Juror 247 vs. Jury Service: E.I.F.

Act I

The Summons

~ Interior: Juror 247's flat in Gibraltar. Three weeks ago. A perfectly good Tuesday — 28°C, sun blazing, the Rock glistening. He had a 10am tee time at La Reserva booked. His last good day on earth. ~

Narrator: It arrived on a Tuesday. In Gibraltar. A place so small that the postman knows your name, your mum's name, and your handicap. Nobody has ever received a jury summons on a Friday. That's science. Juror 247 — a man who already believes the world is a burning skip fire but says it while sipping cortado in Sotogrande — now had proof. Hand-delivered to his door within 6.7 square kilometres of paradise.

Michael: (opening the letter, still in his golf polo) Bills... junk... Sotogrande club newsletter — oh, saving that — and... what. is. this.

Michael: "You are hereby summoned to attend for jury service..."
(long pause)
Of course. Of COURSE. Everything is fucked. E.I.F.

Michael: This is how it ends for me. Not with a bang, not with a whimper, but with a letter from the Gibraltar Courts. I live on a rock. A literal rock. In the Mediterranean. I have a membership at Valderrama. I play golf in Sotogrande. I drink cortados that cost more than this envelope. And they STILL found me. You can't hide from the system. Not even in Soto. Especially not on a rock with 34,000 people where everyone knows your handicap and your business.

Narrator: He hadn't done anything wrong. That's not how jury service works. But Juror 247 — a man whose default emotional setting is "funeral" but whose lifestyle setting is "Sotogrande member's lounge" — took it as confirmation that the universe is, in his words, fundamentally broken. Also, in Gibraltar, the jury pool is so small there's a genuine chance he'll know the defendant. Or the judge. Or both. Probably from the golf club.

I could flee to Spain. It's literally right there. I can SEE it from my window. But that's probably illegal. E.I.F.

Act II

The "Preparation"

~ Last night. Juror 247's flat. He cancelled a round at La Reserva for this. The flat looks like the lair of a man writing his last will and testament. ~

Juror 247 spent the entire night before Googling, in the manner of a man preparing for his own execution (when he should have been reviewing his swing):

Exhibit A

"how to get out of jury duty gibraltar without lying"

Exhibit B

"can I say I know the defendant gibraltar everyone knows everyone"

Exhibit C

"has anyone ever died of boredom in a courtroom legally"

Exhibit D

"if I walk to spain during lunch break is that contempt of court"

Michael: What do you even wear to something like this? I can't wear what I normally wear. I normally wear a golf polo and chinos. That says "I play at Sotogrande and I think I'm better than you." Which is true, but apparently not the vibe you want for jury service.

Michael: (holds up a Hawaiian shirt) No. Too hopeful. Too much "things are going to be okay" energy. Things are not going to be okay. E.I.F.

Narrator: He went with a plain blue shirt. He ironed it twice. He's never ironed anything twice — his golf polos go straight from the dryer to the wardrobe. This was the shirt's first ever ironing. Both times. He ironed it like a man pressing his own burial shroud.

Too much

Too sus

The chosen one

E.I.F.

Act III — HAPPENING NOW

The Waiting Room

~ Interior: Gibraltar Supreme Court. RIGHT NOW. TODAY. The waiting room. Also known as Purgatory with vending machines. 28°C and sunny outside. Michael is IN there as you read this, metres from the beach. ~

Narrator: It is 8:47am on the 10th of February 2026 in Gibraltar. The sun is shining. The Mediterranean is glistening. In Sotogrande, his regular fourball is teeing off without him. And Juror 247 has arrived thirteen minutes early to sit in a windowless room because, in his words, "if I'm going to suffer, I might as well get a head start." The walk here took four minutes. Everything in Gibraltar takes four minutes. He is told to sit down and wait. He is still waiting.

