

I don’t think any sane person believes that applause is the most fitting way to mark this cruel tragedy. I don’t think anyone would advocate fans clapping as being the best way to remember Heisel, Hillsborough or Valley Parade. The only basis for wanting applause to mark the Munich disaster, is to mask the behaviour of those who would openly display disrespect. The semiotics of the City group’s request, is that they think a number of their fans would do precisely that; and ruin the occasion.

Such a sad state of affairs would have been unthinkable in 1958. The disaster shook Manchester to its core, red or blue, football fan or not. The city was united in disbelief and grief. Now there is such a risk of people jeering, booing or singing during sixty seconds of rememberance; fan’s groups are asking us to turn sensibility and sensitivity on their head, to applaud these stolen lives and drown out this dissenting element.

Who are these troglodytes who would desicrate such an occasion? Why on earth should the majority be denied the chance to remember and grieve for these victims properly, because of fears over a pond life minority? I fully expect United to stick to their guns and so they bloody well should. Instead of asking others to help hide their disgusting elements, City fan groups should be turning a mirror on themselves and flush out the turds. I’m staggered at the suggestion for applause; make no mistake, the motive of City fan groups is purely selfish. I don’t for one second believe City can be held responsible for the actions of every person who enters Old Trafford to support their team, but to ask for applause is both disrespectful and an admission of defeat to the yobs. The fact that the issue is now a serious debate is a damning indictment of our Society and a shameful reminder that while mankind has progressed in many areas over the past fifty years, it has also regressed badly when it comes to respect for others.

R.I.P the victims of Munich, 1958.

I couldn’t get to sleep last night. I was thinking about the case. I woke up early this morning. I was still thinking about the case.

Being up early was a good thing; much needed to be done. I had to iron a shirt and get into town for a hearty breakfast. Following that, purchase a pack lunch and sweets for the deliberations.

I entered the Juror Lounge and two things pleased me straight away. Firstly, nobody else from our jury was here yet. Secondly, Café Girl was back!

Immediately I made for the coffee machine; no surprise there, but I was particularly eager today, because I knew Café Girl would be swiping my card. With no hint of a spillage, I processed to the till. She was full of smiles and small chat. Even a retard could spot these positives. What better time to drop my line about the wig?

Her face creased and she laughed so hard. It was several seconds before the look of feigned indignation I’d predicted, emerged on her sultry features. So cute.

She hardened her look of indignation, leaned forward, and gently slapped me on the cheek. Her eyes gave it all away. As she retracted, they glistened, and her features softened to a warm smile. Excellent! I laughed and strolled through to the Smoke Pit. I promised myself, tomorrow morning, I’d have a sane chat with that girl and get her phone number. I was in a good mood now.

Who better to dissipate these good feelings than Denim Prick? In a breach of previous protocol, aforementioned was second to arrive. Armed with coffee, he came to join me in the pit. Empty, aside from a couple of Fraud jurors.

Denim wanted to talk. He’d spent all his hours outside court, thinking about the case. He intended me to be the grateful recipient of his tired and skewed musings. I tried to kill it early doors. I wasn’t in the mood. Today was going to be a fucking nightmare. I got here early so I could have a quiet fag and not listen to any cunt babbling about the case in my ear. This was incensing me.

I continued to gaze avidly at my open copy of The Sun. I deployed every indicator of disinterest available, from my extensive repertoire. Still Denim was undeterred; I’d made it through to Dear Dierdre. I immersed myself totally in Dierdre’s work in a desperate bid to escape Denim’s diatribe. The photo story was satisfyingly generic. In the last box, a man was lying on a bed with his arms folded nonchalantly behind his head. Straddling him was an unfeasibly tight blonde in skimpy thong. She was pawing at his chest and arching her back; a speech bubble above her clearly enthusiastic face read – “This is so good, we’re going to be great together! This is going to be great!” The man’s eyes are looking to the left, well away from her photogenic charms. There’s a thought bubble above his head. “This is fucking me off”.

I afforded myself a chuckle. Textbook. Shit; Denim was still talking.

Mark to the rescue; not far behind, Puffy and Carny. Mark was pissed off. He’d had a nightmare morning – late for an important work meeting, following a failed rendezvous with M.O.T testers prior. Still; he had his pens and flipchart – and today, we knew they’d be used. It’s not often Mark doesn’t smile, and it was only a matter of seconds before I’d reverted him to his default setting.

Everyone was twitchy; grimacing or smiling, it’s hard to say. Mark and I briefly discussed how best to make deliberations flow smoothly, before I departed to the Lounge for fresh air.

I sat next to Teacher. Her face was already of the flushed complexion I associate with her outbursts. This was not a good sign. We got chatting, and as ever, Denim was revealed as the source of the angst. Just as I’d suspected, Denim had been approaching fellow jurors after me, and showing his cards. Teacher was livid at the prospect of listening to his amateur detective work during deliberations. I did my best to placate her, but in my head I knew what was coming. Denim had come to me yesterday, seeking approval for handing out his documented thoughts and ‘unofficial prosecution case’. Like all twelve of us, he has the perfect right to say and discuss whatever he likes regarding the case. That’s the whole point of the jury. I want to hear from everybody in that Square Room today; no matter how painful it is. This needs to be done properly. Everyone’s got to be happy.

The trouble with Denim is, he made up his mind that the defendant was guilty last Friday. He’d told me this and I couldn’t believe my ears. Friday was when Prosecution wound up. You don’t expect to be on a jury with somebody who’s made up their mind before the Defence. The result of this was pure and simple prejudice. Denim had been taking special note of, attaching extra weight to – any scrap of evidence he could fuse into his personal deductions.

Knowing that Denim would be issuing his “conclusions” today was a fearful prospect. I rather suspected Teacher would be considerably more flushed by the end of proceedings.

Thankfully, Rover plopped himself down to my left; I was spared issuing any sham reassurances in Teacher’s direction. Football love. Yeah. Warnock might be on his way, coveted by Mandaric for some time – street fighter qualities may be just what we need. Sell to buy? Could be a shitter. Jaglielka? That would be good. I rate him and Tonge in particular. Our faces were full of love. I don’t think either of us had expected to find intelligent football love in here.

We had the briefest of stays in Court. The Judge simply reminded us how we must test the charges against the Defendant, “needing to be sure”, and the need to select a Foreman. Within sixty seconds, our Usher was taking us down the stairs to a Square Room.

There were several audible inhalations on the way. As the Judge had said; “It’s entirely in your hands. You are here, to decide.” People were starting to feel it. We had some big decisions to make; and the Judge had made it clear he wanted a unanimous verdict. This would take time.

Everybody assumed a seat round the Square Table. Big red and brown envelopes, crammed with evidence from two decades, were splashed in the centre. Thicky pressed a button on the wall, within seconds an Usher was at our beck and call. Coffees all round. I was on a corner of the table. To my left was Teacher, Denim, Ketchup, Thicky then Mark. To my right, Rover, Carny, Puffy and Frail. Even at this pivotal stage, Miserable Bloke had assumed his customary anti-social position.

We needed to elect a Foreman. Who would do it? Hands went up from Denim, Miserable Bloke, Teacher, Thicky and myself. It was agreed we’d carry out a secret ballot. All twelve wrote a name from the above on a piece of paper and handed it to Mark, who piled them up and totted up the totals.

It was me. I don’t want to sound cocky; but I knew it would be. Mark’s announcement drew spontaneous clapping from the whole group. This really took me back. It was only being fucking Foreman! Fellow candidates for the role were issuing gracious praise in my direction. I’d never realised it was such a big deal.

Foreman’s role was to organise debate. Simple rules were put in place. We would take some time to consider our Kidnap charge evidence, pass around the files, answer questions with each other, that sort of stuff. Make sure we were totally au fait with the facts. We’d then have a vote. We would explain and discuss our reasons for differing in verdict thereafter.

