Gone to the dogs...
It's been difficult to avoid any mention of the fox hunting furore over the last few days, since the law came into effect on Friday.
And more so if you planned to visit Melton Mowbray on Saturday to run a few errands as I did. Does anyone run errands any more, or is it just me transported back to the time of Topper, Dandy and The Beano?
Earlier subscribers will have noticed my view on all this in previous posts.
As if being caught up in the midst of the world record wax jacket wearing attempt wasn't enough, it's also been plastered all over the news this weekend - they've even had news helicopters following dogs and horses across fields.
That's not news. Beckham and his new offspring: now that's news!
I thought we'd done with all this. I thought this tiresome debate was all over. I thought common sense and democracy had prevailed. But no - it seems not. The landed gentry and their hired inbred oafs who have been used to getting their own way in this country for the last few centuries are back - and this time they've got, err, err, Wellies and red trousers?.
But watching it on TV news has given me other insights into it - firstly the very characteristically named Lord Farqhuar was interviewed. Seriously now, I thought people with names like this had been beaten over the head and run out of the country by Cromwell and his mates. A more compelling case for abolishing the House of Lords you could not find.
They couldn't have picked a person whose name is more indicative of the type of people that follow this ancient tradition, i.e, ancient traditionalists. They surely only interviewed him for the benefit of the parents of council estate scallies in Merseyside to point and stare at on Saturday evening TV and thank their lucky stars that their kids are out joyriding.
Secondly, it showed a hunt in action. Or more specifically, it showed a couple of hired hands with a couple of shovels digging 3 feet into the ground where a fox had taken cover after outwitting a couple of score of huntsmen on horses and a pack of rabid dogs.
It seemed at first that this fox had 'won' this round of the sporting contest.
'Dash and blast that rascal' you could almost hear Lord Farqhuar say as he lit another cigar with a £50 note.
Think again.
Old Foxy didn't bargain on Ug and Pug. With their shovels. And a pistol.
They dug down to where the heroic fox had taken cover, and shot it in the head. A more humane way of killing vermin, this may be argued.
But if this barbarism were a sport, as many of these cavemen suggest, then a typically sporting reaction to the setback of being outwitted by the clever fox would surely be to shrug ones shoulders, put the situation down to good old British bad luck, pay respect to the deserving old adversary who has surely deserved a second chance, and go off home and flog a servant or two, before returning the following day for Round 2.
But no, after being dragged from its bolt hole and shot, the fox is then held above head height whilst the hounds yap themselves into a frenzy before 2 more amazing things happen.
Before I go into them I must say that I've actually got to the point where nothing about this sorry saga surprises me anymore, but the more I do see the more I just don't think that these people are actually from this planet.
Back to old foxy who is then thrown to the dogs to be ripped apart, not because he's still showing signs of life - not that he would after a bullet to the head and not because he's actually going to be eaten by them. It's purely for the benefit of him being ripped apart.
But whilst this happens, and I am honestly not making this up, a man who I believe to be the Master of the Hunt arrives and plays a little weird tune on his bugle whilst walking around the edge of this ripping frenzy - it's all he can do to resist performing a little court jester jig.
I'm sure any camera cutting away to the hunt followers would show them writhing on the ground in perverse sexual ecstasy, whipped into a trance by the mesmerising bugle. It was before the watershed though - maybe the unedited version was on later.
Absolutely mind numbing. And remember - we are led to believe that we are witnessing a sport. No wonder they react to it being filmed.
On the subject of being filmed - the pathetic, blithering, pacifistic, limp wristed anti-hunt sabateurs don't escape either. Have you ever seen a more wimpish selection of human beings?
You know the people who were picked last for all the playground sports teams? Well they all became hunt sabateurs. Blunt secateurs would be a more apt description, only less useful.
Dressed in army fatigues and black balaclavas. For gods sake, show your face. If you believe in something then have the courage of your convictions and stand shoulder to shoulder and look your enemy straight in the eye.
"No, I'm a pacifist" came the cry after one of them was 'offered out' by one of the web footed oafs.
Sod pacifism, give him a smack round the head with the first thing that comes to hand.
