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NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 26.12.02
It was long ago and far away .There was an old lady who lived in a wood.
She kept a little pack of Hounds with which she hunted the Clean Boot,
which is the unadulterated scent of man. Then one day the old lady
fell 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 at 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 and the runner, with malice
aforethought, ran past every one. Imagine a happy family party ingesting
fish paste sandwiches and chocolate biscuits, relaxed in the sunshine,
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. What happened to the runner? That
too was a sad story. The unfortunate young man had caught a foot in
one of his father's fox snares and had broken his ankle. I hope my
Journal colleague has better luck. And the Boot Hounds, what of them?
A happy ending, I am glad to say. I gave the whole lot to the Weser
Vale Hunt who lived with the Household Cavalry in Germany. They were
very good at hunting Germans. Arl the best to arl of ye.
NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 19.12.02
No prize for guessing what I am writing about this week - the Hunting
Bill. - We knew it was coming, but most of us, including myself have
not yet had time to digest and dissect the component parts, but my belief
is that it will be a stramash. In my experience, the longer Parliamentary
lawyers have to draft a bill, the bigger Horlicks they make of it - this
is the Poole Principle of Buggeration. Should you wish to see a living
breathing example of PPB you only have to look at the attempts of the
Church of England to 'rationalise' the King James Bible and Cranmer's
Book of Common Prayer - a good example of things that have had exactly
the opposite effect to that which was intended. I expect, strongly, that
this will be the fate of the Bugs Bunny Bill (BBB). For a Bill to become
successful Law it must have a good base. Who can forget the remark on
a TV farming programme that - "The secret of a good ley is a nice
firm bottom." No one could argue with that and the problem with
the BBB is that it is built on sand (Matthew V11 vs. 26, 27). There is
no good reason for this Bill. The Bad Reason for it is that Socialists
(Old and New) regard it as the final battle in the Class War - dream
on, little pinkos, you ain't seen nothing yet. Another reason that the
Bill will fail is that it is extremely badly drafted. For starters it
goes against the basic tenet of English Law that a 'defendant is presumed
innocent until proven guilty'. This bill makes the opposite presumption.
As such it would be a gross travesty of English Justice and is more akin
to the Nazi position that the Gestapo would only arrest guilty people.
Well we all know where that led to and reminds me of the story of the
Jew being beaten by a camp guard and asking "Why?" He received
the chilling reply - "Here, there is no Why." It seems to me
that Nulab is taking us to the position where 'there is no Why.' For
instance there is no 'Why' in the outright ban on Deer and Harehunting,
except that Mr Michael claims to have 'incontrovertible evidence' to
justify this ban. Perhaps he has, the problem is that he refuses to reveal
it - 'Here there is no Why'. As far as Foxhunting goes, Michael talks
about a 'balance between cruelty and utility' - weasel words, which have
no meaning. He has not chosen to reveal what he means by 'Cruelty'. My
well-thumbed Chamber's Dictionary defines cruelty as - 'taking pleasure
in suffering'. I know of no Foxhunter to whom this might apply and neither
does he, or if he does, let him name the person, or persons and try his
luck in proving the libel in the Courts. Had he used Prof Burns's famous
phrase of - 'compromising the welfare of the fox'; I would have no hesitation
in pointing him towards Scotland. Under the new Scottish dispensation
many more foxes are being killed than was the case before the Watson
Bill and many more are wounded and escape to die a long and lingering
death from gangrene. These foxes have their welfare seriously compromised
as would never have happened under proper hunting when the fox was either
killed and killed quickly or got away free and clear. As to 'utility'
this is another meaningless and weasel word. It is generally accepted
that farmers regard the local hounds as a useful method of fox control
and wildlife management; otherwise they wouldn't have them on the farm.
It would not be useful for some distant pen pusher to try to make the
decision for them - remember FMD and DEFRA - and shudder. All in all,
I reckon the Bugs Bunny Bill has nothing to do with animal welfare and
everything to do with the nasty Socialist Blood Sport of Social Engineering.
NEWCASTLE JOURNAL 12.12.02
I was very fond of my revolver (Ruger .357). It lived in a gun safe in
my dressing room for easy night time access. I would not have hesitated
to use it as an instrument of self-defence. I even discussed this with
a policeman (of sorts), who agreed with me that if the choice was being
beaten to a pulp by a violent intruder or stating my case in front
of a Jury, then the Jury would be the preferred option. His only other
advice was to make sure the intruder was dead. This advice coincides
absolutely with advice given by the Alabama State Police. There is
a little bar in deepest Alabama run by a 75 year old widow called Mizz
Gracie. If you sit at her bar close to the cash register, you may see
a pipe sticking out of the ceiling, except that it is not a pipe but
the business end of a shotgun. Suppose you are an 'a##hole' intent
on robbing the till - Mizz G pulls a string under the bar and you are
toast. Also under the bar are two big .44 revolvers. Mizz G's eldest
is a State Trooper and he said to her - "Maw, you have to blow
away an a##hole, just make sure the bastard's good and daid, otherwise
he might sue you. Nossir, I don't never have no trouble in here." But
I hear you say, this is England. We have no need for self-defence.
Do we not? I understand that armed robberies in London are running
at about 20 per week. I reckon that we have every right to arm ourselves
for defence of person and property. Ah (what you again?) but we no
longer have that right under the law. Both you and the Law may be wrong
on that point. The 'Bill of Rights' 1689, guarantees the right of citizens
to possess arms for the purpose of self-defence. That right is still
in force as 'statute law' and was recognised under the first Firearms
Act of 1920. It was not until 1946 that the then Labour Government
suggested that 'self defence' might no longer be accepted as a good
reason for possessing a pistol. The final ban on pistols in 1997 was
put forward by the Home Office as a 'matter of policy' and therefore
would appear to have no legal foundation - it simply ignored the 'Bill
of Rights.' As is often the case in these matters, the Government /
Home Office / Police have a hidden agenda. The received wisdom in the
darker 'Corridors of Power' is that by the latter half of this century
there will be a total breakdown in legal and fiscal authority and social
stability in this country. With this situation in mind, Police Forces
are taking every opportunity to add to their armouries. 'The War against
Terrorism' is providing the excuse for more and more policemen to go
armed as a matter of course. This in turn conditions the Public to
become accustomed to the presence of armed coppers on the streets.
If, and when, Law and Order does finally break down, the Government
wants all the bullets to be travelling one way - yours. Think, as they
say, on.
Last week, I had the honour of addressing the Annual Dinner of the Livestock
Auctioneers organised by Hexham and Northern Marts. I had not twigged
that this dinner travels round the country and that I had in fact been
the speaker at three LA dinners in the last 5 years (Northamptonshire,
Kent and now Northumberland). As I only have one speech, I felt that
this was rather hard on the regulars. But they are such a jolly crowd
that no one seemed to mind. After I had pointed out (politely, I hope)
that a single whisky is nobbut a dirty glass, a constant flow of quadruples
passed before me - bless them all for their kind hospitality.
NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 5.12.02
I have done it - something I swore that I would never do - I shot at
a fox. I had attended my first meet in Scotland. It looked just like
any other meet until you saw the number of quads with shotguns strapped
to them. As a designated 'Gunman' for the Border Hunt, I too was festooned
with bandoliers and bundooks - more like Mexican Pete than Willy Poole,
but this was the Socialist Republic of Alba and the law of the land
requires us to go armed and ready. The 'Polis' had already been by
and declared us lawful. There was a report of a fox being sighted entering
a patch of whins 'up the burn'. Hounds were put in and were quickly
on. The fox popped out of the whins. There was fusillade of shots and
the fox popped back in again and into a large hole. The Law says that
the fox should be bolted and shot, but the hole was an active badger
sett and not be disturbed, so we went on to the big wood up the burn.