I was happy to delegate some responsibility to Mark. He was going to use those fucking pens! I got him to do an event and evidence timeline; it would be a quick and convenient reference point for everyone. We had a lot of shit to assimilate, process and deduce from. Mark was suitably efficient, and everyone began talking. Simple questions flowed over the table; “Was it Thackery who saw the Escort on his rounds?” “Did he see a moustache?”. “The car seat blood, that was only 1 in 20 yeah?”

I’d been chatting to Officer. I knew where I stood. There was fuck all on Kidnap. A doddery old lady looking through her kitchen window at dusk. “About 5 foot 10, Asian”. Thanks a fucking bunch. She hadn’t even clocked a moustache on any of the kidnappers. Our defendant’s was like a soft broom. There were hidden camera pictures of him with one on the same day. There’s a newspaper photo of him with his two young daughters at a rally two days after. He’s got the same moustache in that. That’s much more than reasonable doubt. This is bullshit. Time for a fag.

I’d diffused the potential conflict of smoking by chatting to Frail, Teacher and Ketchup. They were the three non-smokers. They would all share the en suite female toilet; the blokes toilet would have an ashtray in it. And smokers. Regularly.

Half an hour in, and I’d eaten a pack and a half of Extra Strong Mints already. Standing alone in the tiny gents toilet, I sparked up my rolly. Voices from the Square Room were still easily audible. I could hear some heated discourse between Teacher and Denim. I didn’t deem their anger high enough on the Richter Scale, to exit the loo and call them to heel as Foreman. Instead I looked into the large mirror above the wash basin. I looked into my eyes. I was starting to get frayed.

Upon my return, people were settling in their seats. Scattered pages of notes were being gathered. Some arms were being folded. I asked if people were ready to declare on Kidnap. People were up for it, Mark was poised with pen by the wipe board. I began. “Not Guilty”. I added a succinct sentence, “I don’t see any evidence that can make it even close to sure.” This was in a soft, mildly rueful tone. Rover agreed entirely. Carny was not sure. I’d guessed this. I said it was fine, we’d conclude the vote and all talk about it after. Puffy not guilty. Frail and Thicky the same. Miserable Bloke also. Everyone – except one.

There were several sighs upon Denim’s declaration of guilty. Mine wasn’t one of them. As Foreman I was being ultra diplomatic; stopping just shy of pure cheese. “Tell me why?” I said. “I want to see and understand, how you’re sure he was involved in the kidnap.”

There was no answer of course. The Police had fucked up big time. An ID parade at the time would have helped. The kidnappers could have been any one of the tight-knit #### characters that had been introduced to the play upstairs. “Asian, with dark hair”. Give me a fucking break. Denim’s actual explanation for his verdict, was that he thought the defendant guilty by implication, as he was sure he was guilty of False Imprisonment. Teacher began to bubble at this point. She hid her face from all but Officer and I, behind exhibit 53 – a bus route map. Teacher produced facial contortions representing frustration and hatred, for our benefit.

Discussions continued between the group, and an important point was made. Could we find the defendant guilty of kidnap, if we were sure he played a part in the planning, if not the execution? No one was sure. I called the Usher and asked for the question to be passed to the Judge.

Time for a break. No point deliberating further till we get this sorted. I found myself in unusually close proximity to Puffy, Carny and Miserable Bloke. All four of us were in the toilet, moving like mime artists, to not burn each other with our cigarettes. I had to soften up Carny. She more than most, felt the pain of not being able to deliver a guilty verdict. She was convinced he was guilty in her heart of hearts. Luckily, she was also aware of how we had to judge this case. I reminded her of the Defence barrister’s words, “you must leave all emotion, all prejudice, outside this court.” She smoked, and sighed. She knew. There was no evidence. No real, concrete evidence at all. She started tag teaming with Puffy, joking about the inept police work. Under the bright ceiling light, in such close proximity, it was a strange setting to talk and smoke with each other. Every crease or furrow, every conveyance in an eye; it was impossible to hide anything. A curious and silent couple of minutes followed Carny’s jokes drying up. We were just looking at each other like we were in the trenches together. My eyes were beginning to water from the smoke of four cigarettes in a confined space. I had to get out. It was a complicated manoeuvre; extricating myself without crushing Puffy behind the inswinging door. I made it back to the Square Table and my third packet of Extra Strong Mints.

We were summoned back to court so the Judge could answer our kidnap question. Going up the stairs, Teacher whispered in my ear that she’d voted for me as Foreman.

I hadn’t realised the defendant and public gallery would be present for this. As we shuffled to our places on the bench I scanned around the courtroom. The media were in force on the benches opposite; and the public gallery was now swamped. Having heard all the evidence, I was pretty sure I could identify the defendant’s family; plenty of other people were present too. I noted Asian Honey again. I thought better of eyeing her up at this stage of proceedings. The Judge read our question out load. You could sense the accused, his friends and family tensing. From their point of view, we looked like we wanted to nail him. The Judge said yes – we could indeed convict, if we were sure he was part of a group that had the intention to perform this act. (In layman’s terms). This notched up the tension in the room some more.

So many pairs of eyes burning into us jurors. Concerned parties, searching desperately for a clue in our expressions. Usher took us back to the Square Room, and we were all relieved.

We all understood the Judge’s words and the vote went round again. Denim stuck. Mark joined Carny on undecided. Miserable Bloke switched to guilty. I suggested we all briefly state our case, and go round the table. As Foreman I was first, and my point, rather simple. “OK. Show me the evidence, what are you using to come to this conclusion? We can’t prove he physically carried it out, how are we sure he was in on the plan?”

Mark immediately retracted. He’d briefly forgotten the “be sure” part of our instructions and was now grinning sheepishly.

Miserable Bloke talked through his circumstantial approach to me. Thankfully enough, just talking it through – he realised before the end that he’d inserted some major assumptions into his conceivable patchwork of events. He saw the big holes of doubt they masked; he was happy to revert to not guilty. Carny soon followed suit.

All of which, left Denim. He couldn’t explain his guilty verdict without airing his detective work. I’d known this was coming. Dish us your handouts Denim Prick. He’d typed up evidence from memory at home, and gave us all a two sheet document. I knew it would be bad; a bigoted ladder of assumptions and guess work leading up to his conclusion. But the way I saw it; he’d every right to say it, and only by him saying it could we take it apart and win the unanimous verdict we needed. It might be messy, that’s all.

His sleuthing was worse than I ever imagined.

For Denim, the case rested on the delivery of a ransom letter to the ####. The defendant had popped out to get some milk from his house round the corner. He was making teas and coffees for his card playing friends. The office was like a social club for ####’s. Anyhow, the defendant returned with the milk to find the ransom letter, in an envelope. He brought it unopened, to the #### General Secretary, who opened and read it.

I scanned down Denim’s handiwork, and there was the crux of the matter, in bold italic type. “Muslims do not have milk in coffee or tea. Like many other countries, such as Greece, it’s not the done thing.”

Therefore the defendant had lied, the letter was his, he was in on the whole plan, he was therefore guilty on all three charges.

‘Fuck me’ I thought. ‘When the rest of the room reads as far down as I have, they’re going to go fucking schiz’.

I looked around the room; people had been distracted by the usher arriving with fresh coffees. The general consensus was we should have a quick break. It was now one o’clock and people wanted to eat their sarnies with a hot drink.

