The Barrister Bismarcks, Irn-Bru and the Rule of Law — A Satire

Two failed barristers. One delusion. Absolute legal mayhem.

On a bitter Tuesday morning, as frost clung to the steps of Glasgow Sheriff Court, the Barrister Bismarcks stormed into public life. Undaunted, overdressed and utterly deranged.

Until that moment, Fortescue & Montford LLP operated from a single room at the back of a vape shop in Kilmarnock, wedged between the flavoured liquid storeroom and the staff microwave. The firm specialised in everything from road traffic offences to corporate mergers and acquisitions.

The brass plaque on the door needed polishing and the restored captain’s desk, replete with a banker’s lamp, was picked up from Gumtree, sold by an antique shop posing as an individual seller. The solid steel, fireproof filing cabinet was from an industrial estate unit clear-out in Bridgeton. But within the firm’s modest and cramped confines, two lawyers dreamed of greatness. And vengeance.

Reginald Augustus Fortescue LLB (failed to obtain pupillage) had once described himself on LinkedIn as “a statesman of jurisprudential warfare”. His partner, Frederick Bertram Montford LLB (called to Lincoln’s Inn but never briefed), was known to bring a monocle (non-prescription) to client meetings and refer to the courts as “the front line”.

The trouble started with a fee note containing a £38 line item described as:

“Travelling from chambers to court. In leather shoes. Mileage, not emotions, charged.”

The client, a mousey 60-year-old named Betty, had emailed Montford, who was the client relations partner, after receiving a fee note which included a travel charge for Fortescue’s “arduous journey to Kilmarnock Sheriff Court”, a total of 0.4 miles. Fortescue had allegedly detailed this as “strategic deployment across hostile terrain”, rounded up to a full tank of petrol, and described this in his fee note as “in line with NATO standards”.

Wee Betty politely queried the charge with the subject line “bit of feedback” and containing the text, “I think it’s a bit much, that’s all”. What followed was anything but polite.

Rather than respond with a clarification or apology, the two procurators, wounded, grandiose and terminally unhinged, prepared their retaliation. This was a desecration of justice and petrol alike. Symbolism demands scale and Kilmarnock lacked the gravitas for a proper insurrection.

By the next morning, Glasgow’s legal fraternity paused mid sip of their Greggs lattes. Something peculiar was stirring outside the sheriff court.

Two empty Irn-Bru crates had been stacked like podiums at the steps of the court. Atop them stood Fortescue and Montford in traditional North European legal attire. They wore pickelhaube helmets and polished boots, and were draped in black frock coats with two non-lethal sabres and epaulettes. Fortescue held a cane with a lion’s head. Montford, behind dark glasses, smoked a ceremonial pipe as if he were about to address the crowds at the Siege of Metz.

A handmade banner fluttered above them:

“FORTESCUE & MONTFORD LLP. THE IRON CHANCELLORS OF THE LAW”

Dozens gathered, unsure if this was performance art or psychosis. Then came the press.

BBC Scotland had received a cryptic media release the night before. Sky News too. So had (accidentally) the Domino’s Pizza corporate PR team, who posted on X: “We cannot comment on ongoing legal matters, but we do deliver to courts.”

At 10am sharp, Fortescue cleared his throat into a microphone wired to a speaker borrowed from a busker on Buchanan Street in exchange for 20 minutes pro bono legal advice.

Cameras clicked, phones were raised.

“We come before you today not as mere lawyers,” he began, “but as defenders of the constitutional order, as jurists under siege, as victims of a most dishonourable grievance.”

He continued. “We do not seek war, but nor shall we grovel before tyranny of the bean counters. Today, it’s mileage. Tomorrow it could be a two-hour consultation dismissed as a ‘chat’. A precedent from 1837 called ‘irrelevant’. We are drawing a line in the legal sand!”

Montford stepped forward, unrolling a scroll. “The £38 charge in question was not only just, but noble. It was the logistical manifestation of our commitment to the Rule of Law.”

