Will overuled by judge
Discussion
Timmy40 said:
Breadvan72 said:
La Liga said:
hornetrider said:
TEKNOPUG said:
The daughter eloped with the mother's then partner.
Oh, I missed that bit 
AyBee said:
hornetrider said:
TEKNOPUG said:
The daughter eloped with the mother's then partner.
Oh, I missed that bit The decision seems reasonable to me, the mother is dead so her feelings can't be hurt by the decision, I guess the only people who might be a bit pissed off are the charities who will now receive a little less.
hornetrider said:
Hang on, Tekno is a Totnem supporter, they don't tell porkies or make stuff up.
Do they?
I am a Tottingham too, and I never tell fibz*, but I do live a in strange world of fantasy and delusion, one of my bizarre delusions being that Spurs have a clue how to play football. Does that help? Do they?
* Except for actual cash money, natch. Hey, a girl must have cab fare.
CoolHands said:
I haven't read the CA decision (!) as I won't understand it.
They are usually readable by humans and understandable too. While I haven't read this one, generally the judge(s) will set out the details of the case, the relevant staute and previous cases, then the reasoning they have used based on these to reach their judgement.No need to be BV72 to understand it, but they do tend to need a bit of concentration to follow.
I am disappointed that the names of the parties in this case aren't both Jarndyce.
rb5er said:
Timmy40 said:
Breadvan72 said:
La Liga said:
hornetrider said:
TEKNOPUG said:
The daughter eloped with the mother's then partner.
Oh, I missed that bit This reminds me of what is possibly the greatest opening passage in any English novel. From Bleak House, by Charles Dickens, a stunningly brilliant book that helped to trigger significant legal reform in the 1870s.
In Chancery
London. Michaelmas term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting in Lincoln's Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. As much mud in the streets as if the waters had but newly retired from the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill. Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snowflakes—gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun. Dogs, undistinguishable in mire. Horses, scarcely better; splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers, jostling one another's umbrellas in a general infection of ill temper, and losing their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke (if this day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating at compound interest.
Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little 'prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon and hanging in the misty clouds.
Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, much as the sun may, from the spongey fields, be seen to loom by husbandman and ploughboy. Most of the shops lighted two hours before their time—as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggard and unwilling look.
The raw afternoon is rawest, and the dense fog is densest, and the muddy streets are muddiest near that leaden-headed old obstruction, appropriate ornament for the threshold of a leaden-headed old corporation, Temple Bar. And hard by Temple Bar, in Lincoln's Inn Hall, at the very heart of the fog, sits the Lord High Chancellor in his High Court of Chancery.
Never can there come fog too thick, never can there come mud and mire too deep, to assort with the groping and floundering condition which this High Court of Chancery, most pestilent of hoary sinners, holds this day in the sight of heaven and earth.
On such an afternoon, if ever, the Lord High Chancellor ought to be sitting here—as here he is—with a foggy glory round his head, softly fenced in with crimson cloth and curtains, addressed by a large advocate with great whiskers, a little voice, and an interminable brief, and outwardly directing his contemplation to the lantern in the roof, where he can see nothing but fog. On such an afternoon some score of members of the High Court of Chancery bar ought to be—as here they are—mistily engaged in one of the ten thousand stages of an endless cause, tripping one another up on slippery precedents, groping knee-deep in technicalities, running their goat-hair and horsehair warded heads against walls of words and making a pretence of equity with serious faces, as players might. On such an afternoon the various solicitors in the cause, some two or three of whom have inherited it from their fathers, who made a fortune by it, ought to be—as are they not?—ranged in a line, in a long matted well (but you might look in vain for truth at the bottom of it) between the registrar's red table and the silk gowns, with bills, cross-bills, answers, rejoinders, injunctions, affidavits, issues, references to masters, masters' reports, mountains of costly nonsense, piled before them. Well may the court be dim, with wasting candles here and there; well may the fog hang heavy in it, as if it would never get out; well may the stained-glass windows lose their colour and admit no light of day into the place; well may the uninitiated from the streets, who peep in through the glass panes in the door, be deterred from entrance by its owlish aspect and by the drawl, languidly echoing to the roof from the padded dais where the Lord High Chancellor looks into the lantern that has no light in it and where the attendant wigs are all stuck in a fog-bank! This is the Court of Chancery, which has its decaying houses and its blighted lands in every shire, which has its worn-out lunatic in every madhouse and its dead in every churchyard, which has its ruined suitor with his slipshod heels and threadbare dress borrowing and begging through the round of every man's acquaintance, which gives to monied might the means abundantly of wearying out the right, which so exhausts finances, patience, courage, hope, so overthrows the brain and breaks the heart, that there is not an honourable man among its practitioners who would not give—who does not often give—the warning, "Suffer any wrong that can be done you rather than come here!"