After having my fill, knowing the Denim debacle would shortly unfold, I made for the smoking toilet. Thicky and Officer joined me. I’d had no worries from Thicky today. Indeed quite the opposite. He was loud and vociferous in his regular references to our instructions. “must be sure”, “purely on the evidence in front of you”. It had finally sunk in with him; and eyeball to eyeball in our cramped confines, I could see he knew we were doing the right thing. More than that, the only thing we could do. Like most of us, he had grave doubts about the defendant. But he knew how we had to judge the case. There was only one verdict we could give. Thicky had joined Teacher, Mark, Rover and I in being unequivocally sure of what the outcome must be.

Officer was quizzing me about Denim’s handout. She wasn’t happy at his manner, issuing us all with typed up copies of his thoughts. I initially pacified her, explaining it was important everyone had their say, even if we didn’t want to hear it. “We have to go through this before we can debunk it”. I made clear my feelings on the content. It was “sinister sleuthing of precisely the type the Judge had warned us against”. Denim, like all of us, was disappointed with the prosecution. Unlike the rest of us. He’d tried to fill the gaps with plotlines worthy of P. D. James.

It was time to recommence. I gave Denim the floor. It was painful.

Officer passed hers back to him immediately. Curtly declaring “No thanks, I don’t want it.” Denim was dignified, said it wasn’t a problem.

The room had gone ice cold. “That’s something you’ve done at home, I don’t want to see it.” Same tone of delivery. Denim rescinded.

Miserable Bloke put his straight in the bin.

As far as I could tell, only two people saw this. I was one of them, Frail was the other. We looked at each other and he was the happiest I’ve seen him all trial. He wasn’t going to say anything. Miserable Bloke wasn’t going to either. It’s not his style.

‘Denim can carry on’, I thought. No-ones noticed.

There were assumptions on every line, Teacher jumped down his throat every time. Mark and I locked eyes and decided this needed to be calmed. I didn’t want to see Denim savaged, he was looking a bit weak. I took care of Teacher, asking Denim to explain points and bringing a silent backdrop to his delivery. Mark helped probe Denim further, the complete weakness of his argument was becoming apparent; yet still he clung on.

I was starting to get wound up. This had to end. I took every aspect of his story and exposed the ludicrousness of his certainty. He’d assumed something at every juncture. His version of events was one of thousands that could be backed up by the loose, hap hazard, circumstantial evidence on offer.

He wilted, bowed his head, “I see that” he mumbled disappointingly. This was it; I pulled out all the stops.

I said it wasn’t our job to prove guilt. That was for Police and Prosecution to do. They’ve failed. Many of us in our heart of hearts think he’s guilty, if I’m honest I think I probably do. But we’ve got to be sure. If we’re serious about that oath, it’s got to be on the evidence in front of us. It is impossible to convict on this evidence. You know that; you’ve tried to – you failed. Surely you can see that?

Denim was seeing the light. He was finally putting his emotions to one side; and seeing what eleven other people were too. It was hard for him to accept and I sympathised.

Mark chipped in to deliver the final blow.

“Are you willing to send that man to prison, where he’ll die, on the basis of what’s in front of you?”

“No” was Denim’s answer.

We went round the room on Kidnap, Denim’s oration of “not guilty” produced an unmistakeable feeling of serenity in the room. Like a house of cards, resistance simply collapsed.

Within thirty minutes we were all in agreement; not guilty on all three counts. Landslide. I said all the cheesy stuff, asking if everyone was happy, thanking Mark for his facilitator roll. He’d brought us some much needed structure, and together we’d done well to discuss all views and come to a decision.

That said, I proposed we waited till three o’clock before letting the Judge know. It was quarter past two. If we told them now they could still put us on another trial. Fuck that for a laugh.

Everyone was in agreement on this point. This trial had drained us, another would be hell. We spent a warm half hour finishing our lunches and getting to know each other even better.

I joined Denim and Miserable Bloke in the toilet. Miserable was berating Denim for his handout. Telling him he put it straight in the bin. It had put his nose out of joint, and I had limited success as a mediator.

Departing the scene, I pressed the red button to call the Usher. I passed him the note to give to the Judge. ‘We the jury have reached a unanimous decision on all three charges.’ It had taken just three hours. I thanked Mark for his help. We both knew it had been a team effort; and it had gone better than either of us expected.

Five minutes later we were sat on our jurors benches. It was electric in there. The female usher in the wig came and stood in front of us.

“Will the Foreman please rise.”

Up I stood; not that nervous, I was the bearer of good news after all.

“Have you reached a unanimous verdict on all charges?”

“Yes”

“On the charge of Kidnap, do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?”

“Not guilty.” Scarcely a murmur. I decided I’d keep looking directly ahead at my questioner.

“On the charge of False Imprisonment, do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?”

“Not guilty.” Murmurs this time; but more than anything else, the tension going through the roof. Everyone’s eyes were burning into me, looking for an indication, waiting for my next utterance. It was the big one next.

I couldn’t help it; my eyes flashed to the right for a second. The people in the public gallery had massed together, condensed in hope and hugs, waiting for the final word. The defendant was twitching alarmingly; it jolted me back – looking straight ahead once more. Throat very dry.

“On the charge of Murder, do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?

I waited a split second; soaking it up. “Not guilty.”

Like flicking a switch. Emotional eruption, sobbing shrieks of delight. I sat down. That was it. In the midst of all these emotional outpourings, we jurors suddenly felt like imposters.

The Judge brought order, and thanked us for our service. In a matter of seconds we were being ushered out the court for the final time, heading downstairs for the retreat of the lounge.

All talk was of the reaction to our verdict in the public gallery. Puffy and Rover were welling up; it gave me a lump in my throat. Even Denim, was now vocalising the fact we’d done the only, and correct thing. I drew level to him going down the stairs and put my hand on his shoulder. He was visibly moved by what we’d just witnessed. What we’d just created. He said we were right to find the verdict we did, he hoped it gave the defendant’s family immeasurable happiness. I echoed this, and I was sure it would. Everyone was trying to keep emotions in check as we congregated round the lounge’s administration desk.

As glances and smiles were exchanged between the group, we were discharged. Our duty was over. We didn’t even have to come back tomorrow. And so our farewells commenced.

Twelve handshakes, five kisses and umpteen platitudes later – I made for the lounge exit. Teacher was by my side; she was ecstatic the predicted blood bath had never quite materialised. I beamed back, all twelve of us had really cared. It was a good feeling now we’d all agreed and come to a decision.

Opening the lounge doors, the foyer seemed busier than usual, though it hardly registered. Only the sobbing and the faces snapped Teacher and I out of our feel good reverie. The foyer was awash with the defendant’s friends and family; I assume this would not have been allowed if our verdict had been different. Everyone was looking at us with tearful, blood shot eyes, no doubt waking from their reveries and realising who we were.

Feeling increasingly uncomfortable with the attention, Teacher and I quickened our pace towards the front door. To my left I heard shaky female voices.

“Thank you. Thank you” was tremblingly repeatedly in our direction, I turned to view the source, the lump in my throat was getting bigger.

It was Asian Honey. She was stood with another girl from the public gallery. Both were shaking like field mice who’d lost their habitat. Tears were rolling incessantly down their cheeks. All I could do was smile back. I recognised Honey now. I could see it in her face. She was one of the defendant’s daughters. She was one of the toddlers with him in the newspaper photo we’d been studying earlier. This was too much, out through the doors I escaped, and into the pouring rain.

Teacher and I hunched our frames against the foul elements and turned to face each other. “It had been a pleasure” I said, before pecking her on the cheek and sharing a hug. Teacher reciprocated and began to cry.

Carny was behind us, she fancied a pint. She had Denim and Puffy in tow. ‘Thank the lord someone else wants some booze’, I thought. I turned to Teacher, she was well up for it too and drying her eyes. The jury’s parting of ways had been sudden and unexpected, I felt like some final chatting with a pint and a fag would be divine.

