WHAT ARE SUPER-INJUNCTIONS? AN EXPLANATION PLEASE...

 You know, in my position as a highly respected legal, er, thingy, I often get asked

  “Mike, what are there these new super-injunctions all about?  Why were they created?  What are their function in society and how do they work?”

  Well after consulting my legal team (some bloke I know called Adam) I have come up with this dramatic recon-fiction that explains everything about super-injunctions you could ever possibly want to know.

CAUSE I’M THE TAXMAN, YEAH I’M THE TAXMAN!

THE SOLUTION

  He was a beautiful machine; balance, poise and instincts that allowed fluid movement and dazzling skills to flow through him.  Brian Race had it all, and he’d had it for ages.  A vegetarian who shunned the dietary pitfalls and heavy alcohol use that so many players thought was harmless until they reached thirty, Brian had always know that he wanted to stay on that pitch for as long as possible and he made damn sure he gave himself a fighting chance to do just that.

  The season had been long and hard and the toll on his body had never been more wearing.  He was thirty-five now, an age were most players were hanging up their boots, they had to as younger men found it so easy to expose the lack of pace of his generation, well, all the other players of his generation.  The season had given him another two winners medals and a renewed sense of desire for more success.  When people asked him if he got tired of winning he always gave the same reply.

  “The only thing you ever tire of is losing”.

  This year the after-season’s celebration dinner had been held at the Dortmand hotel in the swanky part of London.  Brian hadn’t been out for the night with the lads for years.  There was probably no harm in it, was there?  He rang his wife as she was putting the kids to bed.  As he said goodbye she chuckled and said “Don’t do anything silly”.  It was quite an amusing thing to say.  Everybody knew that footballers had an ethical compass only slightly more sensitive than that of a rattlesnake but Brian was a pretty safe bet.  He had no desire to ruin what he’d got, he’d worked far too hard to blow it all now.

  After the meal the team headed down to the west end to Garfield’s nightclub.  All the players split.  Picking off some woman to spend the night with was not a team effort and now they were all lone-wolfing it, not just the single blokes, but the married ones too.  Looking around at all that there was on offer Brian had to admit that he did feel a slight want to pick someone out and shack up with them for the night he also knew all too well the risks associated with it.  These days too many women wanted a premiership star to lavish money and status on them and those that didn’t simply wanted the quick pay-out that the red-tops newspapers offered.  At times like this he was actually grateful that his completely grey hair and lack of party spirit put him far from the top of most women’s “Most desirable premiership stars” list.  It came as a genuine shock when a demure voice headed his way.

  “Aren’t you Bryan Race?”

  Bryan felt a mixture of annoyance and curiosity the same way he did when any “fan” asked after him.  Sometimes it was enjoyable when people said that (about ninety per cent of the time actually!) but there was the other ten per cent of arseholes who spoiled it.  As he turned to face the voice he realised that this was one of the ninety.  

  “Yes I am,” replied Bryan Confidently.  He recognised the woman but he wasn’t sure where from.  “Aren’t you...?”

  “Yes, Kira Vellable, from X-Factor series five,” she said with a smile and a nonchalant flick of her sumptuous brown hair.  She was gorgeous.  Not the kind of plastered-with-make-up gorgeous that was the main class of woman in this place, but the kind were the war paint was sparing and the natural radiance of the skin beneath shone through.  Bryan relaxed, pulled up a stool and started to chat.  God it was easy; free of the usual bullshit of who hasn’t put the washing on or why the other person never replaces the toilet roll.  It was amazing how much fun actual conversation was.  They talked together for three hours and when she asked him back to her hotel suite he did not say no.

  They were kissing before they’d closed the door, frantic fingers pulling at buttons, yanking desperately at clothing, hands seeking out skin, compliments from parties on the other’s fine shape boosting both ego and performance.  God he felt alive.  He hadn’t felt this way off the pitch since, well, since he met his wife.  After a couple of hours it was all over and he slept sated with her head on his chest and the stars burning fiercely in the night sky.