You'll feel a lot better for it I can tell you.
And eat some meat too.
And more so if you planned to visit Melton Mowbray on Saturday to run a few errands as I did. Does anyone run errands any more, or is it just me transported back to the time of Topper, Dandy and The Beano?
Earlier subscribers will have noticed my view on all this in previous posts.
As if being caught up in the midst of the world record wax jacket wearing attempt wasn't enough, it's also been plastered all over the news this weekend - they've even had news helicopters following dogs and horses across fields.
That's not news. Beckham and his new offspring: now that's news!
I thought we'd done with all this. I thought this tiresome debate was all over. I thought common sense and democracy had prevailed. But no - it seems not. The landed gentry and their hired inbred oafs who have been used to getting their own way in this country for the last few centuries are back - and this time they've got, err, err, Wellies and red trousers?.
But watching it on TV news has given me other insights into it - firstly the very characteristically named Lord Farqhuar was interviewed. Seriously now, I thought people with names like this had been beaten over the head and run out of the country by Cromwell and his mates. A more compelling case for abolishing the House of Lords you could not find.
They couldn't have picked a person whose name is more indicative of the type of people that follow this ancient tradition, i.e, ancient traditionalists. They surely only interviewed him for the benefit of the parents of council estate scallies in Merseyside to point and stare at on Saturday evening TV and thank their lucky stars that their kids are out joyriding.
Secondly, it showed a hunt in action. Or more specifically, it showed a couple of hired hands with a couple of shovels digging 3 feet into the ground where a fox had taken cover after outwitting a couple of score of huntsmen on horses and a pack of rabid dogs.
It seemed at first that this fox had 'won' this round of the sporting contest.
'Dash and blast that rascal' you could almost hear Lord Farqhuar say as he lit another cigar with a £50 note.
Think again.
Old Foxy didn't bargain on Ug and Pug. With their shovels. And a pistol.
They dug down to where the heroic fox had taken cover, and shot it in the head. A more humane way of killing vermin, this may be argued.
But if this barbarism were a sport, as many of these cavemen suggest, then a typically sporting reaction to the setback of being outwitted by the clever fox would surely be to shrug ones shoulders, put the situation down to good old British bad luck, pay respect to the deserving old adversary who has surely deserved a second chance, and go off home and flog a servant or two, before returning the following day for Round 2.
But no, after being dragged from its bolt hole and shot, the fox is then held above head height whilst the hounds yap themselves into a frenzy before 2 more amazing things happen.
Before I go into them I must say that I've actually got to the point where nothing about this sorry saga surprises me anymore, but the more I do see the more I just don't think that these people are actually from this planet.
Back to old foxy who is then thrown to the dogs to be ripped apart, not because he's still showing signs of life - not that he would after a bullet to the head and not because he's actually going to be eaten by them. It's purely for the benefit of him being ripped apart.
But whilst this happens, and I am honestly not making this up, a man who I believe to be the Master of the Hunt arrives and plays a little weird tune on his bugle whilst walking around the edge of this ripping frenzy - it's all he can do to resist performing a little court jester jig.
I'm sure any camera cutting away to the hunt followers would show them writhing on the ground in perverse sexual ecstasy, whipped into a trance by the mesmerising bugle. It was before the watershed though - maybe the unedited version was on later.
Absolutely mind numbing. And remember - we are led to believe that we are witnessing a sport. No wonder they react to it being filmed.
On the subject of being filmed - the pathetic, blithering, pacifistic, limp wristed anti-hunt sabateurs don't escape either. Have you ever seen a more wimpish selection of human beings?
You know the people who were picked last for all the playground sports teams? Well they all became hunt sabateurs. Blunt secateurs would be a more apt description, only less useful.
Dressed in army fatigues and black balaclavas. For gods sake, show your face. If you believe in something then have the courage of your convictions and stand shoulder to shoulder and look your enemy straight in the eye.
"No, I'm a pacifist" came the cry after one of them was 'offered out' by one of the web footed oafs.
Sod pacifism, give him a smack round the head with the first thing that comes to hand.
You'll feel a lot better for it I can tell you.
And eat some meat too.
