Image Nine Point Four

"Don't get your hopes up," I tell him. "No! I'll get you a pint, but I suspect this one will go to Parliament anyway. We'll have to fight hard to ever get to court."

"Didn't you say you'd need expert witnesses, if it went to that review?"

"Mm. D'you fancy standing up as a champion for British Business?" I ask him. "Explain how much you contribute to the economy?"

Melons chuckles. "Hey, I own a suit! I have to speak to bank managers and my accountant and that. I mean, I'm still a big bald self-made Northerner with tattoos, don't get me wrong, but you don't see the tattoos under me jacket."

Magenta grimaces. "If we actually get that Committee or Parliament to throw it out and insist on a review, we're doing well. It's never worked before."

"You've never had Jan here being all 'the respectable face of kink'. She'd be a wonderful defendant. Sorry, witness."

"And we'll not ask about your expertise in being the defendant!" Magenta jibes. "No, you're right, she'd be way better than me. Anyone with dyed hair and exotic piercings never comes across well in court."

"That's all I need, my unique name in the tabloids! The kids would kill me, for starters."

Melons raises an eyebrow. "You do know, it's perfectly legal to go by any name you wish in the UK, as long as it's not for fraudulent purposes. Use your maiden name."

"I do!"

"OK, what's your bloke's surname? Jones? Perfect! Giz a sheet of paper, Madge. Oh, you write it. Quick deed poll, evidence you use both names. I, Jan, how do you spell your surname...?"

"What's Jan short for?" Magenta interrupts.

"Joanne. There were three Joanne's in my class."

"So we all know your age, now." Magenta has nice handwriting. "Will henceforth also be known as ...?"

"Janine Jones," I decide. It rolls off the tongue nicely. I might adopt it as my name for using in clubs. Janine sounds sexier than just Jan...

"We'll witness it, unless you want someone else?" Magenta really uses that name -- she shows me her credit card. Melons is, apparently, a John Smith. I bet that's equally made up.

"John B.M. Smith? What's the B.M. stand for?"

"Big Melons!" He slaps his thigh and laughs. "There you go. Signed and dated, just in case you ever end up getting nicked."

He's casual about it, but the idea of appearing in a dock terrifies me. Sitting at a table in a Committee room doesn't seem much better. I'm used to sitting behind Ministers, passing them information to answer questions they're being asked, not being the one in the hot seat.

The letter from Magenta's barrister 'friend' is beautiful. Nineteen snarky points, raised in precise legal English. I get up some hope. The bastards on the JCSI are sticklers for both law and process. They force the Government to obey the law, many a time. They, and other Committees, do the fine scrutiny work you'd hope Government would be doing, which never makes the news.

Possibly because everyone's on holiday in August, the letter gets a very generic answer. JCSI give the Government permission to continue to draft the legislation and to lay it before Parliament. Ah, well.

While our tame barrister will write a damning legal opinion for a token fee, his main advantage is knowing the opposition. And MPs.

He comes along to one of our meetings. He's a small guy, in a snazzy pink-and-lavender turban. Gay and Sikh, recently elevated to King's Counsel, Kashminder is way more blunt than barristers I've known before, though I suppose he's off the clock, now. He explains the situation, then barks questions. "Trixie? Suzy? Anyone! What MPs have you fucked? Any of the front bench? Actually, any MP will do..."

We have to show them and their friends some photos -- luckily mysexyMP dot com for rating MPs is still going, still with remarkably flattering out-of-date pics... It turns out a handful of MPs have been very naughty boys. Quelle surprise... They might be 'persuaded' to object to these regulations during their 20-day period laid in Parliament, before the King gets told to sign them.

"You mean blackmail?" Trixie asks.

"That's such an ugly word... Also, illegal. So certainly not!" Kash assures her. "I'll just have a polite word, about not being hypocritical..."

Kash is efficient. Within a week of the Order landing in the House of Commons library, James Hart Pryce, an unknown young back-bench MP, decides he is objecting on the grounds of the legislation being 'both unsound, and technically unworkable.' Nice one, mate.

Another MP, Jo Caxton, then decides it's 'unfeminist' and 'patronising to women'. She hasn't been sleeping around at all, unless she's been incredibly subtle about it. You wouldn't believe how many MPs are fucking around. Or maybe you would? Late nights away from home, on-site bars and private offices provide much opportunity, after all.

