As the joke goes, there are two ways to become a top judge. You can study law at university, then enter one of the Inns of Court as a trainee barrister, before embarking on a period of pupillage. If all goes well, you may be called to the bar. Play your cards right and you might take silk, and then as you reach your fifties, with a following wind, you may be invited to become a judge. Ten years later, with a few widely admired judgments under your belt, you may reasonably claim to be a ‘top judge’.
If I am to endure the peculiarly dysfunctional queue at Gail’s, I want choice. Where is the cornbread?
The alternative is to become a minor local magistrate and get caught in flagrante with a farm animal. At this point every tabloid newspaper will splash your photograph across its front page with the headline: ‘Top Judge in Goat-Sex Shocker.

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