...
Jarndyce and Jarndyce drones on. This scarecrow of a suit has, in course of time, become so complicated that no man alive knows what it means. The parties to it understand it least, but it has been observed that no two Chancery lawyers can talk about it for five minutes without coming to a total disagreement as to all the premises. Innumerable children have been born into the cause; innumerable young people have married into it; innumerable old people have died out of it. Scores of persons have deliriously found themselves made parties in Jarndyce and Jarndyce without knowing how or why; whole families have inherited legendary hatreds with the suit. The little plaintiff or defendant who was promised a new rocking-horse when Jarndyce and Jarndyce should be settled has grown up, possessed himself of a real horse, and trotted away into the other world. Fair wards of court have faded into mothers and grandmothers; a long procession of Chancellors has come in and gone out; the legion of bills in the suit have been transformed into mere bills of mortality; there are not three Jarndyces left upon the earth perhaps since old Tom Jarndyce in despair blew his brains out at a coffee-house in Chancery Lane; but Jarndyce and Jarndyce still drags its dreary length before the court, perennially hopeless.
In Chancery
London. Michaelmas term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting in Lincoln's Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. As much mud in the streets as if the waters had but newly retired from the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill. Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snowflakes—gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun. Dogs, undistinguishable in mire. Horses, scarcely better; splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers, jostling one another's umbrellas in a general infection of ill temper, and losing their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke (if this day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating at compound interest.
Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little 'prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon and hanging in the misty clouds.
Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, much as the sun may, from the spongey fields, be seen to loom by husbandman and ploughboy. Most of the shops lighted two hours before their time—as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggard and unwilling look.
The raw afternoon is rawest, and the dense fog is densest, and the muddy streets are muddiest near that leaden-headed old obstruction, appropriate ornament for the threshold of a leaden-headed old corporation, Temple Bar. And hard by Temple Bar, in Lincoln's Inn Hall, at the very heart of the fog, sits the Lord High Chancellor in his High Court of Chancery.
Never can there come fog too thick, never can there come mud and mire too deep, to assort with the groping and floundering condition which this High Court of Chancery, most pestilent of hoary sinners, holds this day in the sight of heaven and earth.
On such an afternoon, if ever, the Lord High Chancellor ought to be sitting here—as here he is—with a foggy glory round his head, softly fenced in with crimson cloth and curtains, addressed by a large advocate with great whiskers, a little voice, and an interminable brief, and outwardly directing his contemplation to the lantern in the roof, where he can see nothing but fog. On such an afternoon some score of members of the High Court of Chancery bar ought to be—as here they are—mistily engaged in one of the ten thousand stages of an endless cause, tripping one another up on slippery precedents, groping knee-deep in technicalities, running their goat-hair and horsehair warded heads against walls of words and making a pretence of equity with serious faces, as players might. On such an afternoon the various solicitors in the cause, some two or three of whom have inherited it from their fathers, who made a fortune by it, ought to be—as are they not?—ranged in a line, in a long matted well (but you might look in vain for truth at the bottom of it) between the registrar's red table and the silk gowns, with bills, cross-bills, answers, rejoinders, injunctions, affidavits, issues, references to masters, masters' reports, mountains of costly nonsense, piled before them. Well may the court be dim, with wasting candles here and there; well may the fog hang heavy in it, as if it would never get out; well may the stained-glass windows lose their colour and admit no light of day into the place; well may the uninitiated from the streets, who peep in through the glass panes in the door, be deterred from entrance by its owlish aspect and by the drawl, languidly echoing to the roof from the padded dais where the Lord High Chancellor looks into the lantern that has no light in it and where the attendant wigs are all stuck in a fog-bank! This is the Court of Chancery, which has its decaying houses and its blighted lands in every shire, which has its worn-out lunatic in every madhouse and its dead in every churchyard, which has its ruined suitor with his slipshod heels and threadbare dress borrowing and begging through the round of every man's acquaintance, which gives to monied might the means abundantly of wearying out the right, which so exhausts finances, patience, courage, hope, so overthrows the brain and breaks the heart, that there is not an honourable man among its practitioners who would not give—who does not often give—the warning, "Suffer any wrong that can be done you rather than come here!"
...