We processed into Yate’s; a chain I swore I’d never visit again, following an experience in 1998. I’d gone to the one in Leeds with my housemates at the time. I had to leave after ten minutes, as I’d wanted to kill 90% of its patrons. Thankfully, owing to the time of day, this one was virtually empty – we charged our glasses and made for a semi-intimate alcove and table.

Looking round the table, the relief and relaxation on everyone’s face was there for all to see. Carny and Puffy were dryly reflecting on the possibility the defendant was guilty, but there was only mirth in their expressions as they did so. I said we might see the family roll into the bar any second; whooping and ordering drinks for the house. Even Denim laughed at this, though with a smidgen of ruefulness.

Teacher finally revealed that she thought the defendant was innocent; had done all along. Thankfully, no one could be bothered to counter this for any significant duration. Denim’s final word on the matter was that he suspected he was guilty, but we didn’t have the evidence. Hopefully the defendant and his family would enjoy his freedom and have a special Christmas. Teacher looked at Denim with a hint of a smile. It was easily the friendliest eye contact I’d seen between the two. Period.

Teacher was first to leave. I wished her a happy Christmas and kissed her on her way for the last time. Puffy and Carny had shopping to do, similar but less meaningful farewells ensued.

That left Denim and I. I owed him a pint. This wasn’t how I pictured the final curtain, but so it goes. What I didn’t realise when I went up to the bar, was that this would be the second of six pints we would share together.

Initially we made small chat about the trial. He praised me for my Foreman performance, and also sung the praises of Mark for the help he gave. Loosened up by the beer, I couldn’t help but reciprocate these good feelings. I meant it. I told Denim how I really liked the Jury, such a diverse make up of people and strong personalities. Earlier in the trial I’d had doubts about the ideal of trial by jury; but now, having come through it, my faith had been restored. Everybody had taken it seriously, contributed and generally shown respect to each other and the process. Any doubts I’d had, stemmed from Prosecution’s unstructured approach to the evidence.

Denim was getting quite emotional. He too extolled the virtues of trial by jury, and the calibre of people on ours. He said he was “proud to have been part of such a good jury”. He was opening his heart now.

I knew it was coming. Denim hadn’t enjoyed deliberations. He’d been scared when I “came at him”; I was quick to apologise “if he felt I’d been aggressive”. Denim said I hadn’t been. He’d just felt “scared and belittled” as I’d shredded his preposterous assertions. He said he “felt stupid” when he realised he’d been wrong. He looked like he was going to cry. I couldn’t leave it like this; I went back to the bar for another two pints.

I’d only noticed Denim’s sensitivity during deliberations. On some level I think it played a part in me trying to deflect some of the inevitable criticism he was attracting. This guy deserves a bit of praise (was I pissed?), I set about telling him so.

“I was glad you had the balls to say what you thought in there”.

“That’s what it’s about. Only by everyone airing their views could we have reached a unanimous decision so early.” It’s true, and despite the clear offensiveness of Denim’s hand out – I’d felt more jurors could have had the decency and tact to just hear him out politely before taking him apart.

Denim was clearly relaxed now, he wanted to know all about me, so I answered his questions. He asked about my education, my degree, he wanted to know why I hadn’t managed to follow through and go into Journalism as I’d wanted. It’s a long story. Being pissed I duly proffered it. I love writing, “who knows what the future brings”. I was reeling off the clichés.

It was eight o’clock, I was meant to be heading off for Poker. Denim suggested one more for the road, he looked a lot happier now, and being weak I accepted. All thoughts of the trial now dispelled from our mind, and being fairly pissed, we started getting to know each other in the final hour of our acquaintance.

Denim’s story is a sad one. He’d pushed women away in the past, made big mistakes. He was very lonely now. He particularly regretted spurning a black lady called Bev. He thought she was taking him for a ride and kicked her out. She was always getting him to buy her stuff – “It was only money”, he mused “and she really did love me”. He asked me if I’d ever been out with a black girl, and I recounted my curious liaisons with Jamie-Lee. We compared notes. They’re too crude and prosaic for this account I’m afraid.

Denim was in full flow now. He talked of the pride he has in his musician son; his love of Russian literature. I recommended Bend Sinister by Nabakov at this juncture. He went on to tell me how he gets viagra on mail order and takes a tablet every morning. ‘What?!’ I thought. Thank god the table was between us, it spared me a cursory glance to his crotch for any signs of evidence!

‘What would a lonely single man be doing taking viagra every day?’ Denim must have read my thoughts. At the very least, realised through the drunken haze, that such a revelation would doubtless induce a mild interrogation. His explanation was almost immediate.

“It helps me think. It just helps circulation really, and I find it means I can think better, remember more, that sort of stuff”.

I meekly accepted his explanation, feigning scientific musings as to the validity of his statement. Secretly, I was wondering if the viagra could have been responsible for his demented detective work. Maybe we’d all have trouble controlling an engorged and throbbing brain. Maybe it could drive you to the edge of reason. ‘I wonder if there’s been any research on the effects of continuous viagra use, on the brain’. Fucking hell I was pissed.

We were finishing up our pints; and it was probably for the best. I was clearly in the lead, I’d had my fill and wanted to go. Denim urged me to pursue Journalism again; he was being very friendly, full of praise.

I downed my pint and donned my coat, thanking him and wishing him a happy Christmas. Denim said “I’d love to read some of your writing one day; all the best mate”.

“You too mate”, I smiled back. ‘No you wouldn’t’, I was thinking, as I walked out into the night.

I was feeling different this morning. Responsibility had palpably entered the equation. I headed to Sainsburys to get my lunch. Yesterday, the usher had advised us our case may conclude this morning; at which point we’d be sent directly and untampered with, to a Square Room to deliberate our verdict. This meant pack lunches should be prepared in case.

Egg mayo sarnies and bananas for me. I also picked up a copy of The Sun. Falling asleep to Five Live last night, I’d heard said paper had the supposed scoop on Pompey’s new boss.

Two days on the trot without setting off the metal detectors, I walked into The Juror Lounge. At this point memories of Café Girl and our hideous encounter yesterday, began infiltrating my mind. I sniggered to myself, I was hoping for another fun exchange today.

Sadly, she and her blond companion had been replaced today; by two lesser models. Whilst comfortably of child bearing age, neither was inducing thoughts of the necessary deposit.

I was second in. Can you guess who was first? That’s right, Teacher was sat at a table; nonchalantly atoning for her public transport hell of yesterday. She was reading a book and wearing a low cut top. This represented quite a departure from her customary, semi-frumpy appearance. I contemplated if she too had altered her attire for a desired impact in the end game.

Denim Prick had continued to avoid his favourite material over the course of the second week. I think he may have sensed fellow juror’s derision of his trademark outfit. With more austere garments draped over his bigoted body, he sought to attain more credibility for his crackpot deductions.

I had always been smartly dressed in the first week. Always shirt, trousers and shoes. I saw fit to dress down a bit from Monday; T-shirts and trainers have played a part. If I’m honest, I think some of my colleagues were a bit intimidated or wary of me to begin with. These walls have really come down; and particularly with Thicky and Carny, I feel dressing down has played a part. That and getting to know me of course!

Anyhow, back to Teacher’s top. Was she hoping this garment change would appease some Square Room battle? Could it simply be a specific and direct attempt to nullify some of Denim’s hostility towards her? Perhaps she wanted to cement support from the less prominent and unallied male jurors?

As I sat down opposite her with my coffee and said hello, I remembered that this woman loves confrontations. She wouldn’t knowingly do anything that would avert or lessen one. Clearly, I just had sex on the brain.

Teacher was both gregarious and chatty this morning. She needed no provocation or encouragement to begin slagging off Denim at length. I was free to admire her top and its contents. Teacher was fascinated by Denim’s obsession with being Foreman. She too had been incredulous, when yesterday, he tried to revive this previously bottomed issue.