I unloaded my gun with considerable relief. My next position was overlooking
a huge badger sett on the bank across from the wood. The wood was full
of foxes and hounds nailed one as soon as they went in - fine - "Protection
of Wild Mammals (Scotland) Bill: 1B 'where a person is using a dog
in connection with the despatch of a wild mammal, being a pest species,
with the intention of flushing the wild mammal from cover…in
order that it may be shot or killed by lawful means, that person does
not commit an offence by virtue of the dog killing that wild mammal
in the course of that activity.' Any questions? Well, address them
to the Scottish Parliament. It made this guddle in the first place.
Anyway, Hounds continued 'flushing' with a great cry and I saw this
little fox slip over the wall below me. I hoped it would turn up the
burn, but, no, it was coming straight for me. At 30 yards I slid off
the safety catch and BOOM! The recommended round for shooting a fox
is BB - like a load of ball bearings. It carries quite a kick and I
sat down involuntarily and the fox whisked his brush as he disappeared
down the badger sett. In all, five foxes were killed - one was shot
and the others killed 'in the course of flushing'. One of these had
had a leg broken by a rifle bullet and must have been suffering terribly,
but that, My Dears, is the law of the land and all for the greater
glory of Scotland. I know I wrote about quads last week but things
have moved on, as in Poole cowped again. The hills are as wet as I
have seen them and hounds were sending up spray as they ran and how
they ran - it was real old fashioned hound hunt. By a couple of lucky
turns I was well up for a change. Then we came to this green syke.
I got the front wheels across and then the off hind wheel dropped like
a stone and the quad turned over. I crawled out in time to see the
other quads disappearing over the crest. They might have looked back?
Certainly not! When hounds are running you need all your concentration
forward, watching hounds and plotting your course. Had my radio been
working I could have put out a 'Mayday', but the battery was flat.
I thought I might get behind and lift the quad by standing in the syke.
I sank to my waist and just managed to crawl out and squelch my way
to the farm over the hill. Chris came and pulled me out and I got up
with hounds just as they killed the fox in the North Tyne. The hills
are very wet and so was I. 'Willy's World - 2" - the New Video
is now available. See website 'www.willypoole.com' for stockists.
NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 28.11.02
All I all, I am a great fan of GNER - the trains are clean, fast and pretty
punctual. The staff is clean, polite and efficient. The London trip gives
me time to eat my croissant, smoke my pipe and read the newspaper thoroughly
- a luxury that is denied my at home, because Mrs Poole always pinches it
first and scrumples it into illegibility. Heretofore, it has always been
the pleasant custom of GNER to offer me a complimentary copy of the Daily
Telegraph, which is (a) my newspaper of choice and (b) the one I write for.
Imagine my horror the other morning when the nice girl handed me a copy of
the Guardian: "Come now" I chided the nice girl - "do I look
like the sort of person who would read such a down market, left wing, screed?
I would like a Telegraph, please." It seemed that GNER no longer 'does'
the Telegraph - England's best selling Broadsheet. What can this betoken?
I can only assume that there has been a left wing putsch at the head office
of GNER and that all passengers will soon be required to carry a certificate
of Political Correctness along with their senior Rail Card. Shame on you,
GNER! And talking of shame and PC, many of you will have read in the papers
of the trials and tribulations of my fellow Countryside Campaigner and Telegraph
Columnist, Robin Page. For many years Page was the voice of 'One Man and
His Dog' - a programme that was conceived by a BBC man after a visit to Glanton
Show. The Beeb eventually sacked Page because of his outspoken support for
Field Sports. Page is a fine, tub thumping, orator who says out loud what
a lot of people think, but are too frightened to say. He spoke his mind at
a countryside gathering in Gloucestershire. The next thing he knew he had
the Police hammering on the door of his little Cambridgeshire farmhouse and
throwing him in the slammer for inciting racial hatred and spouting pro-hunting
propaganda. Page found this strange as he has recently suffered 6 break-ins
at his farm and no policeman could be bothered to travel the 4 miles from
Cambridge to investigate any of them. Now, they not only had the darbies
on him and banged him up in a 'faeces encrusted cell', but a
detective was coming all the way from Gloucestershire to interview him. It
gets stranger. Not only did the detective travel 200 miles at the taxpayers'
expense, he apparently had not a single clue as to what Page had actually
said. He was much more concerned with Page being a 'rich farmer' - Page struggles
with 100 acres and few cows, which, incidentally, needed feeding - a fact
that interested the Cambridgeshire Constabulary not one bit. So what was
this hate filled diatribe, which brought the whole majesty of the law tumbling
on poor Robin? I can tell you because I had it straight from the Man himself
and also from the Mail on Sunday, which devoted no less than 3 pages to his
case. His exact words were: "In case any of you are of a fragile disposition
and easily offended, go for a walk round the lake and come back, when I have
finished. If there is a black, vegetarian, asylum seeking, one legged, lesbian,
lorry driver present then you may be offended, because I want the same rights
that you have got already." The Glos Constabulary considers that if
this is what was said then it had 'criminal intent', but it was so uncertain
as to what was said that it has been reduced to advertising in the local
paper for information. I was going to describe this story as 'sad and stupid'
but I think that the Mail on Sunday had the right of it by calling it "astonishing
and sinister" - it has a nasty totalitarian taste to it.
NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 21.11.02
I am a Royalist. Most country people are. One of the reasons for this is
our complete and utter contempt for politicians. We have, more than most,
good reasons for this contempt. The bungling of vital rural issues of
BSE and FMD (soon to be joined in the Hall of Shame by TB) by politicians
of all parties supply these reasons. We feel that rural Britain is ruled
by an urban clique that cares nothing for us and makes no attempt to
'feel our pain' - to use the ghastly 'touchy feely' jargon of the day.
We peasants feel that our values are the proper ones for the nation -
that a man's word should still be his bond and that promises should still
be kept and that a handshake still constitutes a contract. We have seen
these values treated with contempt, by urbans to whom lying and corruption
are accepted as a normal part of doing business and running the affairs
of state. In all this seething stew of vice, the Monarchy has stood firm
as a monument of good old-fashioned values and as sound old-fashioned
country people. Prince Charles, in particular, is admired for supporting
the peasants against the poisonous attacks by New Labour. This firmness
has, of course, earned the Monarchy the hatred of the nest of vipers
that compasses Islingtonian mediocrity and the 'Chattering Classes'.
Anyone who doubts this has only to remember the lip smacking certainty
of the BBC and the gutter press over the forthcoming failure of the Jubilee
(they hoped) and their prediction of a pauper's grave for the late Queen
Mother. The surge of public support for the Monarchy on both occasions,
rocked them back on their haunches, but did not send them away. These
'Cool Britons' retired to their caves to lick their wounds and allow
their collective malice to fester, whilst they waited for their next
chance. This chance seemed to come with the amazing cock-up of the Burrell
Affair. This seemed to have all the ingredients of a brew of hemlock
for the Monarchy and the New Jackals were soon snapping at the Royal
hocks. The Affair had everything - missing jewels, a several years old
private conversation with the Queen, homo sexuality and a chance to raise
as a standard, the wraith of that sad creature, the late Princess Diana
- all lovely stuff, the Jackals thought, as they howled for an Inquiry.
Now they have got an Inquiry and they do not like it. No! No! They cry
- we want an unbiased Public Inquiry set up by the Government. There
is, of course, no such thing. Apart from costing millions of pounds,
all 'Public Inquiries' have one thing in common - the answers are always
thought out before the questions. It is then only a question of handpicking
a Chairman, who will be diligent in following the instructions of his/her
political masters. Such people are all too easy to find. So what will
be the difference with an internal Palace Inquiry? The answer to that
lies in the character of Sir Michael Peat. Whilst his cerebral and intellectual
qualities are unquestioned, it is in his moral character that the crock
of gold reposes. He is a very clever and very tough man. A man who has
been tested and found to be straight as a dye and of bombproof integrity.
In other words he is just the man, the Jackals do not want, as they are
making plain. There is no one on the Government books who could match
his intellectual courage. Added to that, as a former 'Keeper of the Privy
Purse', he has unrivalled knowledge in the workings of the Royal Machine
and did not endear himself to the Palace Establishment, by his modernisation
and rationalisation of that machine. His fearsome and fearless intellectual
honesty will have to have an even harder edge, if he is to restore the
good name of the Monarchy.
NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 14.11.02
A friend of a friend of mine took the fishing on a stretch of a famous
Border river. This involved him in a pile of paper work and no small
expense. No sooner had he completed all the admin, when along came FMD.
The fishing was closed down for the duration and one of the farms that
bordered his stretch of river was 'taken out' and ritually cleansed by
DEFRA. Not only was the farm cleansed but all the chemical gunge and
foul waste occasioned by the cleansing was allowed to seep into the river,
thereby effectively cleansing it of fish. No one seems to know (or if
they do, they are not saying) what the long-term effects of this may
be. DEFRA has maintained a thunderous silence. Any farmer who polluted
a river in this way would be prosecuted and would be likely to receive
swingeing fines and heavy costs. But, it seems, that, in this as in some
many other things, DEFRA considers itself to be above the law, safe in
the knowledge that few people could afford the time or the expense of
challenging it. So there the matter rests and so does our fisherman friend,
who has a river, a rod and no fish. He is not a happy bunny. Journalism
can sometimes be a hard row to hoe, so you can imagine the depth of my
sigh as I packed my case yet again and set of to London for the Bolivar
Centenary Cigar Dinner. Cigars come very hear the top of my list of favourite
vices. I am as one with Kipling: "A woman is only a woman but a
good cigar is a smoke…" Cuban (Havana) cigars are, to my mind,
incomparable. The genuine Havana has a certain, indefinable something
that makes it unique. I have visited Cuba - a country of great beauty
and amazing fertility (the fence posts grow shoots) and utterly charming
people. In spite of this the Cuban Min of Ag is so amazingly incompetent
that much of the land lies waste and the basic diet is rice and beans.
I have visited the tobacco farms, which have usually been run by the
same families for generations. All the cigars are hand rolled by people
of amazing skill, but contrary to popular myth, the rolling is not done
on the thighs of dusky maidens. Cuban maidens are extremely comely and
come in all shades, so, no doubt, some of them do have dusky thighs,
but they do not use them for rolling cigars. The rollers all sit at rows
of wooden desks, where they listen to readings from Government approved
literature. They are highly skilled workers and receive the maximum Cuban
wage of $15 per month - exactly the same rate as El Presidente himself
- or so you are told. The production costs bear no relation to the official
cost of cigars, which in turn bears little comparison to the unofficial
(street) cost - always provided that you pay in $US, which is, of course,
highly illegal. There was nothing illegal about the Bolivar dinner. It
was run by the Cuban Ambassador and Hunters and Frankau, Britain's largest
cigar importers. The dinner was conducted in a pall of smoke, which was
not surprising when we got a different cigar between each course. We
started with a Hoyo De Monterey Epicure No 2, which is regarded as the
ideal breakfast cigar companion - a gentle and affectionate blonde cigar.
The next course was a Trinidad Fundador - another long blonde and like
many long blondes, not quite what they are cracked up to be. To finish
we had a Bolivar Corona - now this is the cigar to spend the night with
- dark and earthy and one to give true and lasting satisfaction - should
you be up to it. Good cigars must be well kept and properly presented
by knowledgeable people. I asked Hunters and Frankau if there were such
people in Newcastle? "Try Edinburgh," they said.
NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 7.11.02
I hang my head in shame as I write this. I feel that I have let the Journal
down badly, but it was all bound to come out sometime, so it is best that
I wipe my eyes and confess all now. It appears that I am the only journalist
in the country who has not attempted to force his attentions on a Blonde
Scandinavian Media Personality, nor has any BSMP ever tried to assail the
citadel of my smooth body. This is a dreadful confession to have to make,
but there, it is now in the public domain and now I suppose the Association
of BSMPs (ABSCAMPS) will accuse me of racism. Not so! Not so! And should
they wish to discuss the matter on a 1-to1 basis, I shall be only too happy
to oblige. This leads seamlessly to my next item: Have you ever wondered
about the expression - "Pissed as a newt"? I have always regarded
this as a grave slur on the character of Newts - rather jolly little creatures,
I have always thought. I have some in my pond. They were relocated there
as a gift from the Coal Board and I have yet to see one that has appeared
to be the worse for drink, but now the truth has been revealed to me by
an ex-Naval friend. The phrase has been corrupted - it should be "Pissed
as a Neut." It originated during the Hitler War when Sweden was a
neutral country, but this did not prevent friendly relations developing
between the Royal Navy and the Royal Swedish Navy. Our chaps formed the
opinion that the RSN relied rather heavily on Schnapps during the performance
of its duties and it was from this base that the phrase "Pissed as
a Neut (short for Neutral)" originated. Now I suppose I must expect
some stirring correspondence with the Swedish Consul. I am sure that we
can sort it out over a glass of Schnapps. I have been appointed one of
the Official Gunmen for the Border Hunt. This means that when we are hunting
in or around the Peoples' Republic of Scotland, I have to attend festooned
with as much hardware as a Mexican bandit. I do possess a rather smart
shotgun that originally belonged to my Grandfather, but I am damned if
I am going to try to shoot a fox with it. The old General would be horrified,
him having been a dedicated Master of Hounds, might return and haunt me
and as he had a rather terrifying military reputation (you can find a picture
of him with his Cossack Bodyguard on my website - www.willypoole.com) I
certainly don't want that. So I went out and bought a second-hand Russian
shotgun. I have never shot a fox in my life and have no desire to start
now, but as they say - "Needs must when the Devil drives." The
Devil seems to be driving Scotland at the moment. Last Friday, I had to
go and speak at a Farmers' Dinner in Warwickshire. The trouble was that
I had neglected to log it in my diary and, to be honest, had forgotten
all about it. The only way I could do it was to go down and back in the
night (c.700 miles) Not possible you might think and, probably, for you
and certainly for me, you would be right. In moments like this I call on
D.D. - the King of the Black Cabs in Newcastle - who described it as 'no
problem'. D.D. and I are a good team. I sleep solidly when being driven,
whereas he only sleeps for 2 hours in the 24. The outward journey took
us 9 hours with 3 major traffic jams - really our main roads are a disgrace.
We came home in 4.5. I went hunting on the Saturday and fell asleep sitting
on my quad in the middle of a fell - all part of life's rich pattern
NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 1.11.02
"The unspeakable in hot pursuit of the uneatable" - that was Oscar
Wilde's description of foxhunting and very pithy too. I understand that there
have been letters in the Journal saying much the same thing although not quite
as neatly. I will admit here that I never read the letters in newspapers. I understand
that some of you get quite cross with me and as I am a sensitive soul and easily
reduced to tears, I save on the Kleenex by not reading your letters. You have
had the satisfaction of writing them, I will not give you further satisfaction
by reading them. So when you say to yourselves - "There! That'll make the
beggar squirm, I'll bet!" you lose your bet. It is enough for me to hear
from George, out hunting on the Saturday (he never fails to tell me) that I have
'been upsetting people again' for the warm glow of satisfaction to seep through
me. As an Editor once said - "I employ Willy Poole to entertain and to aggravate
- sometimes he manages to do both." That is what I am here for. There are
those who say that you should not hunt for pleasure (which I do) and they would
understand it more if only the fox was eaten, which, of course it is - by the
hounds. They gobble up the carcase with great pleasure and we regard it as a
reward for all their hard work. I have never felt any great desire to eat a fox,
but now I have met a man who has. It was a young vixen (he told me). He only
ate the hindquarters and the saddle. These he first steeped in milk for 56 hours,
then casseroled with onions. I did come across a French recipe for Fox, which,
needless to say, was much more complicated - so complicated that I cannot remember
it, but never mind. I asked my friend what Fox tasted like? "Like Fox" he
said. I certainly eat all the game I shoot. There is nothing nicer than young
Roe doe. But it is a casuistry to try to justify killing by eating. There is
no necessity to eat meat at all. Those who eat meat do so for their own pleasure.
