charlie

SILENCE IN COURT

‘It seems our laws are always telling us what not to do - are always keeping us from enjoying ourselves. Human beings are made just as much for having fun as goose-stepping and sweating in factories.’

Charlie Chaplin

So I waited, and I waited, and I waited for a summons to arrive. Six months in fact, the maximum time allowed by law for the Crown Prosecution Service (CPS) to get its act together. Almost six months to the day, I learnt that one of my little excursions had ‘gone live’. But that it was my March 15 gig, the one outside Downing Street when I’d thought that I’d been ignored. Well I wasn’t going to argue. I was just happy to get my day in court.

Unfortunately that court would now be Horseferry Road Magistrates’ Court, a tasteless concrete affair close to Lambeth Bridge, and not Bow Street Magistrates’ Court, a wonderful building near Covent Garden, steeped in history, where the likes of Emily Pankhurst, Oscar Wilde, General Pinochet, and The Clash, had fallen foul of the law. Bow Street really looked the part, all brass trimmings and oak panels. With Bow Street, you really got the feeling that the judge was about to slip on the black hankie and send you to the gallows. The area just leant itself to the Little Tramp. It was the birth place of the Bow Street Runners, London’s prototype police force, which was set up in 1749 to tackle gin-related crime (the crack of its day). There was even an enchanting statue of a ballerina just outside the court for me to pose alongside. But they’d recently sold the building off, to be converted into a trendy wine bar or something. Oh well.

So I set about preparing for the big day. I’d been advised by a solicitor to ease-off on the white face paint, as this might be construed as contempt, also, not to wear a fake ‘tash’. So I decided to grow a real one instead. They didn’t envisage a problem with the penguin suit, as I’d be more smartly dressed than the judge, although the hat would have to come off as a mark of respect.

Whether or not to speak in court became a big issue. At one stage I’d toyed with the idea of presenting my entire case using sign language, or scribbling down my defense on a series of post-it notes, anything, in fact, to continue my silent protest. But I soon faced up to the fact that I did indeed have something important to verbalise, as Chaplin himself had done on occasion, something heartfelt and direct.

I’d also decided to plead guilty, for I had learnt that to do otherwise would mean entering a world of word-games, a world where important concepts such as truth and justice have been trussed up in legalese, entangled in lies, degraded by cynicism, tossed about during elaborate, impenetrable word play, rendered meaningless, at least in the way that ordinary people understand them to be. This is the law. Where people get paid a flying fortune to talk the hind legs off the judicial donkey, or rather, ass!

By pleading guilty, I would side-step a tidal wave of complete guff. Also, I’d seen the way that various judges had treated my fellow Organised Criminals with utter scorn. The writer Milan Rai, for example, whose crime it had been to toll a bell while Maya Evans read out a roll-call of the British Iraq war dead in Whitehall. At his Verdict, I watched as the judge’s gavel came down with all the finesse of an auctioneers hammer. “What are my bids for truth and accountability?” Thwack! “Sold to Mr. Rai for £500 (£150 fine, with £350 costs).”

Milan Rai was prepared to go to prison for his convictions, but the judge had other plans, packing the entire affair off into the hands of bailiffs, who would no doubt attempt to break into his car in the dead of night, or some such sordid reprisal. Mr. Rai was due to launch his new book ‘7/7 – The London Bombings, Islam and the Iraq War’. Hearing this, the judge said, “I hope your book launch goes well this evening. Perhaps you can make some money that way.”

I wasn’t prepared to give the Crown the satisfaction. Although if I had decided to fight it all the way to Europe, I would have done it covered in convict-regulation black and white striped pajamas, with a plastic ball and chain attached to my ankle.

Even though my girlfriend was well aware of my fondness for dressing up like Charlie Chaplin while she was out at work, my parents didn’t have a clue. I had decided to break them in slowly. I told them that I actually found it therapeutic to dress my aching arthritic joints up in a penguin suit and waddle about the South Bank. I will never forget the look of sadness in their eyes. To think that it had come to this! Their son reduced to the status of a hobo, albeit an impression of the most celebrated hobo in cinematic history, hobbling about the back alleys of Soho in some extreme state of denial. Number one son was losing his marbles! When I finally ‘fessed-up’ about the arrests and the pending court case, they seemed somewhat relieved.