“I don’t want him to be Foreman. I don’t want him trying to bully other people into agreeing with him. He seems to think being Foreman will give him some sort of extra influence in talks! – I mean, he clearly wants the job!”

This was a mildly rabid outburst from Teacher, she was flushed and agitated, her big eyes flashing brightly. Despite feeling strangely pliant, I simply stated: “I’m happy to be Foreman. We’ll have a vote when the time comes.” A reiteration from yesterday’s Square Room discourse.

Teacher beamed at me and squeezed her shoulders together and up.

What a bitch.

Mark was next to enter the fray; he’d brought a flipchart. That, and pens “of every colour of the rainbow”, he dead-panned sarcastically as he sat down with us. He was looking forward to deliberations in much the same way as I. I felt pleased that we’d elected him to help facilitate discussions. He was adamant there’d be no arguing with him in charge. All such statements however, were accompanied with a mischievous grin.

“Pens mean power”, he proclaimed, and laughed.

The siege mentality was spreading.

Officer was next in and joined us. She too was in a similar frame of mind. Laughing and nodding her flabby head at predictions of conflict. I like Officer a lot. The more dangerous the joke, the longer the half-life of her laugh. That tells you plenty.

It was time for a fag. I’d seen the usuals go in, so I wouldn’t be short of someone to talk to. There was Thicky, hunching his inefficient frame within his Parka. Underneath was the fifth different Lambretta t-shirt I’ve seen since day one. Carny, Puffy and Denim were also in attendance, but the only available seat was next to Miserable Bloke. This pleased me, as he’s been going up in my estimation as the trial’s progressed.

We got chatting and he was far warmer than usual. I think he was moved by the level of mirth I displayed, following his M&S story of yesterday. Feeling suitably relaxed and eager for a break from trial discussions, I asked him who his favourite Juror Pussy was.

He initially seemed abashed, and I began to wonder if my legendary powers were off target here. I’d felt sure he’d lap this one up. With my doubts still embryonic, his face exhaled and creased – into that now familiar, leathery grin. I exuded well concealed relief.

Miserable Bloke was all about tits and long hair. He grinned and chuckled continuously, as he extolled the virtues of some stroppy Courtney Love look-a-like that hadn’t even disturbed my radar. He eventually got round to bitching about his “missus”, and this brought about a more tired chuckling on his part – I was looking for pastures new.

No time. The Usher came for us all, and up those familiar stairs we went.

Rover sat next to me as we waited outside the oak doors. Football love ensued. We talked about Warnock; how our style of football in England, precipitates inadequacies like those displayed against Portugal last year. It would take time, but the technical mindsets of our players would eventually adapt. Keep the faith. Ah bliss.

Inside; and it was Defence summing up. Needless to say, it was utterly compelling. This is what people pay the dollar for.

The barrister initially reiterated the basis for our decision on all three charges. We had to be sure. Anything less and we must acquit this man. Rapier like, this was followed by a swift stab at all Prosecution evidence. He spattered seemingly obvious doubts over every aspect of the case made against his handcuffed employer.

He spoke of the need to “leave all emotion outside the court doors”; how any prejudice, assumptions and feelings should be put to one side. We were here to judge this man solely on the evidence we had witnessed in court. This was our duty – the only way in which we could “properly, perform justice”. I knew Teacher would be thinking exactly the same as me when those words were uttered. Probably Mark too. ‘I hope fucking Denim’s listening’.

Defence proceeded to orate famous quotes relating to our justice system. One fuck had said, “It is better to let ten guilty men go free than falsely convict one innocent man”. “There are occasions” he continued, “when a jury has a feeling, even a great and grave suspicion, that a defendant is guilty.” “But if they cannot be wholly sure of this on the evidence put in front of them, they must acquit the accused”.

Well when can you be sure of anything?

His speech wasn’t rocket science, but it was highly effective. And with the prosecution consisting entirely of circumstantial evidence, I was being swayed towards my initial ‘not guilty’ stance. The circumstantial evidence, despite several reliability issues, was quite rich and deep in its make up. It was decent circumstantial evidence. But when you’ve got to be ‘sure’? The prosecution case was on a hiding to nothing.

The summary lasted the entire morning, so we were free to have lunch as usual. Going down the stairs, I sensed I was far from alone in my verdict leanings. After the first week it’s like a sixth sense. You go out the court doors and don’t talk. No-one’s tactless enough for loud exclamations whilst the court door is still wide open for the last juror to shut. In these silent seconds, all it takes is a glance at the people in front of you. The body langage, who they’re looking to speak to, the expression on their face, doubtlessly set for the duration of their opening gambit….

Deep down, I’m sure the vast majority of us believe he’s guilty. Half the jury have vocalised it to me at some time. I myself, believe he’s guilty. But I can’t convict this man. There is lots of doubt. I don’t want to convict with doubt, and we’re not meant to convict with doubt. The early etchings of these thoughts were appearing on my colleagues’ foreheads.

Still, I was pleased that some sanity was descending on this good hearted juror. He said there was doubt with all the evidence. Puffy and Carny made noises at points that revealed their agreement with him in parts. I’d long suspected they had leanings towards a guilty verdict, particularly Carny – Puffy maybe less so. Thus it was reassuring they had ample seeds of doubt in their minds for me to water, come deliberations.

I was sat next to Mark when Denim came in. The former was engaged by Prick, who boldly declared, “Well I think the Defence helped the Prosecution more than themselves.” This was the first time Denim had created silence in the Smoke Pit. Silence had been confined to Square Room exchanges thus far.

Denim Prick seemed to sense it for a change. Maybe his normal denim clothes had been acting as some sort of shield; deflecting and blocking out the thoughts and sensibilities of others. Today, in normal clothes, he appeared unusually sensitive to group mood. Slightly flustered, he asked Lieutenant Thicky for his opinion.

Thicky stuck to his guns; he had doubt all the way. He wasn’t declaring his verdict as such; but I had more than enough access to his heart strings to ensure he wouldn’t be pulled back by Denim.

A brief period of silence preceded Puffy drawing attention to the “revised timetable” of proceedings. This gave Mark and I the opportunity to simultaneously look at each other and murmur, “11 to 1”. Wide grins!

It was now apparent that deliberations would probably not start until tomorrow. After lunch we still had to listen to the Judge’s summing up. This should take up the afternoon but be useful. I was hopeful it would provide further guidance and insight into how we should make our decision. Needing to buy some tobacco, I buttoned up my coat and made for the streets. Plenty of lunch time left.

Denim Prick was walking behind me and drew level to my shoulder as I exited the building. “Off for a pint?” he enquired. I explained my tobacco predicament and he revealed his alcoholic destination.

We were walking up #### Street; Tesco, as my nearest tobacconist, in sight.

Denim wasn’t shy. He asked for my thoughts and I gave them. “I think he’s probably guilty; but there is no concrete evidence. There is doubt every step of the way”. I said it was hard to imagine myself being swayed from this stance, but that “maybe the Judge would give us more insight”. I was diplomatic to the hilt. We’d reached Tesco’s by this point. Each second of continuing conversation was grating me; listening to this prick eating into my lunch hour.

Denim put his cards on the table. Guilty on all three charges. The basis for this being the ####’s lethargic response to the letter of hostage demands – that appointed them mediator, sent by the ####. What a cunt. As he expanded on his theory, the results of his tedious amateur sleuthing; all he revealed, once more, was his bigotry.

“Decent citizens would have taken it more seriously, called the Police straight away”.