There's now a flurry of letter-writing. The Government withdraws its attempted legislation, rather than face a debate. It looks for someone to take its embarrassment out on. The Equalities Minister -- a racist and homophobic woman -- rants about perverts in the Times.

Kashminder sends a reply. Jenni then wangles him a full article in the Guardian.

A couple other Ministers slag off anyone who watches any porn ever. One of them hopes local councils will refuse licensing permission to any club where 'debauchery' happens. Given that alcohol and club licences and planning permission are where local governments get money from, now, seeing as they've been starved of money by central Government for years, this is probably not going to go anywhere.

It's only a temporary win.

The Home Secretary announces that he will get this legislation through, and doesn't care what 'pretentious subgroups calling themselves sexual minorities' think. Only 'idiots' give up on controlling the internet. Don't they care about the trafficked children?

Kash rubs his hands together, when he joins us for drinks in the pub. "Libel!"

"You think we could seriously claim to be libelled by that? I'd love to believe you, you're the expert, but that sounds pretty tenuous to me," I tell him, handing him his third G&T.

"No, you're right. But Ministers stating they don't care about groups of constituents, and insulting and libelling various tech experts -- that's perfect justification for a Judicial Review. I had a chat with a couple of the SI Committee last week. They don't care about kinksters not getting their jollies, but they really don't want yet another piece of superfluous law trying to control online activity, which doesn't do anything. Tilting at windmills, was Nigel's phrase..."

A week after that, Magenta calls me and Melons to meet Kash.

The JCSI Committee have agreed that if this secondary legislation is laid again, they will insist on a Review. "They're bastards, but they're law-obsessed bastards," Kash explains. "And we've got their attention, now."

"Wahey! That's what we want, innit?" Melons says.

"We've still got to win the review, though," I caution. "Three Supreme Court judges, is it?"

"That's right. They may even decide it's enough in the public interest to gather a jury."

Magenta quotes, "The public interest is not the same as what the public find interesting."

"No," Kash agrees, "but in this case I think we can expect it's both. Not to mention the public gallery being crowded."

"I thought JRs were done in a Committee Room in Parliament?" I ask. No galleries there.

"Usually, yes. Though they can get cramped, if there's an audience. If there's a jury, Nigel will want to cross the road." That's where the Supreme Court building is. Nigel must be a judge on the Committee, which comprises members of both the Commons and Lords. "The big question is, who can I call on to be witnesses?" Kash is looking at me.

"What are your lines of argument? What experts do you need? I'm not a lawyer myself, but I work with them."

"Tech, for starters. Someone who knows all about the problems in internet censorship."

"I'll call John." I hand the phone over to Kash, who is delighted. He writes, 'Prof John...'

I grab the phone back. "Hey! You didn't tell me you got your promotion!" Unlike in some countries, UK professors are heads of a department. I knew John got promoted from Senior Lecturer to Reader a few years ago.

"Mm. They did say I'd have to dress more smartly for work. Fuck that. Don't worry, Jan, I'll look perfect for court..."

Kash goes down his list. "Effect on industry. Mr Melons, sorry, Mr Smith? Can you talk about all your safeguarding, how you avoid any underage content, all that? You don't have any potentially underage content or links to it, do you?"

"Certainly not! Lots of lovely young teenage tits, all certified age eighteen and upwards, thank you!" He's indignant.

"I'm sure. Just remember our opposition. Don't want them finding that one pic that undermines everything you say."

Natasha from Freedom! will talk about the perils of thoughtcrime, and parallels with third world nations.

Kash rifles through his notes. "We need someone who runs clubs where kink happens, talking about safety."

"I'm sure Raven would. She told me about how local taxi drivers and the council love their place, because no-one pukes in the cars and they don't have patrons needing to be taken to A&E each weekend, unlike mainstream nightclubs. She'd sound better than Random," I add, conscious that being a woman and less obviously nerdy will probably help.

"Ah! More harm comes from less-informed clubs? Excellent point." Kash writes another neat note.

He lifts his head. "Finally, we need to demolish the argument that no woman actually enjoys being hurt and humiliated."

We all laugh. Then I realise they're all looking at me. "What?"