Tuesday October 9 2006

The big day finally arrived, and my girlfriend and I found ourselves in Court 7, Horseferry Road Magistrates’ Court, standing in line with a relatively minor traffic offence and a guy up for threatening behavior, being presided over by two Justices of the Peace. And, after waiting six months to come to trial, guess what? The Crown Prosecution Service had mislaid my file.

“If it pleases your Ma’ams,” I said, struggling to my feet (What is the plural of Ma’am anyway?) “I’m guilty. Can you see me today, and sort the paperwork out later?”

“We’ll give you an answer in thirty minutes,” They said. “Go and have a cup of tea. We’ll call you.”

So we waited outside, by which time Sian, dressed flawlessly as Mary Poppins had turned up to distribute some of her legendary iced-buns – black and white, truly scrumptious, each carrying subversive, and, considering the fact that the court stands within the Exclusion Zone, highly illegal slogans such as “Free Speech” and “Not Aloud”. Sedition never tasted so good.

It was while I was eating my words that I spotted a couple, walking arm in arm. I raised my placard, which said ‘SILENCE IN COURT’ and smiled. The gentleman, who was a dead-ringer for Bruce Kent, probably Britain's best-known peace campaigner and member of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament (CND), looked puzzled, as I myself did, and hurried past. It was later that I discovered that the man was in fact Charles Moore, former editor of the Daily Telelgraph, and Mr. Moore subsequently wrote an account of our encounter, which he initially thought was ‘some advertising stunt’, in The Spectator,

Thankfully, someone managed to fax over a copy of my file from the CPS and the case proceeded, beginning with the reading out of my arresting officer’s statement. As I mentioned before, PC108 CX had been involved in my first arrest in January for making ‘NO COMMENT’. He wrote, and I absolutely adore this line:

‘I was familiar with Mr. Goodwin and knew that he would try and mime his responses, an attempt at emulating Charlie Chaplin in his earlier years in film.’

It was fascinating to view the Old Bill’s take on the action:

‘I explained to Mr. Goodwin that as before, that he was not allowed to demonstrate in this designated area without authority. I said to Mr. Goodwin “Do you understand what I am saying?” Mr. Goodwin nodded his head in agreement, and smiled. I said to Mr. Goodwin “Do you have authority to demonstrate in PARLIAMENT or/and the designated area?” Goodwin said nothing but shook his head left to right indicating “NO”.

The handwriting was scratchy and gave the impression of a rushed homework assignment:

‘I asked Mr. Goodwin “Where are you going now?” He pointed towards Downing Street. I said, “Is there anyway that I can persuade you to go?” Mr. Goodwin shook his head. He then stuck up four fingers and then did an impersonation of a glass. This I assumed meant at 1600 hrs he was going for a drink. As I mentioned this he nodded his head in agreement. He put his sign up which read ‘NOT ALOUD’.

Then it was my turn to plead guilty. I puffed out my little pigeon chest and read out a short statement. I told the court that, “I was indeed guilty of demonstrating outside Downing Street without police permission. I was guilty of demonstrating how ludicrous the law has become in this country and guilty of demonstrating how every right-minded citizen should voice their concerns and oppose it.”

When I finished, my supporters gave a quick round of applause from the public gallery, which annoyed the Bench. But through their indignation you could tell that they were thinking that perhaps the Crown had gone completely barking mad to pursue this. “You have a point,” They said, and apparently a good one too, because they then gave me a six month conditional discharge with no fine and no costs.

What this meant, they explained, is that I must behave myself for six months or else! I couldn’t help it. I just burst out laughing, as did the public gallery. And I remember thinking, as I sat there in my penguin suit, with my ridiculous toothbrush moustache (which I’d beefed up with a bit of eye-liner), “How can you possibly ask a Right Charlie to behave himself? You’d be effectively putting him out of a job.” The Justices rounded on the merriment. “This is NO laughing matter!” They hissed. And it felt like I was eight years old again, desperately trying not to snigger at the back of assembly, so tempted to fall backwards off my chair.


* * * * *

On the day of my trial, the political satirist, broadcaster and general all-round Top Geezer, Mark Thomas, set out to make a record number of ‘authorised’ demonstrations within the Zone within one day, twenty one in fact, including a demonstration on Hungerford Bridge to demand ‘TROLLS FOR LONDON BRIDGES’, one outside the Secret Service (M15) demanding a brass name plate, a call for judges to wear clown wigs, and one outside the Treasury chanting “Gordon Brown. Burn everything before the Tories get back in!”

(See www.markthomas.com for further details)