Dear Secretary of State for Justice

I would like you to know that this morning, I attempted to see justice done. As a member of the public, I attempted to witness proceedings at the Central Criminal Court, on the corner of Newgate and the Old Bailey. I did not succeed.

Luckily enough, I had some time on my hands before my ill-starred visit. I took in the damp, dank and generally very mouldy cell underneath the Viaduct Tavern. It is perhaps London’s most haunted pub, on account of the high volume of executions that have been carried out on its stoop. No such justice was visible today.

The reason the visit to the dungeon was lucky is that it gave me a frame of reference with which to compare the modern courthouse. The secret public entrance, accessed by a tunnel, put me in mind of my late mentor and guide, Bop Ad. This comes from Mr Bop Ad’s most celebrated work:-

“On display? I eventually had to go down to the cellar to find them.”
“That’s the display department.”
“With a torch.”
“Ah, well the lights had probably gone.”
“As had the stairs.”
“But look, you found the notice, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” said Arthur, “yes I did. It was on display in the bottom of a locked filing cabinet stuck in a disused lavatory with a sign on the door saying Beware of the Leopard.”

And so is the Old Bailey. Having left my phone, pencils, pens, notebooks, cameras, bombs, eReader, newspaper (could be written on), and any other electrical accessory known to humanity, I proceeded forthwith to 1907. The year, 1907, that is.

On arriving in the queue for the metal detector (which serves as the lavatory in our analogy) I witnessed some very unsavoury characters attempting to obtain access, withholding as they were some of the most dangerous and vile plastic-like compounds known in the West. Not Semtex, of course, but chewing gum. They were ordered to spit it into a bag provided in the tunnel for such circumstances.

As I and my companion refitted our belts, wallets, coins and all other non-electrical items which had been stripped from our bodies, we exchanged glances. Witnessing justice is not for the casual observer.

The court I had in mind was on the very top floor of the new building, opened in 1972 and destroyed by the IRA a few months later. A shard of glass that forced itself into a concrete pillar has been preserved as a reminder. Since then, the glass windows have been covered with sheet plastic and the net curtains weighed down with lead, to prevent such horrific injuries as were suffered by 200 or so people in and around the building that day.

We rejoin our expedition into the heart of dark justice.

We ascended the stairs into a throng of jabbering individuals who gave every impression of being involved in organised crime. At this point I lost my companion into a corridor. I believe she tried her arm on the first floor, but it was the penthouse for me.

I picked my way through further angry, nervous or just generally very fed up hordes. To my amazement, I passed one gentlemen’s toilet and two for the ladies, and took the opportunity to relieve myself in the former.

At last, the top floor in sight, and the crowds were dwindling. Having travelled from the basement to the very height of justice, I was ready to bear witness. I gingerly approached the stern policeman at the desk. I gave him the number of the court I wanted to access. There was a gust of wind as he sucked in his cheeks.

They have a protected witness in there, I’m afraid. No public admittance. You’re not family or anything? I was not. Even though I knew the person in question was a lady, the man made every effort to conceal even that person’s gender. He suggested another court, for the casual onlooker. Okay, I said, bring it on.

He consulted his radio. Ah. The judge was summing up and therefore nobody was allowed to enter during the great one’s oration. I looked innocently into the man’s face. He gave me the same look as was visited on John Cleese in the notorious cheese shop sketch.

I returned to the stairs to find four other companions loitering. They had all turned up nothing of interest in the entire building. The courts were either not sitting, closed off, banned or full of nondescript insiders.

As I glanced at the ceiling in the staircase, I noted that the paint was peeling off and hanging, about to fall. There was a profound issue with damp, or a leaky roof. It looked exactly like the disused dungeon wherein my day had begun so well.

It being the hottest day of the year, I chose to take a stroll. Leaving the building was very easy. I charged through the unmanned metal detector, ignoring its protestations at all the ferrous metals in my pockets. I took the stairs down into the tunnel two at a time, burst out of the fire door and staggered blinking into the sunshine.

I crossed the river on foot towards Bankside. Towards the far bank, I turned to face St. Paul’s. Armed with my new knowledge I quickly located the golden lady holding the scales of justice. Yes, my lady, I had exercised my democratic right to bear witness to the arms of justice. And answer came there none.