Michael: (texting the golf group chat) This is it. This is where I die. Not on the 18th hole. Not with a gin and tonic at the Soto clubhouse. In a beige room with no phone signal. I live on a rock in the sun and I'm going to perish under fluorescent lighting. I can HEAR the sea from here. The lads are playing the back nine without me. E.I.F.

Michael: (to the stranger next to him) So... this is grim, isn't it. We're basically prisoners who haven't done anything. I think I know you actually. Did you go to Bayside?

Stranger: (doesn't remove earbuds)

Michael: Yeah. Yeah, that's the right response honestly. Shut it all out. Save yourself.

~ Three hours pass. Nothing happens. A man coughs. That's the highlight. Michael has been staring at a fire exit sign like it's a religious symbol. Through a crack in the door he can see a monkey on the railing outside. The monkey is free. Michael is not. ~

Michael's E.I.F. Level (LIVE)

Mildly contemplating the void

YOUR NUMBER: 247

Now serving: 12 are you serious

Michael: I've now read every poster in this room. Did you know there are 14 types of antisocial behaviour? I've committed three of them mentally just sitting here. Fourteen seems low. They should add "making someone sit in a room for no reason." That's fifteen.

Michael: The vending machine has been out of order since I got here. It sells Nescafé. NESCAFÉ. I drink single-origin cortados in Sotogrande and they expect me to put coins into a machine that dispenses hot brown sadness. Even if it worked, I wouldn't. That vending machine has looked at the state of the world and said "no. I'm not participating." First sensible thing I've seen all day.

I live on a Mediterranean rock with sunshine 300 days a year and I'm spending today in a room with no windows. A Barbary macaque outside has more freedom than me. Even the monkeys are living better than this. E.I.F.

Narrator: At 11:30am, a court official appears. Michael's heart races. Is this it? Is justice finally calling his name? Is the sweet release of purpose upon him?

Court Official: The Wi-Fi password is "justice4all", no spaces, all lowercase.

Michael: (staring into the void) "Justice4all." The greatest lie ever told, and they've made it a Wi-Fi password. The Wi-Fi at the Sotogrande clubhouse is faster than this. That's not a brag, that's a cry for help. E.I.F.

Act IV

The Lunch "Break"

~ 1:00pm. TODAY. Michael has been released for lunch like a zoo animal on day release. He texts the group chat: "if I don't come back, tell my story." He briefly considers walking to the Spanish border. It's only 10 minutes. ~

Michael: Four pounds ninety-nine. For a sandwich. In GIBRALTAR. I could drive to Sotogrande and have a club sandwich at the terrace with a glass of Albariño for that. Well, not for that. For significantly more. But at least it'd be worth it. Instead I'm eating this sad triangle of bread within sight of the Supreme Court like a man on probation. I'll be on that jury. The sandwich jury. I've got nothing else on.

Michael: You know what this sandwich is? It's a metaphor. Overpriced, underwhelming, and falling apart in your hands. Just like life. Just like everything. At Sotogrande they put toothpicks with little flags in the sandwiches. This one doesn't even have butter. E.I.F.

Narrator: Juror 247 is currently eating his meal deal on a bench outside the court, staring at the Rock of Gibraltar like a man who has seen too much — which, ironically, he hasn't. He hasn't seen anything. He's been in a waiting room for four hours. Across the bay, he can see Spain. He can almost see Sotogrande. He can almost smell the fairways. A Barbary macaque approaches him. It eyes his crisps. Juror 247 lets it happen. He's got nothing left to fight for.

Michael: (on the phone) Yeah Mum, no, they haven't called me yet. No it's not like the films. There's no dramatic music. A monkey just stole my crisps. No, an actual monkey. It's Gibraltar, Mum. Dave sent me a photo from the 7th at Sotogrande. THE 7TH HOLE, MUM. I'm basically just sitting here waiting to die, but with a lanyard on, on a rock, in the sun.

Juror 247's Mum (phone): Did you wear the nice shirt?

