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MAGAZINE - JUNE
"Oh Lord give blessings on the soup, give blessings on the stovies.
Give blessings on all Papes and Jews, all Muslims and Jehovies. Give blessings
on all friends that's here; give blessings on all strangers and if you've
any blessings left - for Christ's sake bless the Rangers." This is
the Grace of the Glasgow Rangers FC. I bring it in because last week I
went to what is known in Glasgow as 'The Auld Firm Derby', which is Rangers
versus Celtic, which is Prods versus Micks, Orangemen versus Fenians in
other words a 'blood match'. The two lots of supporters are kept apart
by rows of Glasgow's Finest - not exactly shrinking violets - and sing
songs at each other. These are not nice sporting songs but are redolent
with ancient bigotry and hatred. One that springs to mind was sung to
the tune of 'she'll be coming round the Mountain'. The opening line, which,
believe me, is all you want to hear was: " Would ye like a chicken
supper, Bobbie Sands?" Are yeezall getting the drift? Tickets for
this match are like gold bars and I had been generously invited by two
friends of the Rangers persuasion and told to wear a collar and tie. I
only wear bow ties and I very hastily bought a Rangers scarf for protective
camouflage. We worked it out that the three of us weighed 66 stone between
us and the seats in the stand were simply not designed for the larger
sort of bum. It was the first football match I have ever attended and
I was expecting an exciting match, something on a par with the 'All Ireland
Hurling Final', which I attended in Dublin, when the pitch ran red with
blood and was littered with broken teeth and bones. In fact it suet pudding
of a game, which Celtic deservedly won 2-1. I slept through the only Rangers'
goal. I have Middle Class friends who rave about Football as 'the Beautiful
Game'. But each to their own, say I and I do not have the advantages of
being Middle Class. Last month I wrote about Tigger, my new GWP rescue
dog. He was 16 months when he came to me - a blank sheet of canine paper,
on which I hastily scribbled 'chickens' and 'sheep'. It was quickly obvious
that drastic remedial methods were required. I had heard of electronic
training collars and regarded them with great suspicion. With great reluctance
I bought one. I can quite see that, like any tool, they can be misused
and this would amount to the misuse of the dog - something I would not
countenance. I am happy to report that it has been a great success, so
I must be getting it right. Tigger now come to call, sits and stays. He
even sits drooling over his bowl until he gets the 'trigger words' - "That'll
do". I am reminded of the huntsman of the Ward Union Staghounds,
whose hounds would stand looking longingly at the trough, whilst he quoted
-"For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful:
Amen!" "Amen!" was the trigger word. But back to Tigger
- sheep and fowl are now ignored, but he has tremendous games with the
Rottweiler Bitch. He is a truly charming dog and one of the finest movers
I have ever seen, flying 5 bar gates with fluid ease. He has a wonderful
nose and an instinctive deer sense. I think and pray that we got him just
in time and if he goes on the way he is going, well, "That'll do!"
And talking about training animals, a hunt horse that kicks hounds is
not likely to remain in office. The new horse allotted to the Second Whipper-in
of the Bogdale kicked a hound. His Lordship was not amused:"Tell
Charley to take that bloody horse back to Manson to-morrow" he said"
and to tell him it's no good!" The Great Mr Manson, horse coper extraordinary
to the Nobility and the Gentry heard Charley's story in silence, then
bade him bring the horse into a big fold yard - "take 'is tack off
and leave him loose." Said Mr Manson and Charley did as instructed.
Mr Manson then opened the doors of two boxes and two enormous sows came
grunting into the light, each with a litter of piglets frisking around
them."Reet we'll go and take a wet." Half an hour later they
returned. The horse was standing rock still in a huge cloud of steam.
The mixed piglets were playing tag in and out of its legs. If the horse
dared so much as move a foot, there would come a deep warning grunt from
the sows:"Reet" said Mr Manson - " you tell His Lordship
if that 'orse ever kicks 'ound again, he can 'ave 'im for nowt."
The horse never kicked again.