It makes no difference if the meat comes from the Supermarket wrapped in cling
film or has been killed by the eater, it is still a matter of gastronomic pleasure.
It matters not that the animal concerned was killed in a slaughterhouse - the
moral responsibility for the death of the animal still lies with the eater. Only
as a veggie can you escape that responsibility and even then there are those
who claim that cabbages scream when they are cut. Even if you eat an egg, you
are eating a chicken that never had the chance to scratch on a dung heap for
worms. The fact that the steak you drool over came from a beast that was killed
in a slaughterhouse by being stunned and pithed (having a steel rod pushed into
its brain and wiggled about) does not absolve you from responsibility. If 'meat
is murder' then you, the consumer, are guilty as an 'accessory after the fact',
just as you would be if you hired a hit-man to do away with rich Uncle Jim. Of
the many things that I dislike, Hypocrisy comes very close to the top of the
list.
I have eaten Badger, back in the days when it was legal so to do. Indeed
down the West of England, where I was bred and buttered, 'Badger Feasts'
were a regular part of the social landscape. You can only eat the hams
of a Badger. The rest of the carcase was rendered down for 'Badger Fat'.
This was a most potent and penetrating grease and the great specific for
a sore throat - you rubbed it on the outside and it quickly penetrated.
Badger ham was delicious and I can only describe it as tasting like, well,
Badger.
NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 24.10.02
How are MPs chosen? I can give you a little inside info. I was in my London
club the other night, leaning elegantly against the bar, when I was approached
by a pillar of the House of Lords. He was complaining because he had a safe
Conservative seat under his thumb and could not find a suitable candidate:
"You haven't asked me." I said. His face lit up: "Would you do it? I could swing it for you." This
shook me a bit.
"What about hunting?" I
asked
"My
Dear Old Boy, I used to hunt 4 days a week when I had the seat."
Then I thought that I would have to move to the Midlands AND give up my Journal
column. THAT decided it. I cannot leave you, Dear Readers, but just remember
what a sacrifice I have made for you. I am sure that the Editor will echo your
heartfelt sigh of relief.
The Opening Meets are approaching. We have two and I have my sub-machine gun
all stripped down in preparation for the Scots side, where I shall appear dressed
like an extra in 'The Dirty Dozen' to fulfil the diktats of Scottish Law.
I once attended an Opening Meet of a pack of Boar Hounds in France. In France
there are more than 300 official hunts, hunting Boar, Red Deer, or Roe. There
is Foxhunting of a sort, but lower down the social scale. There is a legal
right to hunt enshrined in the Constitution and anyone who attempts to interfere
is likely to be joyously brayed o'er the heid by the Gendarmerie. In this,
as in so many other things, life is different in France. French opening meets
are usually on St Hubert's Day, him being the patron saint of hunting and
they are done in style. There is usually a huge marquee set up in the grounds
of some imposing Chateau. All the chasseurs attend in full hunt uniform,
with all the local clergy, also in full fig. A full scale Mass is said and
sung. At the one I attended the local prelate gave a splendid sermon. He
was a keen fisherman, he said, and did not hunt, but he believed that God
was a Hunter and thoroughly approved of the proceedings. After the Mass,
the hounds were paraded and received the solemn blessing of the church, sprinkled
with Holy Water and all. Then followed a hunt breakfast of mouth-watering
magnificence and then - La Chasse. To the unknowing eye, the Wild Boar looks
a clumsy and ungainly creature, but they have great stamina and can cover
great distances - I can remember a 20-mile point. Eventually the Boar will
stand at bay. A Boar has tusks like a razor and this is a time of maximum
danger for the hounds, so it is the duty of the nearest follower to get in
there and dispatch the Boar as quickly as possible. With Deer Hunting in
this country, the stag is killed by a trained man using a shotgun at close
range. The French think this uncouth and bad
manners to the quarry. The Deer or Boar is 'served' by a thrust to the heart
from a short sword or a broad headed spear. This is a quick end if it is
done properly. If you don't get it right first time, then that old Boar,
who may weigh 400 pounds, is quick as a snake and is in pretty tatty fettle
is going to get YOU. I have done it and all I can say is that there is not
time to be frightened. I remember staggering out of the boggy thicket where
I had done the deed, to be folded in the arms of the sort of French lady
in whose arms you dream of being folded, kissed profusely and told what an
honour it was for the boar, to have been 'served' by an Englishman.
NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 17.10.02
Let us start with a bit of Kipling and the office funny man will
now say that he would, if only he knew how to do it. Kipling was one of our
greatest
writers,
now out of fashion as his work is regarded as non-PC. This is a snippet
from a poem called - 'Norman and Saxon' "When he stands like an ox in the
furrow with his sullen set eyes on your own And grumbles ' this isn't fair
dealing,' my son, leave the Saxon alone." And very good advice too -
the Saxon has a lot to grumble about at the moment, but let us pick one at
random - I know - let us grumble about the Scots. Let us consider the Barnett
formula - never heard of it? I am not surprised. Governments do not tend
to bruit it about. The formula was, well, formulated in the 1970s as a temporary
measure to buy off Scottish Nationalism. What it means in practice is that
every Scot gets 23% more public spending stuffed into his sporran than every
Englishman, forbye the fact that we do not wear sporrans. A Scottish friend
of mine spent some time in the Borders General Hospital (Melrose or some
such place). He was under the scalpel for the Big C and was highly complementary
about the standard of care that he received. This was not surprising. An
Oxford University report (McLean - what was he doing down there?) has pointed
out that the per capital health spending in Northumberland is c. £692.
In the socially identical Borders Region of Scotland it is c. £945.
So, if you break your leg in Carham, you should lose no time in getting
yourself rowed across the Tweed before you call an ambulance. It will
do no harm to
remember (when you hear of the 'Wee Pretendy Parliament's' generosity
to students, old people and its own politicians) that that money is
coming out of English purses and being stuffed into Scottish thrifties.
This
leaves
the Scottish Parliament free to spend its money on important things
like banning hunting and buying out salmon fishing rights for crofters
- the
most
feather bedded of all farmers in the U.K. It is small wonder that the
Saxon is looking a bit sullen - 'this isn't fair dealing.'
I crossed
the Border yesterday to investigate a case of exorcism. Chamber's Dictionary
describes
this as
'driving
away an evil spirit or influence with
prayer and holy words.' In fact it was a follow up visit to a property
that had already been cleansed. The property was a jewel of a house in beautiful
countryside, as peaceful a spot as you could imagine. The property had
been
bought by a Dutch couple. It had the reputation of being haunted, but as
the Dutchman said - "In Holland we do not do ghosts." And yet,
and yet - how to explain the gang of down to earth builders who continuously
heard
a crying child in a then uninhabited house. How to explain the lady who
was 'putting her face on' for dinner and saw in the looking glass what she
described
as a 'Victorian clergyman' peering over her shoulder. How to explain the
couple
who went down to dine leaving their clothes strewn on the floor (Tut! Tut!)
and returned to find them all neatly folded and placed on their beds. It
came down to one bad room. This was immediately pin pointed by an anonymous
friend
of mine, who has nothing to do with the Church, but does have certain 'powers'.
She says it is all to do with a build up of toxic energy. This can be released
by altering the electro magnetic fields - don't ask me. All a load of rubbish?
Maybe, but people now sleep peacefully in that room and the crying child
is heard no more. The owners agree that the house is now at peace.
NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 10.10.02
There seldom passes a letter column in this, or any other paper without
a letter containing some snide remark about 'feather bedded farmers
wallowing
in their
subsidies'. As the letters are written by 'Toonies' perhaps it is
time that we look at what they have tucked under their mattresses. Let
us
look at the
case of one writer a certain Tony Toony. Mr Toony gives Mrs Toony
a smacking kiss and leaves his house. His house was bought with the help
of mortgage
interest tax relief (subsidy 1). He travels to work on public transport
(subsidy 2). I am not sure what this worthy man does but he contributes
to a taxpayer
subsidised pension scheme (subsidy 3). He considers himself to be
an art lover and may well spend his lunch hour touring a museum or gallery
kept
afloat by the taxpayer. Mrs Toony has a similar artistic bent. They
have
tickets for the theatre / ballet / opera all of which soak up subsidies
(4) like a sponge. Later he and Mrs Toony treat themselves to dinner
at a good
restaurant (so we know he does not live in Newcastle) where they
entertain some French business acquaintances. This means that the bill
(c. £100
per head) is tax deductible (subsidy 5). So they have had a jolly good evening,
but what does he find on arriving home? Why, a council tax demand stuck in
his letterbox. Let us assume that he lives in London, or some major conurbation,
in which case the council tax is likely to receive a generous dollop from
the tax-payer (subsidy 6). I would not be able to put a figure on the amount
of subsidy Mr Toony receives in total, out-with his no doubt generous and
well earned salary and his air conditioned office, but it does no harm to
remember that the average farmer earns c. £5,000 a year - a
pretty lumpy feather bed. Last week Ian Hedley celebrated his 90th
Birthday.
Something like 150 of his friends and relations assembled at Otterburn
Village Hall.
Some of you may not have heard of Mr Hedley - he is a quiet man.
But in the Borders, he is a living legend, as befits the head of
a clan which
is itself
woven into the historical fabric of the Borders. The story of the
Hedleys has been intertwined with the Percys since time out of memory.
The Hedleys
supplied horses for the English Army at the Battle of Otterburn and
they are Percy tenants to this day. Mr Hedley has lived and farmed
at Overacres
all his life. He is a renowned and respected breeder of sheep and
served on the War Agricultural Executive. In 1952 he became Joint
Master of
the
Border Hounds and soon after tragedy struck. Hounds were crossing
the frozen North Tyne River, when the ice gave way and half the pack
was
lost. On
another occasion, several hounds and terriers were trapped, fast
in the rocks above
Linshiels Lake. They were saved after 3 days of skilled and dangerous
quarrying. Mr Hedley received a commendation from the RSPCA. He was
joined in the
Mastership by his son Michael in 1972. This happy state maintains
to this day, as does
the success of these famous hounds. At the end of the evening, or,
as it might be,early in the morning, I had the honour of escorting
Mr Hedley
to his car, although unkind observers said that it was a moot point
as to who
was supporting whom. It was great and happy evening and a celebration
of
the long and continuing life of a man, whom one of his neighbours
described as:
"A very special Gentleman" I
think that that says it all.
NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 3.10.02
"There's a bloody rat!" I said "Where?" said Mrs Poole. "Just
gone past you into that corner." I pointed with a slice of pizza (Pan with
mega meat topping). "Nonsense!" she said. But there is no mistaking
that loathsome scuttling form. I turned to the man in the blue shirt who had
been doing nothing except bully the waitresses. I assumed he must be management: "You've
got rats." I said. "Rraats?" he did not believe me either. "Eeeek!" a
woman at the other side of the room, leaped to her feet and onto a chair, lifted
her skirts and burst into tears. Well, they do say that in London you are never
more than six feet from a rat. I felt that this was the moment for the Management
to display at bit of 'Officer Presence'. All he did was to retire to the corner
where my rat had disappeared and sit there staring at it. He was still there
when we left. I felt for him - if word of the rats scuttled out along with the
beasts themselves, the Environmental Health people would have closed down his
drum quicker than you could say - "Extra cheese topping, please." No
one wants rats in their pizza, or anywhere else, for that matter. I hate the
bloody things. The other day I sat entranced for half an hour, when I should
have been working, watching a litter of young stoats playing, tumbling and wrestling
chasing each other up and down some thorn bushes. I know that I ought to try
to trap them. They are super efficient little killing machines. They rob nests
and eat my game chicks, but I forgive them, because since we have had stoats,
we have had no rats. I should sell some stoats to London Pizza Parlours. The
other day I spoke at a seminar near Bedale called 'Uplands Heritage - a Forum
for the Future Role of UK Heritage Breeds in the Management of the Uplands.'
This was basically a discussion on the use of traditional British breeds of cattle
in upland areas. The aim of this was to re-establish the use of these fine breeds
(Shorthorns, Angus, Galloway, Hereford, Highland, et al) for the production of
premium quality beef cattle. Farmers are very susceptible to fashion and for
some time, the fashion has been for use of continental breeds for beef production.
The basis for this is that they produce the sort of lean carcase that Supermarkets
want to sell to their customers and which the customers have been schooled to
want - mention the word 'fat' and you will be trampled in the rush for the exit.
It is a sad fact that several generations of housewives have become conditioned
to Supermarket beef, which to my mind is inedible and suitable only for mending
boots. Proper beef needs that 'marbling' of fat to cook properly and the carcase
should be hung for 2- 3 weeks as against the 30 minutes which I understand is
all the supermarket slaughter line permits. The result is tough and tasteless.
Grass fed beef from the uplands is healthier and tastier. Also the proper balance
of sheep/cattle grazing is good for bio-diversity and proper grassland management.
Cattle are also helpful in bracken control, although not as good as pigs. Pigs
will eat bracken right through to the roots. It is unfortunate that pigs also
eat out the nests of ground nesting birds. My suggestion of the reintroduction
of Wild Swine to the Cheviots was not well received by the Grouse enthusiasts.
Amongst the speakers was a man from DEFRA and I much admired his footwork. He
managed to avoid giving a direct answer to any question and if cornered his answer
was that DEFRA was about to commence an in-depth inquiry into that very matter.
I received an invitation the other day to sign up for the 'Defra Farm Advisory
Service'. I think that I will pass on that one.
NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 26.9.02
To
THE MARCH - Man, what a day it was! A day such as none of us will experience
again. Who would have
thought that it was possible to funnel 407,791
people through the centre of London without a hint of trouble - I understand
that
only two people were arrested and they were anti-hunt demonstrators.
I asked one sunlit policeman what he thought:"Lovely" he said - "lovely
people and lovely overtime." It was indeed a march conducted (wonderful
organisation) in high good humour and happy noise, although it was impressive
to note that, as the March passed the Cenotaph, it was in complete silence
and all hats came off. I was lucky to get in at the front - some people
queued for 3 hours and more just to start. The marchers were counted electronically
at the finish so we can be certain about the numbers. Whilst the march
was good humoured and good mannered, there was no mistaking the edge of
menace underneath it and, as many banners indicated, a personal hatred
for Mr Blair. Had he been so misguided as to show his face, I have no doubt
that you would have heard the jeers in Newcastle, but he had taken the
day off and Downing Street was dark and shuttered. The jollity continued
after the March, but there was a darkness behind the laughter - 'what will
happen now?' is a question I must have been asked 100 times, to which my
answer was - 'it's up to the Government now' - but it is a question that
is worthy of consideration. I did a bit of reportage during the day and
asked a goodly cross section of people what they would do if the Government
did push through an anti-hunting bill. When I wrote a piece recently suggesting
that a hunting ban would be answered by civil strife, The Journal refused
to print it. However I am glad to say that a National Daily snapped it
up and it all goes on my website (www.willypoole.com) anyway. I am sorry
to rattle the Journal's sensitivities again, but in this one I am right.
All the people I questioned, most of whom I had never seen before, said
the same - "We'll fight". I will not detail the various methods
they proposed in case I am accused of inciting civil unrest. I will not
- because I do not need to - it is there, baying at the bars and it will
come if the Government plays silly buggers. 'Civil Disobedience' has a
long heritage. Its strategy has been best described (in 1849) by the American
philosopher, Henry David Thoreau. He said: `"Break the law, but openly.