  As the morning light streamed in through the window it showed everything that could not be seen in the dark, clothes strewn on the floor, three empty condom wrappers and their soiled brethren, but it also revealed another thing, invisible in the dark but all too noticeable in the morning . . . Conscience.  Usually Brian awoke with a start as two kids came in to the room to annoy him.  This morning he had no such distractions . . . and he missed it.  Their unbridled energy that filled him with the same sense of excitement at the start of each day was no had gone and it made him realise he missed it and just how much of a bad thing happened the night before.  He had to get out of there.

  Getting dressed quieter than he ever had before Brian snuck out of the room and headed back to his own hotel.  When the lads saw him they all cheered of course, there would be no secrets from his team mates over what had occurred but thankfully, due to the integrity of his colleagues, he would also never have to worry about his wife finding out.  Their silence for his indiscretions was just as guaranteed as his for theirs.  God he loved this profession.

  And that would have been it, in the old days.  Meet a woman, have sex, get out and cal her a liar if she went blabbing to the press, but these are not the old days.  In this day and age everything is connected, Facebook and Twitter make sure of that.  Brian looked up Kira on the net and a couple of weeks later after an away game he was enjoying himself again at her London flat under the premise of a meeting with his lawyers.  Over the next six months he liaised with her whenever he could and it was a lot of fun, well, it was at first.  After the first couple of months she would ask him for money for meals out, ask him to fill the dishwasher, empty bins and do general household chores.  That’s when it got boring as it stopped being an affair and started being a relationship. A relationship and an affair, that was cool, dangerous even, but two relationships, well that was just boring.  He tried to end it with her but by that stage she had got hooked on him.  She cried the first time he tried to split with her he felt sorry for her and relented, when he tried to break it off again and she cried he felt nothing, and when she started to ring him on his mobile threatening to go to the media he fucking hated her.

  He was now staring the very real possibility of his marriage coming to an acrimonious end as he was exposed as a love-cheat by the tabloids, his face drawn through the all the shit the red-tops could pull it through, his reputation ruined (although some would say he did that himself) and there was nothing he could do about it.  In desperation he rang his lawyers to discuss his options and it was then that they mentioned something that had only just appeared, a shiny new legal process.  Was it a bird?  Was it a plane?  Was it an injunction?  No, it was a SUPER-INJUNCTION; guaranteed to shut up even the most annoying mistress.

  “And this will stop the press from reporting this?” asked Brian as he spoke to his legal team (one thousand pounds an hour per meeting.)

  “Brian, no-one will ever find out,” said Carter Fforbes-Buckingham.

  That night Brian and his lawyers headed for Judge James.  During the entire journey Brian had his heart in his mouth and his cheque-book in his pocket.  They arrived at the Judge’s home at eleven thirty at night.  As he opened the door the Judge looked like he was in no good mood and had been disturbed from a pleasant evening with himself and his favourite Brandy.  The judge allowed everyone to enter and as soon as Brian’s legal team entered the house they began to shmooze the Judge with the tongues of diplomats; compliments coming from all sides about his house’s decor,  him losing weight, even a photo on the wall of his daughter at her graduation was picked up on as they made the short journey from the hallway to the study.  Then, as everyone sat down in the study, all idle chat quickly ceased and they moved on to the one subject they were all there for.

  “Mister Race needs an injunction banning Kira Vellable from talking to the media about their alleged affair,” Carter said, matter-of-factly.  The Judge looked from Carter to Brian.  Brian felt the judges eyes seem to bore into him, assessing his guilt, and he immediately went white with fear, feeling like he’d aged ten years under that severe stare.  The Judge then looked back to Carter and his gaze became normal again.  Brian exhaled in relief, he’d rather have to go in for a team talk with his manager at three nil down at half-time than be stared at like that again.

  “Why should I grant an injunction in this case?” asked the judge, blankly.

  “Well, obviously the news of this would be very distressing to Mister Race’s family and children,” said Carter in his most soothing-lawyer voice.

