The memoirs of any barrister still in harness are, by definition, advertising. The mystery of The Justice Game is what on earth Geoffrey Robertson needs to sell. He is much too busy already. A queue of life’s victims wanting his help in court would stretch twice round the Temple. But drumming up business is not what the book is about. Its real purpose, I suspect, is to show that, despite a certain radical reputation, Robertson is a sound man.
True he is from Australia, but he reached Oxford in the 1960s on a Rhodes Scholarship, found a toehold at the London Bar and fixed his vowels. Very early on, a chambers’ clerk advised him not to work for the National Council for Civil Liberties if he wanted ‘a career’ in the Law.
Take my Guv’nor’ ‘Lewis Hawser QC.’ ‘He is the best fucking silk there is. And why is he never going to be made a fucking High Court judge? Just answer me that. I will tell you why he is never going to be made a High Court judge. Because when he was a young barrister, he took calls from the National fucking Council for Civil fucking Liberties.