Do not try to escape punishment, but rather show through your punishment,
that it is not you, but the law that is at fault." In other words
it is meet, right and our bounden duty to violate laws whose only purpose
is to oppress us. This was the strategy pursued by Gandhi, Nelson Mandela
and Martin Luther King in their pursuit of rights for persecuted minorities,
of which British country people is certainly one. The Cumbrian farmer who
is reported as saying to Prince Charles - "If we were black or gay
they would not dare treat us like this." Surely had the right
of it. We have a government apparently bent on totalitarian oppression,
so civil
disobedience becomes a duty. The March was a triumph and after every
triumph comes the backlash. I was intrigued by the reasoning of the
man
who wrote
that the Countryside Alliance had shot itself in the foot by allying
the March to hunting instead of rural post offices, schools and transport.
The March was about all these things, but hunting provided the rocket
power
that got it flying. It was after all, the March for Liberty and Livelihood
- both worth fighting for.
NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 19.9.02
To Birmingham for the Point-to-Point Award dinner - this may sound strange
as I have no interest in Point-to-Points and never attend a meeting. To
many horse people, they are the breath of life and I certainly support
them in spirit as, like me, they are inextricably linked to hunting. The
Jockey Club governs Point-to-Point racing and every meeting has to belong
to a hunt to be accepted. For many hunts their Point-to-Point is a vital
earner that can put several thousand pounds into the Hunt Piggy Bank. Every
horse that runs has to be 'qualified' which means that it has to have a
certificate signed by a Hunt Master saying that it has been 'regularly
and fairly hunted' and every rider has to be a paid up member of a hunt.
A Point-to-Pointer is an expensive piece of horse flesh. Many progress
to 'Hunter Chasing' at regular race meetings and many horses that run in
the Grand National have started their career in the hunting field. Hunting
teaches a horse to be clever with tricky obstacles and to stay out of trouble.
Many famous jockeys cut their teeth (when they had them) out hunting and
learned the same lessons as the horses. Many good steeplechasers retire
to hunting. I once had a horse called Asian Gold and hunted hounds off
him for several seasons. He had run and finished in 4 Grand Nationals.
He loved hunting hounds. His only fault was a complete lack of brakes.
I still have vivid memories of the first time I hunted him. He ran away
with me and I can still remember heading into 5 strands of bran new, shiny,
barbed wire at about 30 mph. The old horse cocked his ears, stood back
20 feet, cleared the wire by 5 and landed 20 feet out the other side. I
just grabbed a fist full of mane, closed my eyes and prayed. Later that
day, he popped in and out of two five bar gates with 20 bullocks penned
in between them - oh yes and he was blind in one eye. Birmingham was the
chosen venue because it is about bang centre of the country and with people
coming from all over England, Wales, Ireland and Scotland, it seemed a
good place to chose - I cannot think of any other good reason for choosing
it. The dinner was held at the Ramada hotel and that is all I am going
to say about it, except that I never cease to be amazed at what some chefs
can do with a perfectly decent piece of beef. Some 200 people sat down
- there would have been more, but many farmers (the back bone of Point-to-Pointing)
were still harvesting. However, humour ran high and strong and it was good
to see so many young people there, but then it is a young person's sport,
as exemplified by my niece who was Champion Lady Rider. She achieved this
in spite of a crumpling fall in the Maryland Hunt Cup in the USA - 4 miles
of solid upright timber fences. Why Point-to-Point? Because that is exactly
what they originally were. You started at point A and finished at point
B, taking your own line of natural fences in between. This is no longer
possible in modern Britain and the Point-to-Point courses are artificial
'park' courses as in Steeplechasing, which had the same origin as Point-to-Pointing
- you raced from one church steeple to another. So why me? I had been ordered
to attend and speak and as the Daily Telegraph and Horse and Hound, both
of whom employ me in lowly capacities, sponsor many of the trophies I squared
up to it as well as the huge Irishman who embraced me and said that I was
the 'greatesht fushking man in all the fushking world' - nice thought.
It was a lovely audience and they are all going on THE MARCH
NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 12.9.O2
Professor Stephen Harris does not like me. He made this clear on the
first occasion that we met. This was in the Gents at a TV studio.
We were both
bound for Newsnight and the Dreaded Paxman. I recognised the
Prof from his photograph in the papers and started to introduce myself: "I
know you," said the Prof, zipping himself up in a determined manner
- "you're the man who's always rubbishing my statistics." This
was quite true, I did and I do. To Prof Harris his statistics are like
Holy Writ and to 'rubbish' them, akin to blasphemy as far as he was (and
is) concerned. So you see, we did not get off to a good start and things
did not improve for the Prof. The discussion (would you believe) was
about foxes - I cannot remember in which particular, but it may have
been after the first attempt of a fox to pinch a baby from its pram.
I remember that the Prof had a mass of statistics at his scholarly fingertips.
The problem was that Paxman did not seem to rate the Prof's careful calculations
any more than I did and the scholarly gentleman really got quite heated
in defence of his much loved figures. The kettle finally boiled over
when I suggested that foxes were partial not only to babies but also
to the domestic moggy when it came to a quick snack. "Not so!" cried
the Prof -"our researches have shown that cats only represent 0.75
% of the fox's diet." "How on earth can you know that?" cried
Paxo and myself in unison. The Prof drew himself up and said coldly: "It's
in the statistics." And that was that. We all know the saying that
there are 'Lies, Damned Lies and Statistics'. You can make statistics
prove anything you want to ("Rubbish in - Rubbish out") depending
on the base you start from. The problem with the Prof is that he will
not disclose his base line. Now he is claiming that research during FMD
has shown that there was no increase in the number of foxes during the
period that hunting was suspended. I understand, although he has not
sent me a copy of his report, that he has based his calculations on the
numbers of fox droppings along hedge backs. 'Crotty Counting', as this
strange branch of science is referred to, was a very fashionable method
of measuring deer numbers at one time. You took a measured area - counted
the number of deer droppings in it - this gave you the number of deer
in this area. You then extrapolated those measurements over your total
area. I believe that Forest Enterprise spent a small fortune on employing
practitioners (Scientists) in this particular black art, which proved
about as reliable as boiling up - "tongue of toad and eye of newt".
Much as I am amused by the thought of our Professor crawling along hedge
backs in search of fox faeces, it hardly seems to constitute a safe base
for statistics. Even suppose the Prof used his students for this cloacal
counting, it begs the question as to what all these people were doing
crawling about the countryside at a time when the countryside was quarantined.
Because, when you think of it, this research had to be carried out during
FMD for the Prof to be able to report his conclusions. I have before
me a transcript of an interview with the Prof on the BBC Farming Today.
The presenter Miriam O'Reilly questions the Prof about shooting foxes
(his preferred option). She asks him about the foxes that are shot at
and wounded - 'they would probably die a very slow and painful death…" Not
a problem says the Prof: "We've looked at a huge sample of foxes
from rural Britain and less that 0.5% had old shot wounds. So it's a
very, very small proportion…" So there you are - 0.5%
of 'huge' is a 'very, very small proportion'. It's all in the statistics.
NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 5.9.02
As from 1.8.02, Foxhunting is illegal in Scotland. Legal challenges to
this piece of parliamentary gobbledegook have so far failed and are likely
to continue to fail. The fabled independence of mind of the Scottish
Judiciary is just that - a fable. However there is an exemption to the
current law for 'Gun Packs'. How this exemption will work in practice
seems to be uncertain and will almost certainly be tested in court at
some time in the future. The attitude of the Police to this new legislation
is also uncertain and is likely to vary between different Constabularies.