  “That didn’t stop him from having the alleged affair now did it?” replied the Judge yet again devoid of emotion.

  “She tried to get money out of me to shut me up!” interrupted Brian.  He looked to his lawyers for support but they looked ashen at those words.

  “She tried to blackmail you?” asked the Judge.

  “Yes,” replied Brian as cheerily as a puppy dog.

  “NO!” shouted his lawyers in unison.

  “No?” replied Brian, confused.

  “Because, obviously of it’s blackmail that’s a criminal matter and I couldn’t give an injunction as that would be a matter for the police,” Judge James responded.

  “Oh, oh no then,” said Brian.  It was all going wrong.  He’d hoped that getting the injunction would be straight forward but it was proving anything but.

  “Right, the other thing to consider is the rival fans’ response,” continued Carter, undeterred.

  “Go on,” replied he Judge.

  “Well when news like this leaks out it can cause rival fans to react badly.  Booing, offensive chants and ...stuff,” Carter replied, finally running out of steam.  The judged sighed and sat back in his deep leather chair, weighing up his options.  Carter took the risk that the judge wouldn’t know that this is what football fans do anyway and that the judge preferred cricket fan where fans behaviour did tend to differ slightly.  The Judge moved to his right-hand side, opened a drawer and removed a spine bound ream of official forms.  At the top of the ream was a white band about half an inch thick were numerous sheets have been removed.  Brian couldn’t help but wonder what other secrets they were hiding.

  “Okay, you can have your injunction, Mister Race,” began the judge while completing the necessary forms.  “You need to know this will cost a hundred thousand pounds.  In spite of what you might have heard they are not permanent and if you desire to have the injunction extended it will cost a further hundred thousand pounds a time”.

  Brian nodded.  What else could he do.

  “Now I can provide you with an injunction that covers both yourself and you’re ...Ahem! ...Alleged mistress‘ name,” said the judge.

  “Oh no, that won’t be necessary.  I don’t care about her,” replied Brian, devoid of emotion.

  “Okay,” said the judge.  A few more slashes with the pen and a stamp (and a cheque for hundred thousand pounds) and the injunction was in place.  Brian felt himself literally sigh with relief as the paper was handed over.  He shook hands with the judge and his lawyers (who later billed him for a further fifty thousand pounds) and headed out safe in the knowledge that his indiscretion would never be discovered.

The next few weeks went very badly for Brian Race.  The media started sniffing around the story, with Kira Vellable featuring on the front of several red-tops (how he wished she’d been covered by the injunction then!) with endless speculation and hints to his identity.  He was meeting with or calling his lawyers on a daily basis for the next five weeks (one hundred and eighty thousand pounds) and the injunction had to be reinforced when challenged by one of the newspapers (another hundred thousand pounds) but that wasn’t the worst of it.  Brian Race was actually named on a sporting discussion forum and the name spread over the internet like a pandemic (it was everywhere at the same time).  What was Brian going to do?  He still hadn’t told his wife yet.  He contacted his lawyers again as the first injunction did not include the internet, but at that stage it was like trying to  stop a bull with a polythene sheet.  His name was out there.  Everyone from the lowest schoolchild to the purest nun knew of Brian Race’s affair.  He had tried to hide it, desperately tried to conceal it and had actually succeeded in putting it out there more, even with people who didn’t want to know.  The worst day came when someone held up a banner behind Colin Emerton, who was interviewing a manager, that said “BRIAN RACE SHAGGED KIRA VELLABLE!”  And that was it.  Brian’s privacy injunction was effectively over.  Brian rang his lawyers for some advice.

  “What the hell is going on?  My name is everywhere!  What am I supposed to do?” Brian asked.

  “Relax, Brian,” Carter said, attempting the same soothing tone he’d tried with the judge.  “The good news is that the details of the affair cannot be published.  What has happened is just a temporary setback”.

  “A SETBACK!” screamed Brian.  “A FUCKING SETBACK!  MY WIFE KICKED ME OUT!  I’M RINGING YOU FROM A FUCKING HOTEL SUITE!”