Jarndyce and Jarndyce drones on. This scarecrow of a suit has, in course of time, become so complicated that no man alive knows what it means. The parties to it understand it least, but it has been observed that no two Chancery lawyers can talk about it for five minutes without coming to a total disagreement as to all the premises. Innumerable children have been born into the cause; innumerable young people have married into it; innumerable old people have died out of it. Scores of persons have deliriously found themselves made parties in Jarndyce and Jarndyce without knowing how or why; whole families have inherited legendary hatreds with the suit. The little plaintiff or defendant who was promised a new rocking-horse when Jarndyce and Jarndyce should be settled has grown up, possessed himself of a real horse, and trotted away into the other world. Fair wards of court have faded into mothers and grandmothers; a long procession of Chancellors has come in and gone out; the legion of bills in the suit have been transformed into mere bills of mortality; there are not three Jarndyces left upon the earth perhaps since old Tom Jarndyce in despair blew his brains out at a coffee-house in Chancery Lane; but Jarndyce and Jarndyce still drags its dreary length before the court, perennially hopeless.
TEKNOPUG said:
The daughter eloped with the mother's then partner. They hadn't spoken for 26 years afterwards. The mother disowned her. The law is an ass.
Is that true or did you make it up? Is it in the judgement?It seemed the daughter did try to reconcile;
Bailii said:
22.The appellant and Mrs Jackson were estranged. There were three attempts at reconciliation, all of which failed. On the last occasion, it failed because Mrs Jackson took offence that the fifth child had been given the name of the appellant's paternal grandmother, whom Mrs Jackson did not like.
She sounds like a nasty old witch.Rovinghawk said:
...
The fact that Parliament has passed a law to interfere with a person's wishes is IMHO wrong.
There are zillions of laws that interfere with a person's wishes. I wish to kill all Audi drivers, but some stupid law says that I can't. I wish to be able to help myself to a Rolex every time that I pass the Rolex shop, but again, some PC Nanny State idiots say that I can't. What a country, eh?The fact that Parliament has passed a law to interfere with a person's wishes is IMHO wrong.
Well I've had a look through but I'm still not really seeing it. It appears a child is entitled to reasonable provision (even if that child is now an adult)
- Section 1 of the 1975 Act confers the right on, among others, a child of the deceased to apply for an order under section 2 of the 1975 Act if the will of the deceased or the intestacy rules do not make reasonable provision for her.
- Section 1(2) of the 1975 Act provides that, in the case of a child, "reasonable financial provision" means: such financial provision as it would be reasonable in all the circumstances of the case for the applicant to receive for his maintenance. (emphasis added)
- 12.3. (a) the financial resources and financial needs which the applicant has or is likely to have in the foreseeable future;
- 17. Second, sub-section (6) provides that the court must have regard to a claimant's earning capacity and to any obligations or responsibilities she may have:
- (6) In considering the financial resources of any person for the purposes of this section the court shall take into account his earning capacity and in considering the financial needs of any person for the purposes of this section the court shall take into account his financial obligations and responsibilities.
- 53. I turn to my conclusions on the appellant's needs and resources, bearing in mind all the section 3 factors. There is no evidence that the appellant has any savings. DJ Million found in 2007 that she had a small earning capacity. I do not attach any great value to earning capacity given that the finding was seven years ago, the appellant has no qualifications or recent working experience apart from helping Mr Ilott with book-keeping and she lives in a relatively remote village. If anything her financial position in that regard must be worse now than it was in 2007.
Judges get things wrong sometimes (which is why we have appeal systems), but they tend in my experience to be right more often than they're wrong. Those who wish to improve on the quality of decision making have only to obtain a suitable legal qualification, practise or (in some cases) teach law for a good few years, and then apply through the fairly (as in very) rigorous and exacting appointments system for a role in the judiciary. I wouldn't do it myself - far too dull, not enough pay, and too many people sniping from the sidelines at everything you do.
Or, hey, we could elect Judges from a selection of random punters. After all, we elect politicians, and they are all super bright, hard working, honest, efficient, incorruptible, etc, aren't they? WCPGW? They elect Judges in some States in the US (not at Federal level), and we all know how perfect the legal system is there, eh?
Breadvan72 said:
There are zillions of laws that interfere with a person's wishes. I wish to kill all Audi drivers, but some stupid law says that I can't. I wish to be able to help myself to a Rolex every time that I pass the Rolex shop, but again, some PC Nanny State idiots say that I can't. What a country, eh?
Is that what clevererer people than me call a strawman? Gassing Station | News, Politics & Economics | Top of Page | What's New | My Stuff