What is certain is that if there is a formal complaint the 'Polis' will
be obliged to investigate. At the time of writing it seems certain that
many Scottish packs will chance their arms as 'Gun Packs'. Here again
uncertainty and confusion reigns - for instance - what constitutes a
Gun Pack? The new law states that hounds may be used to 'flush' a fox
from covert, provided that the intent is to shoot the fox rather than
hunt it. However, as I understand it, if the fox is shot at and missed,
it may then be pursued by hounds. If the fox is shot at and wounded,
hounds may then be used to apply the quietus. The 'guns' are not obliged
to take pot shots at the fox. The shot should only be attempted in a
safe situation and if the gun considers that there is a reasonable chance
of success. If hounds catch their fox before the gun considers it safe
to shoot, then no offence is committed. There is nothing in the law to
prevent to use of horses either by followers or Hunt Staff. Indeed as
the law requires the 'controlled' use of 'dogs', the horse, or, as it
might be quad, is an essential piece of kit for the job (and remember
that it is a 'job' - on no account may you enjoy yourself. There are
many questions to beg: Is it sufficient for the huntsman to carry a shotgun
in a saddle holster as per Clint Eastwood? Is it safe to take a shot
from the saddle? Are the 'polis' going to have an observer present at
every meet of the Kalewater Gunners. To observe, the copper, will (a)
have to be mounted and will (b) have to be a trained Firearms Officer
to give any sort of informed evidence - such as would be required by
a court of law. How much is all of that going to cost the Scottish Taxpayer
and would any court convict on such evidence? and this on a law that
the Scottish Parliament's own Rural Affairs Committee rejected on the
grounds that it was so badly framed as to be unworkable? The law has
nothing to say on how many guns would be considered necessary to carry
out the aims of the law, nor does it specify the type of ammunition to
be used. Nothing less than BB or AAA should be used for foxes and the
maximum range should be c.30 yards. As I am dyscalculic, I have lifted
some figures from another writer, a Mr Hudson, whom I have never met,
but to whom I apologise. Mr H has offered for consideration a virtual
reality, 1,000 acre block of forestry, which he supposes to be a mile
and a half long, by a mile wide with a perimeter of c.5 miles. To cover
this, in vulpicidal intent, you would need guns stationed at 60-yard
intervals (to decrease the chances of homicide). Mr H calculates that
this means 147 guns. He has not calculated, but I have, that the very
thought of such a concentration of fire power is likely to give the nearest
Chief Constable a nervous breakdown, but there is sod-all the poor beggar
can do about it - it is the law of the land
NEWCASTLE JOURNAL
- 29.8.02
Pigs are some of my favourite
animals, both alive and dead. Alive, they are animals of great
charm, intelligence and usefulness. I know a man who runs wild
boar in Forest Enterprise woodland. They
scarify the ground and eat all the rubbish, thereby allowing free
growth of young saplings (pigs do not damage trees). They
will also clear out bracken beds and wild rhododendrons like nothing
else. They love bracken and will eat it out roots and all,
so that it does not return. There must be scope here for running
'sounders of swine' on the Cheviots, where the bracken beds spread
remorselessly. It would be a damned sight cheaper than all
that spraying and a fine source of excellent organic meat. The
wild pig is also a most exciting animal to hunt, as I know from experience
in France. There is no part of the pig that
I do not like eating. Few people these days experience the
full pleasure of proper pork and bacon. The modern commercial
hybrid pig is a poor thing. Today's housewife is so terrified
of fat, that all pig meat has to be lean and mean. One of best
parts of roast pork is the crackling and you cannot have that without
fat. By the same token most modern bacon is not worth eating. To
savour the real excellence of pig meat, we need to return to old
fashioned (and now sadly rare) breeds such as the Gloucester Old
Spot (the Royalty of domestic breeds) and the Tamworth. Sample
the excellence of their meat and you will never darken the door of
a Supermarket again. It is fortunate that there are
still a few discerning purveyors of pig meat who realise this. I
will tell you a story. I met Austen
Davies because he and his wife were selling Cumberland Sausage in
the Farmers' Market in Alnwick. They had a little frying pan
going and were offering samples to passers by. I tried
some - tasty, spicy and so excellent that the Austens and I have
fallen into correspondence. This is their story: The
Austens started making Cumberland Sausage for their own delectation. From
the beginning they insisted that the whole pig went into the sausage. They
had a small herd of Berkshire x Gloucester Old Spot. The fame
of the sausage spread amongst their friends. They then tried
it in the Farmers' Market in Carlisle and in a few hours sold
out their entire stock of 220 yards. Their own premises
were not suitable for commercial production so they tied up with
a commercial butcher. This was not a happy experience and came
to a sulphurous end when they discovered bits of their pig meat floating
in barrels of water. Inserting water into pig meat is standard
commercial practice - it increases the weight - it is also perfectly
legal and perfectly disgraceful. The
next time you fry a rasher of commercial bacon watch the gunge that
seeps out - that is the water. A change to an old fashioned
butcher put things to rights and eventually, the Austens were able
to set up their own processing plant and started producing in November
2000. All looked set fair. Mr Austen was at Alnwick on Feb
23, 2001 and who can forget that dreadful day? What followed
was the horror story all too familiar to country people. In
Mr Austen's own words - "The pyromaniacs were put in charge of the
firework party." It was a black time and the Austens came under "outrageous
pressure" from the Ministry to cull their herd of rare breed pigs. They
finally gave in just one week before the Ministry began issuing licenses
for selected animals to go for slaughter. The entire herd was
wiped out. The Austens are now back in business
producing Sausages, Real Bacon (the best I have eaten since I was
a lad) and (soon) Black Pudding, all made "without compromise." My
advice is to 'get some doon ye' Tel 01228 573672
NEWCASTLE
JOURNAL - 1.8.02
To
London (again) for the presentation of the NFU Countryside Awards
- say NFU to most people and they immediately think 'National Farmers'
Union' and, of course they are not wrong. But just as not everyone
who lives in the countryside is a farmer, neither are all members
of the NFU. The NFU set about to fill this gap. NFU Countryside
(www.nfucountryside.org.uk)
has come into being. This body claims to be the UK's largest
rural member organisation with 80,000 'member households' (not quite
sure what that means) or that the 'Largest' bit is quite correct
- the Countryside Alliance claims members
and affiliates of 300,201 - I like the 1 - it might be me. The
NFUC provides a useful service in producing practical information,
guidance and advice on matters relating to the countryside and rural
living, especially for those who might be described as 'New Country
Persons'. To sharpen the whole thing up the NFUC gives annual
awards for various categories (I shall be coming to them). To
service this there is a judging panel consisting of what it describes
as "well known individuals, all of whom have strong links to the
countryside and rural pursuits." Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall
is a 'wild woods chef and Dorset smallholder' 'Derby shire
Hill Farmer', Simon Groom, is probably better known to most of us
as a past presenter of Blue Peter - he now has a film production
company and a Derbyshire hill farm. Michael Paske is vice president
of the NFU, so no italics for him. Richard Briers needs none
being a star of stage, screen and wireless Simon Frith writes 'The
Archers' which is all in italics, as it makes the bile rise in my
throat Lesley Bayley is Editrice of NFUC's Countryside magazine William
Poole is, it seems, a ' committed Northumbrian and Daily Telegraph
columnist - now why can't we get him to write
for the Journal? Probably wants too much money. There
was a massive pile of entries to wade through - Countryperson of
the Year; Rural organisation of the Year, Countryside Small
Business of the Year; Village schools; Rural Schoolteacher; Rural
Tourist Attraction, Rural Technology Award; Rural Community;
Rural Technology; Countryside Future Award - to which I would have
written 'precious little'. But, no, I took it very seriously
and worked my way through a muckle file and soon came up with two
handy hints - (1) if I couldn't read the application (many of them
are handwritten) then I did not - (2) the first whiff of management
speak or jargon (you would be surprised how many ordinary people
strive to adopt this rubbish) and the application was binned. I
am sorry to say that there were very few entries from Journal-land
and by the same token few amongst the prizes. I suppose that
we can just claim Sutton - Under- Whitestonecliff, where Susan Hollows
won Rural Schoolteacher of the year and very well deserved as far
as I could see. Since her arrival in 1996 pupil numbers have
doubled. She was also superb at handling the tricky situation
of a rural school in FMD. The Westmoreland County Agricultural
Society (a prize from me for restoring Westmoreland) brought us into
the world of IT. The Society's centre at Milnthorpe helps farmers
- people who may not take naturally to computer skills - to improve
management techniques and efficiency for the all form filling, that
is such an important part of producing food these days. The
Judgement was compered by John Craven. I think him to be a
genuinely decent chap and do not blame him for the more cringe making
examples of 'Country File'. I remember 'Clarissa and
the Countryman' having a producer from Country File foisted on them. This
expert was miffed when told firmly that no they could not film partridge
shooting in May, as it would be inconvenient for the partridges: "Why" said
your man - " what do they do in May?" "They
f##k." said Johnny Scott."