CLA MAGAZINE - MAY
I have had the Gypsy's warning or rather the Editor's warning and aren't
I the one to tell youse all that you'd be looking at a Gypsy for a long
time before you thought of our Editor, always supposing that you actually
know what a Gypsy is. I do know because I once got a definition from a
genuine Roma Prince. There are 4 clans of purebred Roma in this country,
but also some in Europe. They are the aristocracy of the Diaspora of a
tribe driven out of N.W. India in the 11th century. My friend is an immensely
dignified and handsome old man and as proud of his bloodlines as any upstart
Norman. There are four clans with whom his family may marry. Anyone who
'marries out' is banished physically and spiritually. Any way he told
me that a Gypsy is a half bred Roma - a Didicoy is a half bred Gypsy and
any other kind of traveller is 'more your problem than mine,' which is
a fine response and very true, because you will never have trouble with
true Roma. Anyway, back to the Editor, who is a lovely man, but is terrified
that some of you might be upset by some of my stories. He shudders and
hangs a clove of garlic round his neck before reading my copy. It is hard
to think of a happening in May, except for the Roe Bucks. Sir John who
makes those lovely programmes with the Fat Lady told me of one of the
many problems of mutual incomprehension that the redoubtable duo have
with the Beeb. They had a new producer - they get through a lot of producers
- who thought it a spiffing idea to film some partridge shooting in May.
At this point I must calm down the Ed, who threw a wobbly over a partridge-shooting
story that I set out for you a month or two back. It was apparently too
near the knuckle for all you sensitive CLs and Business Persons. This
is quite a different story, Dear. Anyway back to the bold Sir John, who
took his pipe out of his mouth just long enough to inform the producer,
crisply, that it was quite impossible to film partridges being shot in
May. What then did partridges do in May asked the hapless Beeb Person?"They
f-k" said the Bold Sir John. Moving swiftly on, or rather back, some
of you may remember the time when the Independent TV companies came into
being. Some of you may indeed have dug into the nursery piggy bank to
buy a slice of the action. A professional TV person of my acquaintance
went to work for one of the smaller companies. He described the Board
to me as consisting of the sort people who spent their spare time shooting
each other's pheasants and killing each other's salmon. They then put
on velvet smoking jackets and invited each other to eat them. Came a summer
board meting to discuss a certain drama series the company might make.
One board member who not only owned a TV set, but also watched it, on
occasion, spoke up and suggested - 'Young What'shisname' for the part.
He was very sound, he explained to the others - sort of chap you might
have to dinner. The Board pondered on this, until my friend spoke up and
said that that would not be possible, as he happened to know that the
man in question was 'shooting at Elstree.' This produced a stunned silence
until at last a member piped up to ask - 'What the hell, the feller could
be shooting at this time of year? What?' - Good question, what? I have
come by a new GWP. I have an old GWP bitch, which I use for stalking,
but age is on her, so Tigger has come to us. He is 16 months old and is
called Tigger because he seems to be made of springs. He moves in 'boings'
- boing! here, boing! there and boing! Out over a 6-foot fence. He is
a rescue dog. His first owner promptly popped his clogs. So back Tigger
went to the breeder. Next he went to a seemingly ideal place where they
had a few chickens and sheep and a much loved cat. Tigger seemed properly
nervous of the sheep, but took great pride in going boing! After the cat.
This he would catch and deliver (unharmed in his soft mouth) to the house.
This was too much for the nervous system of both the cat and the owner.
Tigger went back to the breeder and onto the Rescue books. The Head Ranger
of Grizedale is a great GWP fan and a good friend of mine, thus Tigger
has come to me. His pedigree name is Dexter, but mother had it right after
the dog had boinged into her house and boinged out through the window
- 'That dog is made of springs!' she said. He is a charming dog and a
most beautiful mover. I am sure that he will do the job.
CLA MAGAZINE - APRIL
I gave up shooting some years ago, I decided that I was wounding too
many birds and I did not like that. I suppose that I was a 'good enough'
shot, but not good enough for me. I still stalk, because I know that
I am a steady hand with a rifle. At one time, I used to go to the rugged
West Highlands every year for the stags, but I have a crook knee and
every year the West highlands got more rugged and my knee got crooker.