Michael: YES MUM. I ironed it. TWICE. For THIS. I could be at the clubhouse in Soto having a cortado and a club sandwich with a little flag in it. Instead I'm watching a monkey eat my crisps outside a court. The monkey is having a better day than me. The monkey doesn't even pay membership fees.

E.I.F.

Act V — The End (Of Michael's Will To Live)

The Grand Finale

~ 3:45pm. TODAY. The fluorescent lights have started to feel personal. Michael has begun writing his memoirs on a napkin. ~

Narrator: It is 3:45pm. Juror 247 has now been here for approximately seven hours and forty-two minutes. One sad sandwich. Three trips to a broken Nescafé machine he refused to use on principle. An existential crisis in a toilet cubicle. He has whispered "E.I.F." to himself eleven times. He has checked the Sotogrande club app four times. Dave posted a scorecard. Dave shot an 82. Juror 247 could've beaten that. A woman moved seats away from him. And then... the words he's been waiting for...

Court Official: Thank you all for your patience. The case has been settled. You are no longer required. You may go home.

~ Silence. The kind of silence that precedes either enlightenment or a breakdown. ~

Michael: ...

Michael: (to no one, to everyone, to God) ...What?

Michael: I sat here for EIGHT HOURS. I ironed a shirt. TWICE. I missed a round at Sotogrande. DAVE shot an 82. I WOULD'VE BEATEN THAT. I looked a stranger in the eye and said "do you come here often" like this was the bloody clubhouse. I ate a sandwich that cost five pounds and didn't even have a little flag in it. And for WHAT? FOR WHAT?!

Michael: (standing up, gathering his things with the energy of a man at his own funeral)
Everything. Is. Fucked.

THE VERDICT

Juror 247 served zero (0) days of jury service.
He sat in a room for seven hours and forty-two minutes.
He was paid £5.71 in expenses.
The sandwich cost £4.99.

Net profit: 72p

Juror 247's faith in humanity: -£∞
Golf rounds missed: 1 (unforgivable)

Narrator: Juror 247 is now walking home in silence. It's a four-minute walk. That's the thing about Gibraltar — you can never dramatically storm off into the distance because you run out of country. He loosens the collar of his twice-ironed shirt and thinks about how he should be at Sotogrande right now, on the terrace, in his good polo, complaining about the greens. A Barbary macaque sits on a wall, watching him. It's the same one that stole his crisps. It has more purpose today than Juror 247 did.

Michael: (to the monkey) Don't look at me like that. You stole my crisps AND my dignity. You get to just... climb away. Up the Rock. Into the sun. Do you know how powerful that is? You don't have a Sotogrande membership to justify. You don't have a handicap to maintain. You could leave right now. I couldn't. I had a lanyard. On a rock. In the Mediterranean. Living the dream.

Michael: (still to the monkey) Everything is fucked, mate. E.I.F. But you already knew that. You steal crisps from strangers outside courthouses. You're living more honestly than anyone in that building.

Narrator: The monkey does not respond. It climbs up a wall and disappears toward the Upper Rock. It has places to be. Unlike Juror 247, who has been in a waiting room since breakfast, missed an 82-beatable round at Sotogrande, and is now emotionally bonding with a protected species on a British Overseas Territory.

Epilogue

The Aftermath

Juror 247 is on his way home right now. It's a four-minute walk — the longest four minutes of his life. He hasn't spoken since the monkey. His phone battery is on 3%. His shirt is untucked. His golf handicap remains unchanged. His soul has crossed the border into Sotogrande without him.

But we all know what's coming. Because everything is fucked. And in three weeks...

"You are hereby summoned..."

E.I.F.

(Everything Is Fucked. Always has been. Always will be.)

Send This to Juror 247 (He's Already Home — It's Gibraltar)

No jurors were harmed in the making of this sketch.
One sandwich was tragically overpriced.
One packet of crisps was stolen by a Barbary macaque.
One shirt was ironed. Twice. For nothing.
One Sotogrande membership went tragically unused.
One man's faith in the system was already dead. Gibraltar just confirmed it.
E.I.F.