A stand of defiance in a world that couldn’t care less
Wednesday, 1 April 2026
Joe Bennett is an award-winning Lyttelton-based writer, columnist and playwright. He is a regular contributor.
SATIRE: “The court will rise.”
In the dock what looks like a heap of old sacks is trying, with aching slowness, to stand upright. A court official offers a hand but is ignored. Eventually, with many a groan, and frequent pauses to catch breath, there stands in the dock the gaunt figure of Lasto Theliterates, wily old Greek and notorious linguistic stickler. The hands that grip the rail of the dock are like the fleshless talons of some ancient condor.
“Lasto Theliterates, you are charged with wilful damage to private property, to wit some supermarket signage…”
The defendant yelps.
“Are you in pain?”
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“I’m sorry, your honour, it was the word signage. Please continue.”
“How do you plead?”
“Is it a crime, your honour, to defend the English language? Is it a crime to stand against the tide of illiteracy? Answer me that question and I will answer yours.”
“I take that as a plea of not guilty,” says the judge. “We shall proceed.”
The prosecution calls a police constable who lumbers to the box in the traditional manner, and flips open his notebook.
“In response to a 111 call I arrived to find the defendant standing on the conveyor belt of the express aisle of a supermarket check-out and reaching with a permanent marker for an overhead sign…
“Which said?”
“Mr Theliterates, please do not interrupt.”
“The sign, your honour, said, ‘Express checkout 9 items or less’.”
“There you have it,” cries the defendant, suddenly animated. “There is the crime. There the offence. ‘Or less,’ your honour. Not fewer. Can you believe it? It is intolerable provocation. If we as a society allow such illiteracy to prevail we shall soon find ourselves in that famously attractive preserve, a pretty pickle. How can anyone who cares one jot for his native tongue see such a sign in a public place and not…”
“Mr Theliterates, my patience wears thin. Please carry on, constable.”
“When I attempted to restrain the defendant he called me names I would prefer not to repeat.”
“Come come, constable, this court is not shy of a little ripe language.”
“Very well, your honour, the defendant called me an eater of broken meats, and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch.”
“Is it a crime to quote Shakespeare?”
“Mr Theliterates, I shall not warn you again.”
“The defendant then reached into a hidden pocket in the lining of his coat, withdrew a bottle containing an alcoholic beverage for which he appeared not to have paid, and proceeded to strike me about the…”
A scream comes from the dock. “Beverage! Beverage! Is a man meant to stand here and listen to this frenchified prissiness? What happened, your honour, to the stout old Anglo-Saxon word drink? Lord save us all from.. from…from…” But even as he stammers the old man clutches at his chest, flings his head back, gulps at the air twice like a beached fish, falls to the floor in a heap and does not move.
Court officials rush to his side. An usher puts his ear to the old man’s lips.
“Brandy,” cries the usher, “the old man needs brandy.”
“Or similar,” croaks the defendant weakly from the floor.
As the judge orders the case adjourned and withdraws to his chambers, two hardened court reporters come forward with hip flasks. The usher wafts one under the old man’s nose. The eyelids flutter. Long bony fingers snake out to wrest the flask from the usher’s grip. Lasto Theliterates drinks deep, sighs, puts the top back on the flask, slides it into an inner pocket, and, groaning deeply, reaches for the other one.