So I gave up the hill and took to the woods and the secretive Roe. I
enjoy this very much and the pace is just right for the knee. The last
place I stalked in the highlands was Glen Bhollach. The stalker was
a massive monolith, who appeared to be made out of granite. In spite
of this he was the fastest man downhill (outwith a Ghurkha) that I have
ever seen. He had a tiny American wife who was also the local schoolteacher
and a lady with a feisty reputationWe were having the usual dram in
the bothy and somehow the conversation turned to PC. Did Murdo (for
such was the Stalker's name) ever have problems with PC? Murdo's eyes
took on a far away look - Aye he said, whiles he did, but he found that
the butt end of a good thick stick was a fine cure for it. I thought
this highly amusing and was stupid enough to repeat it the following
week in the offices of the Daily Telegraph. My Dears, the ceiling fell
on me!:"Is minic a bhris beal duine a shorn." is a useful
Irish saying that translates more or less as: "it's often a fella's
mouth broke his nose." So I am going to qualify for more punishment,
by saying that shooting is a sport that is in for rough ride politically
if it does not put its house in order. The Dreadlocks have been quietly
building up their store of evidence and as soon as they are rid of hunting
(they hope), they will turn on shooting and rend it limb from limb,
because if ever there was a sport liable to have its nose broke by its
mouth, it is shooting. I remember a TV programme about shooting. There
was this pink and shiny man holding forth to camera about how every
bird that was shot died instantaneously. Behind him landed this bird,
flapping and struggling. In full shot this old man appeared creeping
on hands and knees (followed by the camera) behind the pink and shiny
one to grab the bird and pull it. He then crept away out of sight, if
not of mind. It was only then that the P&S one realised that something
had gone badly wrong and he had better pipe down. For many years, Charles
Balcombe used to set out from his midland home to the little partridge
shoot, in which he had a gun. He used to go in season and out, because
as he explained to his wife, there were always plenty of work to be
done on a shoot and old Charlie was getting on… The wife who cared
only for her bridge afternoon would - "Yes Dear, how nice Dear
and be sure that Mr Hutchinson has something nice." Mr H was a
butcher of renown and Hungerford and an important link in the chain.
He had known 'the Capting' for years and was only too pleased to oblige
with a nice bit of meat in the summer and a nice brace of Partridges
in the season. From there the chain lead on and finished with Charlie
who was neither old, nor male, nor a gamekeeper. She was an actuary.
However she was only to pleased to accommodate the Gentry and the Capting'
was certainly a toff - he always took his big woolly socks off before
the first drive…On the Bad Day, Captain Balcombe was late. He
rang up Hutchinson's. A strange voice answered. It regretted that Mr
Hutchinson had departed this life, but he, Mr Threadgold, had taken
over the business and would be delighted to supply the Gentleman with
anything he wanted. He would be sure and have a nice brace of birds
ready for the Capt to pick up. The Capt running late meant difficulty
in fitting all the drives in, but he was determined not leave out 'Captain's
Bottom' a particularly testing drive. Still smarting nicely he pulled
up in front of the Butchers and there was Mr Threadgold ready at the
door with a carrier bag, which he thrust in the back of the car - the
Gentleman was in a hurry - the birds were all ready - so God speed the
Gentleman. Back home the Capt strode into the kitchen and, as was the
custom, held the bag triumphantly aloft. It was at this point that the
chain began to unravel. There was certainly a brace of partridges in
the bag - lovely birds, plucked and plumped and oven ready in a tray
wrapped in cling film…
CLA MAGAZINE
- MARCH
"Vust er rained
Then er blawed
Then er 'ailed
Then er snawed
Then er comed a shoor of rain
Then er vruz and blawed again."
That is an old Dartmoor
weather rhyme and before some clever clogs sub gets to work on it, it
is written in South Devon dialect, about which your course in Media
Studies taught you "Totus Stuprum", so don't go changing all
the "ers" to '''ers". Er is the Anglo Saxon for it -
right? Sorted. Whatever, it very neatly encapsulates the sort of weather
we are suffering on the Cheviots at the time of writing - The Dear only
knows what it will be doing by the time that you read this. Senior members
will remember that the great storm of 1947, when the hill steadings
were cut off for weeks and the only method of travel was horse and sled.
Damn that bloody sub - a sleigh is an elegant affair made by a coach
maker - a sled was a solid affair of roughly shaped timbers, knocked
up in the back of the barn, which is pretty much what had happened to
Wor Tom's Mama and caused him to appear in this world at the height
of the storm. Wor Tom's Papa, harnessed the old horse to the sled, wrapped
up mother and child securely and set out in the screaming weather to
the nearest out-post of civilisation approachable by doctor and ambulance.
It was Tom who reminded me that that storm did not start until the 28th
of January, which just happens to be today, when it just happens to
be blizzarding. Heretofore, it has been a wet and mild winter with a
lot of rain. As always when there is a lot of rain, the rivers flood
onto the flood plains, which is what the flood plains are there for.
As always the builders who should have known better and the LGOs who
should not have given planning permission in the first place, have filled
the flood plain with desirable, bijou residences and, as always, these
get flooded - having been bought by people who have not read their scriptures.
People sometimes ask me if my house has been flooded, but as it stands
on the 400-foot contour, you would probably hear about it before I did.
We do get snowed up occasionally, but usually we can get out with caution
and a 4X4. We then have a problem with my mother who possesses neither,
but who has a zeal for shopping that passeth all understanding. With
all the rain we have had, the burns are well up and most of the fords
are impassable. Fords are important round here. Let us take a carload
of DEFRA officials wishing to travel from Lower Cokehope to Nether Cokehope
(pronounce with care). They can see the other farm across the river,
but to get to it means 5 miles back to the bridge on the main road and
5 miles back up the other side. A 15 mile trip on a DEFRA exes sheet.