A BBC Scotland journalist, slightly shivering from the cold, cautiously enquired if they were threatening military action against the complainant.

“We are mobilising dignity. We are considering a strategic legal response. A motion the size of a Challenger 2 tank,” barked Fortescue.

Montford narrowed his eyes beneath his dark glasses and chipped in: “Let history record this. If correspondence must be launched, we are prepared to escalate to cc’d emails without remorse. Our email signatures remain locked and loaded.”

At this point, the sheriff clerk inside the court building could be heard muttering “what in God’s name?” while a court officer begins filming discreetly on her phone. A court security officer quietly radios for backup.

A Sky News journalist asked whether dressing as Otto von Bismarck might be seen as disproportionate.

Montford, while holding a printout of the disputed fee note, responded: “When the trenches are this deep, all responses are proportionate. Bismarck unified Germany on a lesser budget than what we spend on our annual CPD. We will unify the Scottish civil procedure rules. Through force if necessary.”

Fortescue added: “We are acting as Ministers of Justice in Exile. We shall not stand down until that £38 is recognised as a sacred, inviolable holy writ of professional dignity!”

By 11am, the sheriff principal had issued a practice note stating she was “aware of a disturbance outside the court involving individuals dressed as 19th-century German officers. The dignity of the court remains intact and court business is proceeding as normal.”

By 12pm, the court’s security, accompanied by police officers, had politely asked the pair to dismount their crates. Fortescue insisted it was a “lawful assembly under Article 22 of the European Convention” and flashed his Law Society ID card with the gravitas of a field marshal. Montford pulled out a pocket version of the Swiss Penal Code and a miniature portrait of Hammurabi and threw both items skyward while shouting “Lex talionis!” The crowd applauded and the police sighed.

But then came the fall.

Fortescue, attempting to descend with dignity, caught the toe of his polished boot in the epaulette of his own frock coat. As he lost balance, his sabre swung forward and struck him lightly in the shins, causing him to flail backwards off the Irn-Bru crate, clutching a copy of Macphail’s Sheriff Court Practice.

Montford cried, “We are sentinels of jurisprudential honour who have been flung beneath the bureaucratic chariot of modern mediocrity!”

The next morning’s headlines were merciless.

“The Barrister Bismarcks Declare War on Client Complaint,” roared the BBC.

“Lawyers Threaten Legal Blitzkrieg Over Mileage Dispute,” grinned the Herald.

“Mein Claim!” shouted The Scottish Sun, in poor taste but high sales.

Memes on TikTok started appearing with haunting edits of Fortescue screaming “this is chargeable!” while Ride of the Valkyries blared in the background.

The name stuck: The Barrister Bismarcks.

For Fortescue & Montford LLP, this was only the beginning.

No-one ever heard from Betty again.

Back at their captain’s desk, Fortescue iced his shins and the Barrister Bismarcks debriefed their tactics over teacakes and Earl Grey.

“One of our most principled responses. History remembers those who stand firm, on an Irn-Bru crate, and speak truth to power. If defending our dignity in full Prussian regalia is wrong, then frankly, we have misunderstood the Regulation of Legal Services (Scotland) Bill,” Montford mused.

“Did you remember to amend the fee note?” Fortescue asked.

“I charged for today’s public address as ‘court preparation’.”

Fortescue looked up and said, “And the Irn-Bru crates?”

“Miscellaneous disbursements.”

Both men nodded in unison.

The phones at Fortescue & Montford LLP have been ringing off the hook ever since. Some calls are from clients. Some from journalists. A few, its rumoured, are from German historians.

To be continued. Maybe.

About the Author

An LLP Insider is a legal professional with years of experience navigating both the gravity and absurdity of legal practice in Scotland. Writing anonymously, the author offers a satirical look at the profession’s rituals and contradictions. The opinions expressed are solely those of the author. The work is entirely fictitious and any resemblance to actual lawyers, cases or firms is purely coincidental. It is intended for entertainment purposes only and it would be deeply unwise to replicate the tactics of Fortescue & Montford LLP.