"You can't see Trixie being convincing in a witness box, can you? 'Did you get into kink to pay for a drug habit?' 'Yes.' 'Do you do it for money?' 'Yes, lots of money.'" Melons shakes his head. "You, you've gone to clubs for twenty years? Never been on the game, nor doing it for gear, am I right? You talk proper, too."

"What about you, Magenta?" I plead.

"Me? I don't get off on pain or submit to anyone! I'm a dominatrix!"

"Could do with that, too," Kash muses.

"I mostly hurt men," she reminds him.

"Hm. Not so good for combatting the 'poor women' agenda, but if you would, please, to help us get across the point that it's not just about men hurting women..."

Magenta nods. "If you like. I can scrub up well and not sound too manic or mad."

They consider some other people, but come back to me. Raven can describe clubs in general, but she's into costumes, Torture Garden sort of stuff, fetish fancy dress, rather than actually playing.

Kash explains, "We need someone who can describe how it feels, the satisfaction, almost like an endurance sport. And it being an art form. But if they persist in this claim that no woman ever enjoys being beaten -- cos who gives a shit about men! -- then, we only need one convincing woman to contradict that, and disprove their whole case. Would you?"

He's a sweetie. And I bet he's into kink himself, from that speech! I wonder if he was one of Magenta's customers, before they became friends.

I take a deep breath. "They still don't allow any filming or photos in court, do they?"

"That's right. Those chalk drawings only, done by an artist once they step outside the room. No-one will recognise you if you do your hair different," Kash assures me. "Plausible deniability, anyhow."

I don't say yes immediately. But after I discuss it with Mike, I decide I really do want to do it.

"It'll be a claim to fame," he teases me. "Perfect for your intriguing intro, when you go on a TV quiz show. 'And their captain, Jan, who once explained kinky sex to the Supreme Court'!"

"I don't want that fame! Who will the judges believe? Me, or a barrister hired by the Government? Assuming they do bother trying to pass it again..."

Turns out, a strident new Equalities Minister -- replacing last month's one -- wants to make her name on this. Two months later, the Regs are submitted to Parliament for JCSI approval again, so they can try again for their 20 days being ignored in the Commons and Lords libraries. Or winning a debate, if one were triggered. Either way, that's the end point. We all know the King can't get involved. He has to just sign all legislation that Parliament passes, if he wants to keep his head.

So once again, we convene the group. Magenta reports that we're running out of money to pay Kash, who is accepting a fraction of his usual day rate but has bills to pay.

A young lad has a word. He's got a trust fund and wants to piss off his dad. Melons and another porn film-maker agree to split with him. Suzy and Trixie offer to contribute, but Kash doesn't want any potential suggestion he's 'living off immoral earnings'. They buy the drinks, instead.

"Here goes," Kash said. "I hope Nigel keeps his word."

Presumably Nigel does: the next thing I know, there's headlines about 'Court scrutiny of porn censorship proposal'. Or screaming, 'PM fails to ban sick pain porn!!!', depending on which newspaper you read.

There's an initial hearing, to decide on process. John attends. He reports that Kash looks daft in his white wig, but not as daft as the opposing barrister, whose heart clearly isn't in it. But he'll do his job. Nigel, the judge who's the chair of the JCSI committee, decides this is a case with lots of technical points, and doesn't want it swayed by emotions, so there will be a panel of three judges; no jury.

I suppose that's a good thing?

Two months later, the Judicial Review hearing begins. It's in a Parliamentary Committee room. I join Kash and a couple others.

"Why not across the Square?" The Supreme Court is opposite the Houses of Parliament, on the other side of Parliament Square from the river, with Westminster Abbey just across the road.

Kash shrugs. "Trying to keep media interest low, is my guess. And historical reasons. The Law Lords used to use these rooms. It's only been twenty years since the Supreme Court was created, to replace them."

Blink of an eye, in UK legal terms. The Lords became our top court of appeal in 1399, over 600 years ago. We pass from the main lobby into the red-carpeted corridors that demark the Lords' half of the building. The Commons side is mossy green.

I've popped in because, as a civil servant, I have a pass to the Parliamentary buildings, so I can. I'm fascinated to see how this hearing will go.

It's remarkably like when I've sat behind a Minister for a Committee hearing, or for any legislation requiring a 'positive resolution', i.e. a debate.