Unless… unless you can cross the ford which would half the distance,
in fact, if not on paper. This very situation arose the other day. The
Ford did look a bit deep, but fortunately it ran beside a footbridge.
On the footbridge was 'local knowledge' in the shape of a small boy
with huge Wellingtons, a snotty nose and a huge collie dog who greeted
any attempt to approach with bared teeth and deep, rumbling growls.
All communication had to be from a distance. The small boy was playing
'Pooh Sticks' and his attention took some "Did he live round there?"
He did "Did he think that the ford was safe to cross?" The
S.B. considered this with furrowed brow and rubbed a generous layer
of mucus across his face. His opinion was that it would be "Arl
reet." The car nosed its way into the stream. It was a good thing
that the bridge was below the ford and thus prevented the car from proceeding
on downstream to become a hazard to shipping somewhere off the Dogger
Bank. It was a very wet and angry party of officials that extracted
itself through the sunshine roof and clambered to safety via the bridge
structure. It is possible that it harboured harsh thoughts about the
Small Boy, who had watched the proceedings with interest; these thoughts
might have included non-PC things such as 'whips and scorpions'. In
reality, the collie's teeth and attitude problem forbade anything except
verbal remonstrance: "Why had the boy told them they could cross
when it was obviously and manifestly too deep?" The S.B. thought
carefully about this: "Why" he said - "the witter arnly
come halfway up wor ducks."
CLA MAGAZINE
- FEB
Much nonsense has been talked about what might replace Foxhunting
in the event that the Parliamentary Jacquerie get their way and abolish
it with malice aforethought. Of course, nothing could or will replace
Foxhunting, but amongst the suggestions that crop up, along with Draghunting
and Paper Chases (I was once telephoned by the New York Times and asked
to define the difference between Foxhunting and Draghunting - I compared
it to the difference between Fornication and Masturbation) and the 'Clean
Boot'. The Clean Boot is where you hunt the unadulterated scent of a
human runner with Blood Houndy type Hounds. I say Blood Houndy type,
because the pure Blood hound is much too soft and inbred to hunt anything
at more than walking pace. There are a few Clean Boot hunts extant in
England and I have followed some of them. In theory they ought to be
able to produce a bit of interesting hound work, with a bit of gallopin'
and jumpin' for the Ladies and Gentlemen. In practice, I can only compare
the sport to watching paint dry. I even had some 'Boot Hounds' myself
once for a short time and the tale to you I'll tell: It was long ago
and far away . There was an old lady who lived in a Forest. She kept
a little pack of Hounds with which she hunted the Fallow Buck. The Forest
and the Deer belonged to her Brother, with whom (you know what families
are) she had a major falling out to the extent that he forbade the hunting
of the Buck. Nothing daunted, the old lady converted her hounds to hunting
the Clean Boot, until the day when she had another major falling out,
as in falling out of the saddle and on to her head. This brought a sad
end to her hunting days. It also brought 7 Boot Hounds to land with
a soft thump on the doorstep of my kennels. They were a motley crew,
being variations on a central bloodhound theme. "Oh we'll have
a bit of fun with them in the summer" I said airily to a friend
"There'll be tears before bedtime." He said We hadn't had
the Boot Hounds for a week when I got a telephone call from a large
landowner, He was having a 21st birthday party for his son and he wanted
something to entertain his guests on the morning after the dance. Could
I bring the Boot Hounds for a lawn meet and a good time would be had
by all? It seemed that the birthday boy ran for Oxford, or something,
and would provide a splendid quarry. It all seemed a very jolly wheeze.
Came the day we arrived at the meet and there were some 30 people on
horses and a lot of people on foot and in Land Rovers and there was
the son of the house in his shorts, doing knees bend and all that sort
of thing. Now, what you do with Clean Booting is, you set the runner
away and give him plenty of law, you then give the Boot Hounds something
of his to smell, as it might be a pair of socks. As soon as the Boot
Hounds saw the socks they went wild with excitement and very soon they
were booming away on the line. With the Clean Boot, the runner chooses
the line. Our runner had set off across the wide open spaces of the
Common. This is a very popular place for picnic parties. Imagine a happy
family party ingesting fish paste sandwiches and chocolate biscuits,
when suddenly a sweating man goes pounding past them. Then comes a deep
howling, towling, noise and suddenly the party is joined by what the
tabloid newspapers subsequently described as the "Hounds of Hell"--
huge black slobbering dogs, who gobbled up all the sandwiches and knocked
poor old Auntie Flo flat on her back, whilst licking everybody's faces.
