Vintage law

History is duty as well as pleasure. We ought to chronicle our own times, so that posterity will know what manner of men we were. The other night, that thought struck me in the context of John Smith. When it comes to his politics, the task can safely be left to historians; there will be plenty of material. But some crucial records are in danger of effacement. I am referring to the John Smith legal archive. John used to delight his friends with stories drawn from his career as a lawyer. There were, apparently, about 35 of them, and it is time that they were collected, before old men forget.

Two follow, both related to drink. In the early 1970s, in a major crime case, John was led by Lionel ­Daiches, a distinguished Scottish silk, the brother of David, the literary critic. Florid of face and orotund of manner, Lionel lived to be 88, a tribute to the preservative power of alcohol. The client, one of Scotland’s most impressive malefactors, was on remand in Glasgow’s Barlinnie jail, with every prospect of remaining there for many, many years. En route for a case con, Lionel and John fortified themselves for the rigours of prison life with a jolly good lunch at the old Malmaison restaurant, one of those pre-privatisation British Rail establishments which were an oenophile’s affordable delight.

At the end of the session, Lionel summed up: think Andrew Cruickshank. ‘Well, my good man, I and my learned junior, Mr John Smith here, have had your case under continuous review, and I may say that we are not wholly gloomy. We do see some positive features. [That the death penalty had been abolished?] Now before we go back to Edinburgh, my learned junior and I, have you any more questions? Have you any further requests?’ ‘Aye, Mr Daiches, before ye go back tae Edinburgh — would ye mind just breathing on me once more?’

Shortly afterwards, John was the sole advocate for a lesser villain.