Felix | Blowing the whistle

Apparently so incensed was a Manchester United supporter at a referee's decision to send off one of his team's players he resorted to doing what anyone should in an emergency: he dialled 999. Fantastic! What a brilliant response. The Manchester constabulary (I assume it was them he phoned rather than being some remote fan, say in Hampshire, or Singapore) have been very sporting about it, and have decided not to press charges but have pointed out that they are not the first port of call for acting upon controversial referring decisions, and indeed, viewed strictly, this could be called wasting police time, which of course carries its own set of yellow and red cards.

Well, they have got a point. There are many things that drive us barmy, indeed to distraction. There are many things that happen on a football field that are criminal in nature, but allegedly dodgy referring is not. I'm not sure what the outraged football fan wanted the police to do '“ arrest the ref, presumably, and on what grounds similarly remains a bit of a mystery. Years ago I used to enjoy a football strip column where you were invited to be the ref '“ a number of increasingly bizarre events unfolded and you had to give your decision. We could have 'You Are the Rozzers', and this time have a sort of charging decision to make over such things as two footed tackles from behind, deliberate handball to qualify for the World Cup, accepting bungs, fixing matches, or just playing the team that you hate the most.

So, imagine the scene '“ someone goes in a bit high and clatters your team's centre-forward. You dial 999 and within five minutes the other team's centre half has been arrested, cautioned and taken off down to the police station. In the meantime however an opposing fan may have phoned the Emergency Services alleging that your team's manager is involved in a doping scandal '“ he too gets arrested and whipped out of the dug-out and off to cool his heels, thus missing the all important half-time team talk. Yes, phoning the police could be quite a tactical weapon.

All comes to naught

This could easily extend to other areas of life: phoning the Met Office if you are cross about the weather; phoning Waitrose if your supper isn't ready; phoning the library if you don't like the book you are reading. The appeals process could be wide and varied.

We of course do have an appeals process. With what vigour and trepidation we prepare ourselves, fall hook line and sinker for the brilliance of our own arguments, stir ourselves up with the righteousness of correcting a grievous wrong that has been visited on our client, and prepare for battle in the name of truth and justice. Then what happens is that, having got to court early, laid out all the various documents and cross-referenced them with yellow post-it notes, their Lordships and Ladyships come in, interrupt you just as you're getting into your stride and suddenly the full horror hits you '“ your arguments are rubbish, you've lost your thread, defeat is smiling at you from many feet up, and it is all up. In fact, it is rather like the hapless Manchester United fan must have felt like '“ he trusted the police, he considered he was the victim of an injustice '“ but it all came to naught.

The amazing thing in the Court of Appeal is when everyone knows that you are right and the trial judge was wrong but there is nothing that can be done to shift the conviction. How they smile as you go winging down.

Down the steps

But every now and then it is wonderful '“ they are on your side! The submissions flow from you like honey, your points are spot-on and compelling, the judges are smiling sympathetically, turning their cold eyes not to you but to original trial counsel for the prosecution, now on the wrong end of it all, frantically having to try to justify either his own bonkers stance at the trial, or far worse, some moment of madness from the trial judge. It is how that fan thought it would be '“ a policeman saying 'You're quite right sir, we'll go an arrest him now!' Joy.

But most of the time back and forwards we go, up and down the steep staircases of the Royal Courts and pace the marble corridors, stand in the oak panelled rooms where no daylight penetrates, and argue and cajole and lose graciously once again. Down to the cells through that discrete door on the far right, commiserate with the client and then out again and that really is it. You change, think it all a bit of a shame, the virgin snow of your submissions trampled and soiled. You leave the court and return to the daylight and say to yourself: 'I know I was right.' And off you go, still feeling a little resentful and downcast that your brilliance was not appreciated, nurse that little sore and go back to chambers to tell everyone that you lost.

And there is nothing more you can do. ?Or is there? Next time it happens I'm calling the police.