MY pal was asked what gear he was in when his car left the road. He said a brown corduroy suit and a pair of Hush Puppies. He had been summoned as a witness in a road rage case, and he was in a bit of a rage himself over the time the whole thing was taking.

It was just as well he could relieve the boredom by taking in the action in the adjoining courts, and very instructive it was, too. First up was a veteran pickpocket, whose arms were so long he could even make a living in Aberdeen.

He was fined £100 and his lawyer said: "My client has £75, but if the court would allow him a few minutes in the public gallery..."

Then there was the chap accused of throwing his mother-in-law out the window of his flat in Cambuslang main street.

Asked to explain himself, he said: "I just couldn't stand any more nagging, sir. I just snapped."

"Yes, I understand," said the understanding judge, "but don't you see how dangerous it might have been for anyone passing on the pavement below?"

THIS was not the first time my pal had been in a court; like many of us, he has endured the dreaded jury duty.

He was asked to sit in judgment of a guy accused of stalking a poor lassie for weeks and making her life a misery with obscene calls. She was a big girl - my pal was particularly impressed with exhibits A and B - but he had lunched too well, the court was warm, and he dozed off just as she was giving her evidence. He was dreaming about her, though.

"The defendant is accused of making obscene phone calls. Would you tell the jury precisely what the defendant said."

"I can't do that," the lassie replied. "It was so crude and disgusting. I couldn't possibly repeat these words to any respectable person."

"That's all right," she was told, "just whisper them to the judge."

A compromise was reached. She would write them down. The note was passed to the judge, who read it before it was handed to the prosecution, the defence and, finally, the jury.

My pal was on the end of the back row, snoring gently, and so was the last juror to receive it.

He was awakened with a nudge from the attractive young blonde seated to his right. She passed him the note, he read it, gazed at her with open-mouthed lust, and read it again. He gave her his dirtiest smile, winked, then folded the note and popped it into his top pocket.

The judge intruded on his moment. "Please pass that note to the bailiff," he ordered.

"But your honour," my pal protested, "it's a personal matter."

In the event, the jury couldn't agree on a verdict; not proven, they said.

THE prosecutor was astonished, and asked the jury foreman: "How could you possibly not have convicted this man?"

The foreman replied: "Insanity."

The perplexed prosecutor asked: "All 15 of you?"

There are more than a few people perplexed at Scotland's controversial verdict of not proven - famously dubbed "that bastard verdict" by Sir Walter Scott.

Labour backbencher Michael McMahon is bringing forward a bill to the Scottish Parliament to have it abolished, and he will find plenty of support.

My pal is looking for support from his lawyer.

"Is it true people are suing tobacco companies for causing cancer?"

"Yes, that's true."

"And other people can sue food companies for making them ill?"

"Yes, that also is true. But why are you asking?"

"I want to know if I can sue Tennent's Lager for all the ugly women I've woken up beside."