That may be; but what a pissy argument this proved to be. It didn’t involve any facts or agreed events. It was a diatribe of assumptions and crude racist projections from his own mind. Some of it made me laugh, so retarded was its nature. But as we stood outside Tesco’s and he continued to babble away; my overriding feeling was of the joy I’d take in smashing his teeth out.

He went on to tell me he’d drafted a document, explaining the basis of his opinions. He’d been working on it for a couple of days. He wanted to know if he could give me a copy and maybe everyone else. I was imagining the look of horror and realisation on his face, as his mouth shattered back to his incisors under my fist.

“Would you be alright with that?” He enquired hopefully. “Do you think anyone else would mind if I brought it into deliberations?”

Why was he being so dumb? I told him of course it was fine, everyone’s ears were open, the whole point of this is to bring our thoughts to the table; and together we can all make a decision. Still, he needed further reassurance, he lightly complained he thought the jury perhaps “too liberal” in its make up. He quickly retracted this without prompt, and instead, gently bemoaned the limitations of circumstantial evidence. At least he’d taken that much on board.

I reassured him once more; we’d all have our say – that was the point of deliberations. He eventually set off for his watering hole. Entering Tesco’s, I realised he was still scared of me. He’d come to me first – because he saw me as the most influential. He might be right on that one.

Back in the comparative snug of the Juror’s Lounge, lunch was evaporating fast. With ten minutes before we were due to be called, I made for the Smoke Pit – like the socialite I am.

Available Seat was, on this occasion, by Puffy and Carny. Ideal. The returning Denim was emanating his liquor fumes in the seat next to Mark. I always know what I’m going to get with Puffy and Carny. Unflappable, down to earth characters. Really pleasant to be around. You know the ones.

As they bumbled their warm tirades at me, I couldn’t help but overhear some of Denim’s conversation with Mark. I caught the word “printout” and clocked his arm dangling gesticulation of handing them out to the group. It gave me no cause for concern though. Denim was probably going to do the rounds. One look at Mark told me all I needed to know. He looked forcibly sombre, as if he were feigning interest. I couldn’t hear the content of his reply; but when it came, the tone was of blithe, non-committal diplomacy.

This made me smile. I had 100% faith in Mark. We’d talked at length, had both approached the case the same way. Had both arrived at the same conclusions.

The call came shortly after; within minutes we were on the bench listening to the Judge sum up. It was comfortably the worst part of the trial so far. There was a tiny amount of common sense advice given on how we needed to go about making a verdict. Even the small elements of legal direction we needed were blindingly obvious, even to a cretin. I’m not sure what I was expecting. I felt like the cretin for hoping the ‘final word’ would make the decision making process easier.

What we got for the duration of the afternoon, was a grey haired old man, reading through our bulky file of agreed facts at pensioner pace. I felt physically sick. Some of us were close to nodding off at one point. Indeed, all three Police Officers in the Court; had done exactly that. It was embarrassing. We all thought the Judge had finished after one enormously protracted pause. He dashed our hopes with the words, “now I will summarise the defence case”.

Rover is sat to my right, Puffy is his file partner. When the Judge made clear his summing up was far from over, he whispered “I’m losing the will to live”, in my ear. I guess he could have done a better job, because most of the bench heard, and giggle stifling embarrassingly filled the Judge’s numerous pauses thereafter.

We’d all kicked back and slumped down with our arms folded. We looked like petulant school kids – and to be honest, I felt like one. This prick was boring the shit out of us. He was reading and referring to nuggets of evidence we’d heard, seen and noted repeatedly since day one. Even Teacher’s scratching ceased early doors. She wasn’t adding to her 55 pages of notes. This was insufferable.

Mild relief came when Thicky spilled his notes off his front row seat with a clatter. Like a startled fawn, our eager usher silently traversed the distance to him. The notes were picked up, our entertainment was gone, we would have to concentrate on the Judge again.

No one wanted to hear it. Only a couple of days ago, we’d been hungry for more facts, eager to make sense of the convoluted landscape being presented to us. Now we’d heard them, registered them and could probably fucking recite them. The Judge was reading page after page of these facts aloud, with despicably long pauses at seemingly innocuous junctures. I was beginning to feel violent.

As a means of anger aversion, I decided to play a game with Frail.

From day one, I’d taken sole charge of page turning the evidence file when required. Mark had done just the same with Denim. After an inordinate amount of time, Judge finally rattled out all the facts on page seven. It was time to turn the page. I did nothing. Several seconds later, the Judge having begun page eight’s nuggets; Frail began raising a distinctly uncertain limb. He was going to turn the page. I moved my left arm up, no suddenness, moving my hand towards the file. Frail withered and contracted like a Barbie doll on a bonfire. Inside I felt a bit bad. But it was fucking funny.

The torture ended at ten past four. After a short briefing tomorrow morning, we’d be deliberating – solidly.

Everybody was pissed off as we made our way down the stairs. My head was throbbing, owing to my level of incensement. Mark believed his head to be even worse.

The two of us were joined by Puffy and Carny for the now traditional Final Cigarette. We had the Smoke Pit to ourselves once more. Even on this most important of days, we were out before those poor Fraud bastards. Everyone vocalised similar sentiments regarding the Judge. Puffy mimicked slapping his face, and telling him to “bloody get on with it!” Carny cackled raucously at this remark.

Mark resonated her feelings before leading the conversation back onto the case. He said he found it hard, because in his job, he was given solid facts to digest and make decisions on. “Circumstantial” is not something he relates to or ever uses. Now he’s being asked to send a man down for Kidnap, Imprisonment and Murder on a set of circumstances. Puffy and Carny empathised greatly, and we had a joke and bitch about the inept Police handling of the case. Several blunders were made; no taping of evidence, delayed arrest warrants – even giving a prime suspect back their passport from an initial arrest so they could then flee the country.

I thought to myself, ‘If we are going to let a guilty man walk free, we’ve certainly got diminished responsibility’. The Police fucked up the investigation, and the Prosecution has been shit. We all agreed on that.

Mark hoped that the Prosecution didn’t really expect to win this case. He hoped this case had landed on the barrister’s desk “like a sausage from a sausage machine”. A packaged case, churned out by the system, it’s merely fallen on him to pick it up. “If the Prosecution barrister was down here now”, Mark grinned; “I’d expect him to say, “I did the best I could with what they gave me. It was just me who had to do it.”

I hoped he was right. Cigarettes extinguished, we traipsed through the empty lounge, and out into the dark. Tomorrow was it. There could be no more delays.

Needle, dropper, spoon. After much wailing and gnashing of teeth, Newcastle have fallen off the wagon in spectacular fashion. The euphoria displayed on Tyneside following Keegan’s appointment as Manager is as predictable as it is tragic. After years of disappointment, failing to better themselves, Newcastle have taken the easy option – a pure hit of nostalgia and self-indulgence, bringing with it the deluded belief that the good times are just round the corner.

While the black & white contingent of the North East celebrates, the rest of the Country shakes its head and realises just why Newcastle’s lack of success is no mystery at all. With this appointment, Newcastle have conceded defeat. They’ve settled for second best. They’ve stated their lack of ambition and given up on being a Champions League team. Like a sad drunk who props up the bar and bemoans their lot in life, they’ve chosen to find solace at the bottom of another pint, rather than making the tough decisions and taking the tough action required to turn themselves around.

Keegan was a breath of fresh air when he returned to the North East in 1992 for his first stint as manager. Even the most sceptical football fan will be welcoming his re-emergence, if only for the honesty and passion he’ll bring to a Premier League dominated by suits and chequebooks. Virtually every neutral in the country was willing them to pip Manchester Utd to the Premiership in 1996, the year Keegan’s limitations were so crudely exposed by his side’s capitulation when silverware loomed near. Like bitter drunks with rose tinted specs, the Geordie faithful talk wistfully of ‘unfinished business’ and ‘points to prove’. They crave for and talk up the prospect of a glorious resolution to Keegans tumultuous managerial career. What they’re likely to get is a car crash to surpass all others.

