I’m not sure whether it’s the people themselves that annoy me or what they do for enjoyment that pisses me off the most. They’re pompous; they haven’t got a clue about real life or people, and they couldn’t knock the top off a rice pudding unless they were armed with a 12 bore! I’m taking, of course, about the great British landed gentry and their urge to hunt and kill small animals. Pick something tiny and insignificant and soon their will be a party of ‘fan-nar fan-nars’ (upper class twits), chasing it with a gun – but immaculately dressed.
All I can do is draw from two important life-lessons instilled in me by my parents, from a very early age. “Learn to lose gracefully and pride yourself in a sense of fair play in all circumstances.” Boys and girls, I give you, the foxhunting debate.
Now, according to the upper crust, you and I are classed as bits of rough and dwell in riff-raff circles. Do I give a rat arse, not really; at least I know I’m a decent bloke who would help anyone. And I’d rather be me than think like this…
“I have an enormous amount of wherewithal, I’m immensely well educated and I can do what I want when I want, because I have friends in high places. And anyone below these criteria is cannon fodder.” Yip, that’s how the higher echelons of the ‘Berk’ squad (Berk: cockney rhyming ~ Berkshire hunt) think, and what they pass on to their children.
Obviously I’ve looked at the hunting argument from all sides, not just both sides, because that’s what I do. But, I still find it hard to believe that it’s classed as one, a sport or two, that it’s fair. On team one you have a very naughty fox, and on the other you could have as many as 200 riders, plus some unpaid staff (riff-raff) and 60 to 80 hounds. Now, even as a failed math’s thicky, I can see an imbalance in numbers pretty much straight away!
The argument for ripping foxes apart is: they kill farmer’s animals. Well all right, let the famer shot them. It would be a tad more humane than letting a bunch of unfed dogs set about the animal. Oh no, that would put a halt to the ‘gathering’ wouldn’t it! Alright then, let’s all meet up at the Twatley-Smyth’s hiyse (house) once a week for a game of ‘Maim the beater’!
And as for bring up children to hunt in the same way well, there’s a life’s work for a psychiatrists right there. “Come on Jocasta, we’re going to kill something minuscule and mange-ridden.” “Hoorah, but is it hygienic to daub the blood of my first kill around my chops when it’s still warm mater?” “Oh yes dear, everyone does it, and it didn’t affect me at all, whinny-whinny-snort-snort!”
So, this is largely how the people’s food chain works from the top of the hunt downwards. Your entire bloodline, past and present, were or are Conservatives. You will have lived on the family estate and have an enormous amount of ‘folding’ money, none of which you earned. You are such a Royalist that you fully believe that that’s where your roots lie, and the police wouldn’t dare try to prosecute you because you’re loaded and always tell the truth!
Now, the only issue these pillocks have to worry about is how they can keep up there lifestyle without actually getting their hands dirty. And the first ‘wheeze’ they thought of was to slap a farm on their vast amount of land. They could pump up their already inflated ego by employing a ‘gaggle’ of plebs to run it, and at the end of the year cop most of the cash from the harvest. And not only that, they could charge the riff-raff rent for the privilege of living on their land and order them about as they work their nuts off for 22 hours a day. Brilliant!
Well it’s okay for a while, but then the toffs get bored. What to do – put your name down on the list of hunting venues, get a bit life in the old place what. The master of the hunt and a few friends get a free ride but, everyone below that is charged a fee. What makes me laugh is, even within the snobbery, there’s a hierarchical pecking order – priceless!
Any mounted riders are required (told) to stay at the rearof the field master, and you will be hung, drawn and quartered, and then tortured, if you overtake him. And the charge for this honoured position is between £25 and £70. Those following on foot or by car (sad gits) are informed not to get in the way of the fox, and are charged a ‘cap’ of a £1 or £2, towards the cost of the hunt. Multiply some of these figures by 200 and you’ve got a nice little earner.
It’s been going on for centuries, since the earliest recorded foxhunt in 1534, in Norfork, England. So the toffs have had a good run, until animal rights activist kicked up a stink and wanted the Government to ban it. It was voted on under a Labour administration, when Tony Blair was in charge, and oh my, the Conservatives weren’t a happy bunch of bunnies when the vote went 362 to 154 in favour of an out right ban.
Not content with hunting the adult foxes, these bastards hunt/hunted the cubs too, and what goes generally unreported is that the dogs stray on to country roads and are hit and killed by cars or gain appealing injuries when they become entangled in barbed wire fences. In one case 11 dogs were killed at once, when they were hit by a train!
Safe to say, it’s still one rule for ‘us’ and another for ‘them’ in dear old Blighty. If I cantered down the middle of the road, and held up the traffic because a pack of my dogs had spilled onto it, I’d get arrested! However, don a bright red jacket, wave your hand about like a prat while carrying a brass instrument, and your unbiased Conservative-voting constabulary let you get on with it!
Right, I’m off. I’ve got a frog baiting contest to referee…
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