The first thing the judge said to me once the formalities had been confirmed was that he was leaning towards a custodial sentence. From the dock, I looked over my shoulder and saw the two Old Bill, one of whom I’d supposedly assaulted, smirking.
We adjourned for lunch and I spent the hour in the pub anxiously necking pints of Guinness.
At 2pm I went to see the probation officer. He asked me a series of friendly questions about my educational achievements. Mindful of the alcohol on my breath, I leaned back in the chair and showered him with my vocabulary, showed him a reference from my dissertation supervisor—a distinguished professor. The probo man seemed satisfied that for a first offence, I would avoid jail. That was all I cared about, and it seemed like a tropical possibility.