Hardworking souls are out there every day trying to make sure the commands of the courts are carried out.
Underpaid, unless they land a big fish, and unloved, they roam the land seeking justice for the poor against the powerful.
Once upon a time, I was in a team serving legal documents to people who tried to ignore us. We loved the thrill of hand delivering a subpoena into someone’s sweaty shaker. Done. The law of the land reigns supreme.
In some ways Scotland’s legal system is more straightforward than others and has few process servers. We have sheriff officers for tough stuff. On my London patch, no royals made it onto my target list and Prince Andrew was away in the Falklands. Lesser celebs, some sadly no longer with us, got handed unexpected bundles.
Dram fine way to serve up papers
One very alive recipient was Richard Ingrams, former editor of Private Eye. Always having the pants sued off him, he was. When I rattled his door in Middlesex one evening, a family member answered. Dad wasn’t home yet. No, thanks, I won’t come in. However, I was shushed in, had the sofa cushions fluffed, the telly and kettle on and I was asked, nay ordered, to sit.
Richard’s daughter was like a younger Barbara Woodhouse, the posh-but-strident TV dog trainer of the time, who always commanded hounds to sit-t. I feared Mr I would be raging. Yet, he wasn’t at all. He hoped his daughter had looked after me, he accepted the summons graciously and enquired if, being Scottish, I would take a small, English-size dram.
No, ta. I needed to get back to the flat I shared with two other agents. I was invited in? He didn’t clobber me? A tiny drinky-poo may have been had then. I don’t recall, obviously.
Hitting a bum note with great tenor
My career highlight, however, was the great tenor, Luciano Pavarotti. Pursuing him for dues on a racehorse. The instructing solicitor vouched it would be easy. Mr P was relaxing in The Savoy. As easy as meeting him in the foyer and saying: “This is for you”, said the brief. It’s never that easy. For days I watched that foyer, phoned his room and skulked in a nearby alleyway on The Strand.
When he answered, Luci let rip in impenetrable Italian. It sounded like the Gaelic swearing outside after a Free Church minister has ranted on for too long. His security people appeared once and invited me to depart quickly, or words to that effect.
Andarsene yourself, you lot. A cafe owner later told me that meant go away. Their pronunciation of short English words was simply marvellous, I thought, becoming more English as I galloped.
I then saw Pavarotti was performing that same night at a gala concert in the Royal Albert Hall in front of the Queen Mother. Aw, bless. I couldn’t fork out 40 quid to hear him belt out Nessun Dorma, but I had a plan. After the performance, I queued up with the autograph hunters round the side of the hall. Everyone of them gushed that he was “simply marvellous”. Oh, those English.
It took more than an hour to get to the table where Mr P was sitting with his similarly-burly assistants and his Sheaffer pen poised to sign my autograph book. When the second came, I instead unfurled my scroll of legalistic jargon, tapped him across his sizeable chest with it, and announced: “Signore Luciano Pavarotti, you are herby served.” He stuttered in perfect English: “I don’t know any…”
I had just ruined the evening for the star of the show. I heard no arias but just got chucked out onto mine.
Instantly, a couple of giant gentlemen of Verona bundled me out the side door and catapulted me onto my culo, which I learned later is Italian for bottom. To escape the growling Genoans, I ran to mingle with a throng at barriers around the hall entrance.
‘Marvellous’ ending to Pavarotti saga
I went down on my hands and knees and pushed past knobbly ankles to the barrier. Coming up, I found the Queen Mother shaking hands with people on my right and just about to arrive at my position. I rubbed my gritty hands on the backside of my best Sunday suit.
Her Majesty came round, looked me straight in the eye and asked: “And did you enjoy the concert?”
What could I say? I had just ruined the evening for the star of the show. I heard no arias but just got chucked out onto mine. Anticipating the promised £200 bonus for successful service, I smiled broadly and said: “Ah yes, ma’am. It was simply marvellous.”