No law student likes wading through readings peppered with more than a few hithertos, herewiths and notwithstandings, but after an afternoon of reading about Cockney rhyming slang, we think we’ve discovered something that’s even harder to understand than legalese. Try to make sense of this:
It took five long years of study, including the occasional jet fighter (all nighter), but I’m finally aTom Sawyer (lawyer). Somehow I overcame the distractions of the sportsman’s bet(Internet) long enough read a Captain Cook (book) or two and graduated with Geoff Hurst (first) class honours.
A few days after finishing my final green eggs and ham (exam), I put on my box of fruit(suit) and Fourth of July (tie) for my first day at my new corn on the cob (job).
After only minutes in the new office, my pitch and toss (boss) hands me a nails and tacks (fax) and tells me I have my first client. I was expecting a simple Daily Mail (bail) application.
I gulped down my molten toffee (coffee) and went down to the boom and mizzen(prison) for a central heating (meeting) with Mr. Smith.
As we went through his file I couldn’t Adam and Eve (believe) my mince pies (eyes). It looked like Mr. Smith had been found Clonakilty (guilty) of almost every lemon lime(crime) possible. He’d been a tea leaf (thief), a brass flute (prostitute), violated his jam roll (parole) conditions, and had even broken out of ginger ale (jail) and gone hot cross bun (on the run). Even the garden gate (magistrate) at his last trial had labeled him a classic Bobby Dylan (villain). If I were the sort of person to Naomi Campbell(gamble), I would have bet on the prosecution.
The DPP had not interest in making a jellied eel (deal), and I knew that if I wasn’t successful in this case I’d be out of Captain Kirk (work) and on the sausage roll (dole) by the end of the day.
All too soon we were in court. As the smear and smudge (judge) sat glaring at me in his oil rig (wig), I’d never felt more terrified in my fork and knife (life).
Although I could barely bubble and squeak, I knew that something in the brass tracks(facts) just didn’t add up. I wracked my down the drains (brains) and it suddenly dawned on me: the evidence was Ricki Lake (fake), and I had my reasonable Brussels sprout (doubt).
I promise that I will never complain about legalese ever again.
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