Sawyer the Lawyer

I spent much of the day thinking about how I could get my own back on Higgins and the rest of the rugger buggers who had such fun at my expense. I suppose I could deliberately throw an important match by making a stupid mistake but as my form can be a bit inconsistent, being more of a flair player, and I make the odd stupid mistake anyway, I couldn’t be sure if they’d realise I’d made the mistake on purpose or not. We haven’t got a game for a couple of weeks so I’ve plenty of time to think of something.

Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding for dinner. It was even better than it usually is, as have been all my meals just recently. I think Mother must be making a special effort to make up for the disappointing fish and chips she served up recently. We are due fish and chips for dinner again this coming Friday and to ensure that the same thing doesn’t happen again I have decided to do something about it.

The more I think about it the more I am convinced that eighteen months is an inordinately short time between prostate examinations and that Dr Singh deliberately subjected me to an unnecessary one for my making a joke about his turban. I asked Father when he’d last had a prostate examination and he said he’d never had one. Bugger me, he’s sixty and I’m twenty seven and I’ve already had two!

Sawyer the Lawyer


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I pronounced myself fit for rugby today despite the bruise in my groin area not having fully disappeared and my hand not being one hundred per cent fit.
Higgins was all over me, patting me on the back, telling me how brave I was, what a good club member etcetera, and that naturally I was back in my usual position on the right wing. ‘Where you’ll be out of the firing line’, as he put it.
While we were changing someone suddenly burst out laughing and I turned to see it was our scrum half Rowbottom, Higgins in close attendance. Higgins had that that silly grin on his face that he sometimes has. Both of them were looking in my direction but quickly turned away when they saw me looking at them.

We took the field and lined up. To my dismay I saw that the opposing left winger was just about the biggest left winger I have ever seen on a rugby field, and that includes Jonah Lomu. Brick shithouses weren’t in it. He must have been six feet four and twenty stone, and made everyone else on the field look like undernourished jockeys. I looked in alarm at Higgins, who was conveniently looking the other way. So was Rowbottom, who appeared to be laughing the way his shoulders were shaking up and down.

“Fuck me, look at the size of him, Terry,” Barnett our fly half called to me. “You’d have been better off at flanker.”

I’d be better off back in the dressing room I thought, and was just about to make this happen by claiming that I’d pulled a hamstring in my warm-up when, with a huge grin, the colossus opposite me left the left wing and took up position with the forwards, to be replaced by a player of a more normal size. Cue falling about laughing at my expense by all the members of my team and half the opposition, and an offer of the lend of his spare shorts if I’d shit myself from our witty full back Evans. But what else can you expect from a Welshman?

I grinned and took it in good part. Well what else could I do? I just hope that Higgins, for it is surely he who was behind it – revenge for our contretemps last week – will take it in equally good part when I get my own back, which I surely will.
Sawyer the Lawyer.


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I went to see Dr Singh. He turned out to be a diminutive man with his head swathed in a white turban and his right arm in a sling. As a way of breaking the ice I smiled and told him that he looked more poorly than half the people in the waiting room and asked him if he’d been in an accident. He said he’d done it skiing. I said well that takes care of your bandaged head, how did you break your arm? He didn’t even crack a smile, reinforcing my opinion that Indians have about as much sense of humour as the Chinese, despite all the smiling they do.

I explained the reason for my visit. Before examining me he studied my medical records, like doctors always do. You’d think they’d study them before you went in wouldn’t you, forewarned is forearmed and all that, but they never do, apparently preferring to be after armed.

He then had a look at my hand and pronounced that there was nothing broken and time would heal it, likewise my thick lip. Then I had to take my trousers off and lie on his couch while he took a look at the lump in my groin. He poked and prodded at it for a bit then said that it was nothing to worry about, just a bruise, but I was wise to come.

I thanked him and was about to put my trousers back on when he said he’d noticed in my records that it was eighteen months since I’d had my prostate examined and that another check-up was overdue. Having already suffered one such examination I didn’t like the sound of another one at all but what could I do?

It will take a long time before I forget the next two minutes. Although Dr Singh is a diminutive man I soon found out that he does not have a diminutive index finger, it’s more like a Dynarod, or at least it felt like it was. After he inserted it up my rectum to the third knuckle I thought the pain to be excruciating. It wasn’t, it was excruciating when he then he proceeded to rotate it round and round a couple of times.

After it was over he said I was all right as he couldn’t feel anything. I told him that I’d felt enough for both of us and got my trousers on smartish before he thought of summoning one of his colleagues for a second opinion.

On the way out it crossed my mind that Dr Singh might have subjected me to the prostate examination because I’d made a joke about his turban. However I can’t really believe that a doctor would do such a thing, but even so I’m going to be a lot more careful about what I say to Sikhs in future.

Sawyer the Lawyer


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On my way to work I noticed that the chippy taken over by the Chinese is still called the Crispy Cod. I considered calling in and suggesting that they change their name to the Crispy Sanitary Towel or the Soggy Cod but they probably wouldn’t have appreciated it; the Chinese are not renowned for their sense of humour.

I was leafing through the newspaper at lunchtime when I saw, not for the first time, an article about house conveyancing in which the author of the article was encouraging members of the public who are in the process of buying a house to do it for themselves. The writer of such rubbish must be stark raving mad. Over the past four years I must have done over a hundred house conveyances and I can still slip up even now. Believe me, house conveyancing is as fraught with danger as trying to negotiate a minefield wearing a couple of canal barges on your feet.

The article claimed you could comfortably pick up the basics of house conveyance in a week. A week? You couldn’t even begin to understand most house conveyance documents in a month, let alone a week. This is because the vast majority of legal documents have been subjected to the lawyer’s con, a phenomenon dreamed up by lawyers which ensures that the lawyer drawing up the document will have transformed normal everyday language into an unintelligible language that only lawyers can understand, so that members of the public will have to employ lawyers to turn it back into normal language again so that they can understand it.

My advice therefore to anyone considering doing their own house conveyancing is to forget it. You have less chance of being successful than John and Anne Darwin have of being found not guilty. I give you this advice freely and it is the best advice from a solicitor you will ever get.

Sawyer the Lawyer


Divorce – Conveyancing – Probate – Insurance – Mortgage – Malpractice – Fraud – Wills – Litigation – Personal Injury – Rent and Debt Collection

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