Newcastle will climb the league table with some gusto before this season draws to a close. They’ll play entertaining football which at times will enthral the fans. With the right signings before February there’s even the outside chance of UEFA Cup qualification. But this will prove nothing. It will be no more than the buzz a junkie feels, when they trade a difficult path for a familiar and warm narcotic hit. The sad fact is that their problems will remain. Unresolved, those problems are the guarantee of a depressing plummet back to earth in the near future.

A lot has changed in the years since Keegan walked out on those closest to his heart. The world has moved on while Newcastle has regressed and wallowed in self pity and remorse. The Premier League is a more refined beast than that of the mid-nineties. The Messiah’s intoxicating brand of football fell short in 1996, the notion it may prove successful in 2008 is demented. Continued failure at the sharp end of European football precipitated an influx of foreign technicians to our top managerial posts. Though the Premiership is still an apprentice to some more tactically contested leagues on the continent, the progress English clubs are making can be seen by their strong presence in latter stages of European competition. Ferguson aside, we are talking about the achievements of Benitez, Houllier, Wenger, Mourinho, to a degree even Ranieri. There are English managers who have deserved a chance to prove they can compete in this age, managers who could rightly feel aggrieved at not landing a club with which to demonstrate their prowess at the highest level. Keegan is not one of them. Had Newcastle not come calling it’s hard to imagine another Premiership team appointing him, another team so desperate and emotional that they’d appoint a man who is both a proven failure and a proven bottler. A man so unreliable he could walk at any time.

But that’s what makes the marriage of Keegan and Newcastle so perfect yet so tragic. Keegan can’t control his emotions. Alan Shearer is still none the wiser as to why he walked out on him. England got an explanation but a trip up shit creek, with another qualification match just four days away. By the time he pitched up at Maine Road, Keegan was a tired shell of his former self, his failings and limitations ever more exposed when he couldn’t propel himself with a genuine love for the cause. But just like the Newcastle fans that idolise him, Keegan’s heart strings are so easily pulled. He too will ignore the warnings of the past to take succour in the comfort of passion and love. But in 2008 the stakes are much higher. With the resources he’ll undoubtedly receive, the expectation of a happy ending will be greater than ever. But Keegan will find himself in an environment tougher than any he’s tried to excel in so far – and only fans so similarly volatile and emotional could believe he’s in any way better equiped to deal with it this time. When they finally wake from their stupor, Newcastle fans should brace themselves for the inevitable crash and parting of ways.

So damn cold. Yet despite this, it was the same routine. Hitting the snooze button several times, first again to arrive. Owing to the temperature I’d succumbed to Greggs’ charms via a small city centre detour. With cheese and onion goodness inside me, I trudged into the Court lobby.

Today I’d decided not to wear a belt. I was certain it was the only item on my person that could be setting off the alarm. The only other possibility was the Tenerife lump in my left leg being metal. Thankfully I passed through the detectors un-feted, saving myself the degrading rigmarole of a more personal check at the hands of a policeman.

The Court Lounge was hopelessly empty when I shuffled my frozen frame into its warm embrace. I was even earlier than usual. My path to the coffee machine unopposed, I made straight for its caffeine welcome. Rumpoles had dispensed of the hags this week and employed a couple of savoury looking young ladies in their place. Possibly to pacify potential complainants.

One was blonde and always smiling and being cheeky. The other was a very cute looking half cast with big brown eyes and reckless hair. She was easily the best thing on the menu in here.

I don’t know her name yet, as Rumpoles don’t believe in badges. Anyhow, she comes over all smiles to replenish the cups, so we exchange “mornings” as I pick up the milk jug to pour into my coffee. Owing to it being full, and the clumsy nature of my frozen digits; I manage to pour a cups worth over the coffee table top. This she clocked immediately. I mumbled an apology and looked around for something to mop it up with. There was a bin by the table, so all I needed was something absorbent with which to redeem myself.

There was nothing to hand, not even in the bin, but I didn’t want to walk off and leave the milk puddle there like an arsehole. How best to convey to her my concern for the situation, but inability to rectify it – prior to my departing the scene?

I turned round to face her, and said “Sorry. I’m on crack”.

Now that’s pretty bad; even by my standards. How had I made that leap? If I knew I could possibly go about correcting it.

Luckily for me, Café Girl proceeded to do a lot of giggling and smiling. Barely keeping a straight face, she produced a paper towel from nowhere, said “don’t worry” and mopped up the milk before my eyes. Her colleague being occupied with incoming toast demands, Café Girl had to come round to the till so I could swipe card the transaction. She was still laughing. As she handed my swipe card back I toyed with the idea of mocking her hair. Something along the lines of, ‘I thought only judges were allowed to wear wigs in here?’ Her look of feigned indignation would be undeniably cute, but I thought better of it. She looked impressed enough as it was.

Carny joined me in the Smoke Pit. I was treated to her “Asian insights”, gleaned from her messy and failed marriage. Naturally they shone no light on the case we were to decide, but they added to my feeling that deliberations could be protracted.

Mark had joined us midway through her story; and it noticeably dried up in its more personal details upon his arrival. Even so, Carny didn’t deviate from, or modify her conclusion; that Asians couldn’t be trusted. Mark discreetly glanced at me smiling, and said quietly; “Oh dear”. This proved to be a recurring catchphrase of his as the day progressed. It followed several instances when someone said something ‘controversial’, be it racist, insane or just thick.

I found solace in Ketchup. Sucking in the clean air of the Lounge I sat down next to her small, beaming frame and got talking. Ketchup is a Hindu. She was born in Kenya and moved to England when she was eleven. Her job is to package up orders for mail delivery. She loves it; “always keeps me on the go” she said. Going off on a sudden tangent, she declared her dislike for Muslims. Pertinent adjectives involved, included “scheming”, “lying” and “manipulative”.

Mark had once more arrived to the tail end of my conversation. It was another “oh dear” moment. It was becoming increasingly apparent that everyone was a catalyst for controversy and strong ripostes. Any lingering hopes that deliberations would be concluded smoothly had long since dissipated. Aside from the manual task of pouring over a hundred witness statements and absorbing the content of a plethora of evidence forms; we would have to endure the inevitable bloodbath of debate.

With a glance, Mark conveyed that he knew what was coming. We probably all did. It was getting close to deliberating time, and people were starting to expose themselves. There were lots of strong ‘personalities’, and lots of strong opinions in a veritable kaleidoscope of personal politics.

Whilst we were occupied with the theatre before us in the courtroom, we would shortly be deciding the nature of the final curtain. All that listening, sitting and note taking – that was going to stop. We’d be stuck in a room together, and all our gripes with each other would come out. We’d have Denim, and Teacher, and all shades of stubbornness and bigotry that lie between, represented.

Via a Smoke Pit detour, Mark and I arrived to sandwich an unusually late Teacher on the sofas. Public transport got the blame.

Mark and I were hyped by the atmosphere of impending doom, so we set about getting Teacher in the mood too. It was simple really; just voicing suspicions that certain members of the jury were predisposed to a guilty verdict. Like pouring white spirit on a cub scout camp fire.

Teacher immediately brought up Denim Prick. Mocking his first week protestation that he “couldn’t tell Asians apart”. Her cute face was flustered and agitated, so I fanned those flames some more. I derided his unfounded claim that people can more easily identify people of their own ethnicity. (Secretly, I think Denim might have a point – but his delivery and reasoning of it were so lamentable at the time, he was unworthy of rescue). Teacher frothed some more, eventually branding Denim and several others as “scary bigots”. Mark voiced his agreement. I just smiled. I’m non-committal. I’m here for the fun.