That was bad enough, but the common was also a very popular place for
courting couples. I do not think that I need to elaborate on some of
the painful scenes that ensued. It got worse. The chase was intercepted
by a party on mountain bikes. This fresh and very strong scent was too
much for the Boot Hounds. They took off after the bikers, who also took
off, peddling like fury, but the faster they went, the faster the Boot
Hounds towled after them. Right into the village they went and there
the bikers "took soil", to use a Stag Hunting phrase, and
rode into the village pond where the Boot Hounds bayed them enthusiastically.
And that was the end of the hunt. The tears followed - well before bed
time. They were very good at hunting Germans.
CLA MAGAZINE
- JANUARY
I quite like January, always provide that the weather is open and hunting
is possible. I also like January because it means a return to normal
after the ghastly and gaseous excesses of Christmas. I hate Christmas.
I had an editor once (not nice Mr Quinn) who accused me of being a 'misanthropic
bastard' - he was not wrong. So "Now the new year reviving old
desires" and old memories - one of which is "The Tale of Henry's
Goat." This all happened long ago and far away when I was fit and
slim and hard as an otter. Matt and I were hacking home from hunting
in the dark, when we saw the lights of Henry's farmhouse in the valley
below. Matt thought 'fruit cake' and I thought 'whisky' and we were
soon hammering on Henry's door. It was a depressed and hang-dog Henry
who came to the door. He was obviously a man with a problem and after
we had put the horses up, we got into the whisky and into the problem.
It was thus: Every year Henry wintered a load of lambs from the Welsh
Mountains, which Mr Evans lived on top of, him therefore being known
as 'Evans Above'. The lambs had arrived that very day, plus - "just
one more little thing you could do for me." It seemed that there
was a 'Good Lifer' over the hill who had bought a billy goat off Mr
Evans, but the Evans lorry would never penetrate the good living track,
so - "I'll just drop him off with you, see, and you can run him
over the hill for me, isn't it. He's like a lamb, see" and sure
enough the billy was being lead off the lorry by Mr Evan's latest 'niece'
- "quiet as a lamb, see. Thing is a woman can do anything with
him, but he 'ates men!" with which Mr Evans let out the clutch
and was gone, leaving the problem with its sweeping horns and baleful
yellow eye glaring over the side of the pen. The problem was compounded
by Mrs Henry who was having nothing to do with any old goat (including
Henry) and had left in high dudgeon and a motor car to stay with her
mother until the farm was a goat free zone. "Well I don't suppose
the bugger's that bad," said Matt - "let's I have a look at
'ee… on t'other hand" he said, after he had come out of the
pen in a fair imitation of a ballistic missile - "p'raps the bugger
is." The council of war that followed put a lot of whisky to good
account. It was agreed that to get the goat away and Mrs Henry back
all we needed was a sporting woman, which, as Matt said - 'is a damned
scarce article.' "Mind, " said Henry - "it don't have
to be an actual female woman - it just has to look like one. Now my
wife's a big girl, I reckons that if one of us…" "One
of us that was slimmer than t'other two…" said Matt "And
prettier…" said Henry "In a dress…" said
Matt "Not on your bloody life!" said I. Which is why I found
myself struggling into Mrs Henry's best ball gown, with my spurs doing
the fabric no good at all. "I'm buggered if I fancy him."
Said Matt, but the goat did and followed me without protest up into
the back of Henry's van, where I hopped over into the front seat with
a nasty tearing noise. By liberal use of a tyre lever, I was able to
stop it following me and it settled down to munch the lace collar. One
o'clock in the morning is a boring time for a lonely traffic policeman
and a weaving van is the answer to his prayer. Our van was weaving because
I was becoming more vigorous with the tyre leaver and the caprine halitosis
level was approaching critical. I don't know what the copper was expecting
as he adjusted his cap and poked his head through the van window, but
I bet that a moustached transvestite wedged between two farmers and
waving a tyre lever was not one of them - nor was the appalling smell
- nor was the moment when a dreadful horned and barbated head with breath
from the Pit suddenly leaned forward out of the back of the van, removed
his hat and began to munch it. It was all too much. He had been hoping
for a collar, but the thought of parading us in the Sergeant's nice
clean station, the paper work and, worst of all what the Canteen would
make of it, was just too much. He stepped back and waved us on. I retrieved
the remains of his hat and Henry passed it to him: "Happy New Year,
Officer" he said and the policeman said: "Just bugger off!"
And a very Happy New Year to all of you.
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