We're in a large wood-panelled room, some Victorian oil paintings on the walls above the panels, lush crimson-squared carpet, one modern wooden table for the judges to sit behind. The table is highly-polished golden oak, obviously very heavy and expensive. It matches about fifty high-quality wooden chairs, set in three rows, on two sides of the room. A few more chairs on the last side, where our witnesses can sit, a few side tables with tall vases or busts of historical figures. No dock or anything like that. The mullioned windows have diamond-shaped leaded panes, and overlook various roofs and chimneys of the Palace of Westminster, the neo-Gothic building complex which includes the House of Commons, House of Lords, and of course Big Ben, the bell in the world-famous clock tower.

The three judges enter, all done up in wigs and gowns. Kash excuses himself. He didn't want to enter the building all togged up, in case journalists outside took photos. In minutes he returns, purple turban gone and his hair hidden under the creamy-white horsehair wig. He's added the white collar and bands to his shirt and donned his black gown.

It's less of a transformation than John appearing in a suit, the one he usually only wears for funerals or arguing budgets at work. A couple other internet experts are with him. They're all gossiping. The Government barrister shakes Kash's hand. Maybe this will all be quite civilised?

Nigel is the lead judge. He seems familiar, but then, in their costumes, judges do look remarkably alike. He explains the informal procedure. Various experts will get to speak over the week, both sides can ask questions, and, within reason, so can anyone in the room, just put your hand up. There's the sleepy male Government barrister, with a younger woman assistant who's taking this case personally. They're called Thompson and Timpson. Timpson's glare makes clear that Tintin jokes will not be welcome.

The day starts with Thompson quizzing John and the other internet experts. One chap was clearly roped in to support the legislation. John's remarkably polite in his opposing view, but nods when the other guy says it: "This man's a quack." Followed by why.

I head off, but John's view, later, is they were convincing to anyone who had a clue about computing. Whether these judges know anything about anything remains to be seen.

Then I realise why I recognise Nigel; I've been in a meeting with him once, but also he was team captain for a team of judges on Trivia Challenge: The Professionals. His team wiped the floor with their competition, winning the tournament easily. He's possibly the most intelligent man I've ever met.

Of course, even experts can be blinkered.

The next day, Melons and other porn site owners get grilled.

It sounds less positive, though Melons says he got his main point across, that he was insisting on his girls being 18 and sober while certain top-selling newspapers still ran topless 16-year-olds on Page Three, so it's a bit rich of them to now claim the moral high ground.

He rants, "If they're that fussed about long term harm, why aren't they investigating mainstream modelling, where all the girls are on coke and cigarettes to keep their weights down?" I can just hear the lawyers explaining sniffily, 'there are many issues Government is concerned about, but if we could just focus on this one, perhaps, today?'

Kash reports on a short section on forced sex and trafficking -- the Government didn't have much to say about that, having just chucked the words in as part of their 'justification' for a porn ban. That was followed by a long tedious argument about 'human dignity'.

Proving there are as many images of men as women with ball gags or similar didn't dissuade Timpson, the assistant barrister, a woman with a mission. He warns me I may be grilled on that. It's a challenge, right?

The next two days focus on the concept of 'freedom of artistic expression'. I'm following a Twat feed of the case -- what used to be called Twitter -- which provides lots of entertainment. I have to nip to the loos to open some of the images on my non-work phone, just in case someone could see. 'Is this Art?' is a caption. The first image is a woman's arse covered in scattered pink flogger marks and some bruises. Her legs are slightly parted, her body and arms stretched out as if she's loving it. The image could be me -- when younger and slimmer -- but it isn't.

I get a call from Kash. "Jan? Could you honestly say you would happily be that image? Image nine point one?"

"Me? Sure! Looks like my idea of a good Saturday night," I tell him. "I mean, I'd like more bondage and a good seeing-to, after, but that's not really a really hard-core image, is it?"

"I was carefully trying not to ask about all your kinks, but actually, it might be helpful, if you can sound equally blasé and bored about... Help me out here...?" The hard life of a lawyer!

"Nipple clamps? Clamps on pussy lips? Turn people -- e.g. me -- on like anything? Or slashes with a riding crop! Or a pin-wheel? They can lead to a bit of blood. Wasn't that one thing they wanted to outlaw, any potential blood? I mean, I've been known to enjoy a caning..."