  “Brian calm down.  We know what we’re doing,” said Carter, un-phased by Brian’s anger.  “We just need to meet the judge again and extend the injunction by another three months.”

  “ANOTHER THREE MONTHS!” spat Brian.  “HOW MUCH MORE IS THAT GONNA COST?”

  “Look the cost is irrelevant when you consider the peace of mind it will bring, but it’ll probably be another hundred and fifty thousand including our costs.”

  “WHAT PEACE OF MIND?  I’VE BEEN KICKED OUT OF MY HOME.  WHAT THE HELL AM I PAYING YOU PEOPLE FOR?”

Two years earlier

THE PROBLEM

  Gerard Kingman saw Sundays not as a day of rest but a time to catch up with the rest of his cabinet in a more relaxed frame of mind.  They usually met every other sunday away from Parliament and the stuffy ministerial offices, with an extra week day off for good measure.  Of course the rest of the media didn’t know that, if they latched onto that they’d probably accuse them of being lazy.  The library in Gerard’s house was huge and in that more relaxed environment with it’s sumptuous garden views they solved far more problems than they ever would back in Westminster.  

  The Prime Minister drank his Earl Grey and sat back as far as he could in his recliner.  Today they had to worry about overseas aid budget’s, sales of military equipment and increasing tourism to guarantee revenue.  His thoughts on trying to tie the problems together to come up with a mutual beneficial solution (he loved those) were interrupted as two of his ministers rolled in conversing over the latest tabloid scandal.

  “It’s a fucking disgrace!” said home secretary Gregory Pinecone.  “The papers taking pictures of Prince William’s old sheets that were in the rubbish.  They’re just animals.”

  “I know but what can we do about it,” asked under secretary Johnson.

  The under secretary was right.  They did have to do something about it, but the press had infinite freedoms, almost.  Any privacy ruling would probably be both unconstitutional and possibly illegal.    It would be nice to bring in some kind of legal procedure to stop them, though.  To keep the royal’s private lives as their own.  It was then that another of the Prime Minister’s loyal troops trudged in.

  “Bloody teenagers!” she was shouting.  “You tell them to do one thing, and you can guarantee they’ll do another!”

  The words echoed through his head as he tried to think of a way of muzzling the media.  Even if they did create a skintight waterproof resolution, the press would seek to find a way out of it.  The press were very much a bunch of annoying teenagers.  If only there was a way of giving them a bone, something else to chew on, somebody else to chase to draw their attention away from the Royals.  It was at that point that two more of his lieutenants strode in reading a report from the observer, Revenue Secretary Jerry Hatchet and Chancellor Graeme McQueen.

  “And these footballers are borrowing money from their own merchandising companies and writing off repayments as a tax back!” Hatchet barked.  “These bastards are ruining the economy and where does the money go? ...On hotel suites for their fucking mistresses!”

  “Good luck trying to get money out of them,” replied the Chancellor.  “They only spend the money when they have to.”

  It was then that the different strands of conversation spun through Kingman’s head, the footballers dodging tax to spend money on their mistresses, a way to legislate for privacy so that the royals could be kept out of the gutter press, but with a bone to throw at the press so they would be kept busy and tow the line.  If they told the media there would be a crackdown on privacy they would probably ignore it, BUT, if at the same time they were also told that the definitely couldn’t report on celebrity sleaze, that it was illegal due to the new super-injunctions, that would only want to go after those more.  The injunctions would create the illusion of privacy for the tax-dodging scumbags who wanted to hide their indiscretions but it would eventually see them exposed by the most raptor-like press in the world, because even if they aren’t meant to report it they’ll just pursue it even more.  Besides if the media couldn’t get the story out they could always use parliamentary privilege  to reveal the name there, safe in the knowledge they were free from the risk of prosecution.

  “Fella’s” KIngman began, in his best Michael Caine accent.  “I’ve just had a brilliant Idea!”

Fin.

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