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HORSE & HOUND - 12.2.04
I had been teasing the Under Agent for the Castle after the shepherds'
Supper. The UA was a lovely man, whose real job was to see that the
Ducal hunting ran on oiled wheels, but I do not think that the UA
was used to being teased. In the end he reared up like a piece of
fried bread and bellowed: "
Look here, if you don't behave, I'll see you don't get tickets for
the Hunt Ball!" This was a very serious threat indeed. In those
far off days, the Duke (he should have been cloned - he was a truly
great man) and his hounds were the sun around which all us lesser
packs rotated. He did everything in great style and his Hunt Ball
was a 22-carat social occasion. People grovelled and sold their children
to get tickets. So the UA's threat carried a heavy social punch to
anyone - bar me:
I hate Hunt Balls.
For the twenty-five years that I hunted hounds, I used to attend
them out of the stern sense of duty. As soon as I had hung up my
horn, I packed my breeches and red coats away in a trunk along with
my sense of social duty and plenty of mothballs. I then recluded
and retired to my armchair with a book and a pipe. I am a true misanthrope.
During my years of Mastership, the iron had well and truly entered
into my soul (see Book of Common Prayer). I am all for Hunt Balls,
just so as I do not have to attend. So, did I never enjoy them? I
suppose that I did as a young man when I used to set out with my
hopes and acne all a-glow at the thought of some hot totty, but somehow
my hopes were never realised. However there are some hunt Balls that
stick in my memory.
There was a Hunt Ball in the south. It was decided that when the
band stopped for supper, we would have a mock hunt. The very fit
Master of the Beagles in his green tailcoat would make an ideal quarry
and he would be hunted by a pack of bitches of which there seemed
to be an enthusiastic plenty. The time came and we set the 'fox'
away. We gave him plenty of law although the Ladies took some restraining,
and then blew them away. On a screaming scent (Arpege, I suspect)
they ran through the passages and out into the car park where they
nearly rolled him over. They coursed him back into the house and
were snapping at his brush when he went to ground in the Gents. I
was sent in to bolt him and was just in time to see him disappear
through the window and out into the darkness. The Bitches were marking
strong when I came out to explain the situation, but before I could
explain, there was a screech of - "There he is!" Dear Old
Col Pole-Wigley had hunted the Beagles back in the 1940s and still
wore his old green tailcoat. He had been enjoying a quiet bite of
supper with 'The Memsahib' and her sister and they were now heading
for their table, but the Bitches had blood in the eye and all they
saw was a green coat. The Colonel had time to say - "I say,
what…" before he disappeared beneath a screaming worrying
crowd of Harpies, from out of which appeared a stream of garments
starting with his shoes and ending with… well never mind: "Worry!
Worry! Worry!" we all shouted and they did until the extent
of their mistake was laid bare for all to see. We hurried the old
chap into the Gents and reunited him with his clothing - all except
for one coat tail. This mysteriously reappeared next morning, tacked
to the door of the Beagle kennels.
I recall a Hunt Ball at the Dartmoor. My younger brother was staying
with friend nearby and going to the Ball (his first). I was given
firm parental instructions about looking after him. I set out for
the Ball in my pickup and, not wishing to waste scarce time or expensive
petrol (3 shillings a gallon), stopped on the way to pick up a deceased
Blackface tup. In the small hours of the morning, I was having a
restoring glass with the Fancy of the Moment, when a young man came
up and whispered in my ear - my Brother was in the Gents and a 'bit
under the weather'. Under the weather, my eye, he was pallatic and
horizontal. With the help of some stalwart farmers, we bore him,
horizontally, to my pick-up and laid him out in the back. It was
some hours later that I weaved my way home (no breathalyser in those
days) and with my mind much occupied forgot all about the brother.
I found him the next morning, snoring a storm and cuddling the tup.
Hunt Balls? I've been there and done them, Mate.
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