Going up the stairs for morning evidence, I was dwelling upon the nature of deliberations. If Mark, Teacher and I were still harbouring resentment over Denim’s comments last week, surely the others were too? Aside from taking in the trial, we’d all been collating our own ‘evidence’ on fellow jurors. When we didn’t agree with each other in deliberations; it would all become apparent – the reasons for our intense dislike of each other; flopped out on the table like freshly extricated guts.

‘Oh dear’, I thought to myself.

It was medical expert time. Only medical expert couldn’t confirm anything. The absence of medical records from Defendant’s first black out in 1977, being pivotal. Hearing the vague and inconsistent symptoms, their hideous yet convenient inconveniences – it reminded me of a bogus insurance claim. As the clock ticked on, the unhelpfulness of the evidence became apparent to even the slowest of jurors. Earlier we’d been hunched forward on the bench, scribbling notes; the letters after this pricks name, the lot. Like a Mexican wave of despair, we eventually slouched back – arms folded. A legal technicality needed to be discussed between Defence and Judge. We were to leave Court for ten minutes, and sit in a Square Room whilst the matter was settled.

It was tense in there. Denim Prick was vocal once more. Crude assertions, the likes of which we hadn’t heard since day one. The silence was deafening; I’d missed this thrill. It had been a while since we’d had a mid morning break in a Square Room. Everyone present and attentive to the rancid nonsense polluting each other’s minds.

Mark and I quickly blew Denim off sail and started to lighten the tone. The usual banter bollocks. We were just trying to keep a lid on what was increasingly looking like simmering hatred between members of the group. What had happened today was like a chemical reaction. Yesterday we were all relatively stable molecules; some moving in different directions – but together, forming a jurors liquid. Adding a dash of impending responsibility today, and suddenly the group looks like it’s going to shatter the test tube.

Denim raised the tired issue of Foreman. We’d put it to bed last week when we declared we’d wait for the Judge to instruct us, or a verdict to be reached. Denim was keen on an election now.

Officer was cold. “I don’t agree” she clearly stated. She repeated herself, thus engineering Denim’s slightly flustered response before referencing me in her reply. It was something I’d said last week when he’d last raised this issue.

I’d pointed out that the Foreman themself, must agree with the verdict they deliver. Given we’re unlikely to be unanimous, an election now would be sheer folly. We should wait and see who’s happy to deliver the verdict we decide on. I’d said this last week to exactly the same group response. Agreement. Teacher, Officer, Mark and Miserable Bloke being particularly vocal.

Unabashed, he continued, and stated that he would be happy to assume responsibility. I wasn’t going to let this prick try and steal the job by default. He’s clearly coveted it for some time. I nonchalantly threw my hat into the ring, stating my readiness to assume the role if I agree with the verdict. I noted an approving smile from Teacher and a general warmth about the room.

Mark interrupted the stand off, proposing we should also have an ‘organiser’ in place for deliberations. They could help the Foreman adjudicate who speaks when and be a bit of a referee when it came to discussions. We would need structure to be effective.

He volunteered himself and asked if people were happy. Myself, Teacher, Officer, Thicky, Ketchup and Miserable Bloke all “ayed” over the following seconds. The majority carried it, whilst the others continued to ponder.

Officer finally made Denim drop the idea of an immediate election for Foreman. She stated both he and I had volunteered for the job, and somebody else might too. We would have a vote when we needed to.

I’m not particularly fussed about doing it; but I know he wants it, and I know I’ll destroy him in a group vote. But it’s not about hatred with Denim Prick. I want him neutered for the benefit of the group. Whatsmore, I’ve begun to notice he’s scared of me. He knows I’ve got too much.

A drab fifteen minutes in court preceded lunch. Only Miserable Bloke and I saw fit to postpone the hardship of the Rumpoles queue for a chat in the Smoke Pit. I partly put this down to the chance we’d all had to air our views in the Square Room.

Alone together, Miserable Bloke was backing me in a low-key way. He too, was joking at Denim’s expense, laughing ruefully at his bigoted approach to evidence analysis.

He went on to tell me of his previous jury experience; at #### Crown Court, some twenty years ago. A “fucking stunning” woman was up for habitually stealing underwear from M&S. “She was fucking gorgeous”, he recalled with a leathery grin. The jury had been split. All the women thought she was guilty; the blokes were all up for a not guilty verdict. There was no backing down and a retrial had to be instructed. Miserable Bloke laughed dirtily; exposing his nicotine stained teeth; each one like a gravestone, dark and rank round the edges.

“Fucking stunning she was”

Afternoon saw the Defence concluding, and the Prosecution summing up.

It was excellent. It was what I’d wanted from the beginning. The barrister reeled off his key evidence in chronological order. It all made so much more sense. The significance of some elements to the case was greatly enhanced by this back to basics approach. One aspect of the evidence however, could not be disputed. It was circumstantial. There was literally fuck loads of good circumstantial evidence. We were permitted to draw conclusions from this circumstantial evidence. We were allowed to use it in conjunction with the evidence file’s ‘Agreed Facts’ section. Use it to go beyond ‘reasonable doubt’, quite comfortably, and deliver the guilty verdict this man deserves.

Still, it nagged. Nothing concrete, an ocean of quite convincing circumstantial evidence, and pithy, convenient defence. Deep down, I think he’s guilty. But I swore to judge this on the evidence put in front of me. As Mark says, some of our number will need forcefully reminding of that. Personally speaking, I need that deliberation. I really need to sit down and pour through this shit, bouncing things off others. Like Thicky, I need to do this so I can sleep at night.

Defence summing up was postponed till tomorrow morning; walking down the stairs a mood swing was apparent. Prosecution had been compelling; punching holes in the Defence like I’d hoped for in cross examination. This Barrister had unwittingly kept his powder dry, simply by presenting his case till now in such a hap hazard manner. I’d assumed that intelligent lawyers would lay out their case in a structured and ordered way; enabling clarity and understanding for those they sort to sway. I’d been hopelessly wrong. But at last, here we were with a real decision to make, and I was really torn.

Mark doused the staircase procession slightly, by predicting Defence summing up would be equally compelling. I agreed. It’s the nature of the speech. A final plea. A terminal soliloquy preceding the terminal words our Foreman would deliver.

Carny was by my side, cackling softly and predicting the deliberations would be explosive. “Some people won’t like it at all” she exclaimed fervently. “I’ll be like a pig in shit” I replied, smiling. She cackled louder; more excitedly.

Mark was just behind us; I turned round to grin at his now familiar exclamation. “Oh dear!”

At the bottom of the stairs and into the Court Lounge, our number soon dwindled. People were eager to avoid rush hour, and any further elongation of this draining day.

Carny, Puffy, Mark, Thicky, Denim and I, congregated in the Smoke Pit for final analysis. I prompted us to assume the central table. Fraud Jury nor nobody else was present. The strength of the prosecution, in digestible form, had swayed us all. Unfortunately, we’d all had different starting points. Mark and I, were moving from a comfortable ‘not guilty’ stance to one of needing real deliberation and further analysis. For Thicky, Denim and maybe Carny, this afternoon’s events were in their minds, the ‘smoking gun’ they’d been looking for from the start.

Whilst dubious reactions to each others opinions was obvious, and unconcealed; none of us pressed, argued or sought verbal conflict then and there. We were tired and packing up our smoking apparatus for home. More keenly, I felt we were saving ourselves. It was an unspoken agreement. We knew we’d be bitching at each other like cats and dogs tomorrow. Why start it now?

So that’s what tomorrow brings. Defence Summing Up, Judge directions, lunch – then deliberations.

On our way out the door, invariably in light of the Smoke Pit discussion, Mark mouthed his final “oh dear” of the day to me.