NEWCASTLE
JOURNAL - 8.8.02
Most of you will know
that DEFRA is conducting a 'consultation period'
with Farmers' and Field Sports organisations over the future
of hunting and claims to be seeking a balance between 'cruelty and
utility'. The more cynical amongst us hunters feel that the
'consultation period' is merely a breathing space so that DEFRA can
cross the Ts' and dot the 'Is' in its preparation of anti- hunting
legislation to be brought forward in the next session of Parliament. I
also suspect that it is playing for time to see what the Scottish
Courts come up with. Anyone with the stomach to read this column
regularly will know that I maintain and believe there to be no cruelty
in Hunting. I have given my reasons and do not intend to insult
your intelligence by re-stating them at this time. I
am not sure that I have discussed the 'utility' (DEFRA's word) of
hunting, which I take as meaning efficiency. I have
no doubt that hunting is the most natural way of controlling fox
numbers and of maintaining a sensible size of population. It
is certainly not the most efficient method of wiping out a local
fox population - this can be all too easily achieved by other methods
- give me a map and I will point a finger at places where this has
been done - places where there is little, or no hunting or where
the local pack is inefficient and, sadly, such outfits do exist. The
'utility' of a good pack of hounds is that it preserves a natural
balance. It culls the old, the weak and the maim, whilst the
strong and the fit escape to live and breed. Where an efficient
pack operates there is a thriving, balanced and healthy fox population. Northumberland
is a sheep county and it is amongst sheep that the most fox damage
occurs. Our lives are ruled by statistics these days
and at last there has been a definitive statistical survey into sheep
damage caused by foxes and the attitudes of sheep farmers. The
Survey was carried out by Produce Studies Ltd - a leading rural consultancy. There
are 39,600 breeding flocks in England and Wales. The quota
sample was drawn across all flock size groups over 50 ewes. The
findings are as follows: 37,750 farmers (93%) said that hunting
should not be made a criminal offence Prior to February '02, fox
predation was reported on 82% of farms 25,300 farmers (65%)
said there were more foxes about than in February '01 when hunting
was suspended due to FMD. The percentage rises to 81% in Wales. 76%
of farmers considered hunting to be an important method of fox control. In
Wales this percentage rose to 88% and in the N.East 92%. Only
8% of all farmers considered it 'unimportant.'32,250 farmers (81%)
felt that any increase in fox numbers would compromise the welfare
of their flocks. 97% claim to see foxes (or evidence of them)
on their farms and 51% thought the foxes had become bolder during
the cessation of hunting. Since February '01 foxes have killed
on 29,400 sheep farms - 90% lost lambs and 31% lost poultry.There
are lots more statistics - 'perceived future
predation if hunting goes' - 'role of hunts in conservation'
- 'importance of hunts in the social life in remote areas' this you
will remember is one of the things that Ma Beckett does not understand. By
now I expect that you are as bored of reading statistics as I am
of writing them, but unfortunately the Government never seems to
tire of them. Try this one - a friend of mine met a well know
hunting tailor on Waverley Station. The Tailor said that he
had orders for 6 new red hunting coats. "In Scotland?" "All
in Edinburgh and what's more, all the clients are lawyers." There
now, there's a statistic to chew on.
NEWCASTLE
JOURNAL - 15.8.02 "This piece
was spiked for lack of PC and on the grounds that it might - 'incite
people to violence' "
To
Lowther Show, which is very definitely one of my favourites. I
even had my own little stall for the selling of videos (Willy's
World - see www.willypoole.com) and
books. With so many hunting and country people gathered together,
it was not surprising that one of the main topics of talk was the
Life and Liberty March in London on Sept 22nd run by the Countryside
Alliance and how much effect this march will have on the
Government. Opinions were deeply divided on this and indeed
it is fair to say that opinions on the CA are deeply divided. Some
feel that the CA approach to Government has been much too soft,
especially as it is now known that No 10 came to an agreement with
the CA and then back-worded it without even a fleeting thought. But
then several rural organisations (CLA, NFU to name but two) thought
they had done deals with No 10 only to find that the verbal agreements
were not worth the paper, they were not written on - so much for
the probity of this Government. The
silence of the CA (part of the deal) during the ghastly slaughter
of FMD has not been counted unto it for righteousness. Whatever
doubts there may have been, everybody agreed that the March must
go ahead. The Government is at war with the countryside and
WE MUST (ALL OF US) MARCH OR DIE. Some feel that however many pairs
of boots the March puts on the streets of the Capital, Blair
will just shrug it off and carry on regardless in appeasing his
backbenchers, especially with the clouds of war hanging over Iraq. As
one wise old politician said to me: "The only way you will save
hunting is for Blair to be more frightened of the Countryside than
he is of his own back benchers." Many doubt that the Countryside
Alliance can achieve this, which is why support for the Countryside
Action Group is growing. To understand this you have to ask
yourself a question - what has been the most successful political
movement of our time? The answer to this is - Sinn Fein. Sinn
Fein has succeeded by having an apparently straightforward political
party at its front, whilst always having a hand grenade tucked
in its back pocket. The Shinners have worked the political
oracle very simply, by telling the Government that it must cave
in to their political demands and give them tea and sympathy at
No 10, because if it does not there are shadowy groups in the background
(over which SF naturally has no control) who will turn very nasty
indeed - Tut! Tut! This is the old
'Bullet v Ballot' routine and the Government has rolled over for
it every time. Now I am not for one moment comparing
the CA to Sinn Fein nor am I suggesting that CAG is remotely like
PIRA, but I am saying that somewhere out there, lurking in the
rural mists, there are some very tough, determined and unhappy
people. If the Government thinks that these people are going
to bare their throats to the Downing Street knife, then it should
think again. It is a well known and proven fact that one
of the things that really frighten Blair is the thought of civil
unrest. I am here to tell him that if he is perceived to
have shafted the Countryside, then agrarian aggravation is what
he is going to get and in some tune. There are people out
there itching to take a poke at NuLab. I have no idea exactly
who they are, so it is no use the Gov Orgs who have been hitting
my website, sending someone round for a chat, but I just know that
the hard men are there - lurking. I remember a time in France
when no Government Minister dared to set foot in the French countryside. Mr
Blair wants us to be more European.
NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 25.7.02
"
Et voila!" said George much as the Maitre D' introduces the Chef's special.
Something about the way I stood there silently scratching my head must have
got through to him - "I mean it's all right isn't it? I've been up half
the night getting it." This was true, but perhaps I should explain.
The occasion was the 10k Celebrity Charity Road Race in London. Some of you
may remember that I wrote about it last year, but it was a much bigger do
this year - 13,000 runners, Charity teams from all over the country and from
abroad, including a team of Police and Firemen from New York, Military bands
on every corner and streets blocked off from Hyde Park to St Paul's - and
back. I was the Race Leader. This was necessary because the race runs through
a warren of tiny streets near St Paul's, where the runners might get lost
without a knowledgeable guide and the quad was necessary to keep me in front
of world class runners. Last year Honda UK produced a bran new, state of
the art, 500 cc model for the occasion, but this year, the wheels fell off
the deal at the last minute. So George, great and good man that he is, drove
half across England and half through the night to fetch his own farm quad.
This then is what we were considering in a side street off Piccadilly, but
it was hardly the gleaming, purring beast that I had expected. It was certainly
a Honda, this much I could see through the layers of Northamptonshire mud
that still caked it. George said that he was damned well not going to hose
it down at 2 am - instead he had covered most of the mud with stickers for
the Countryside Alliance 'Life and Liberty' March on Sept 22nd. It was not
new - about 10 years old by my calculation and it had very tired tyres -
in fact its 'Road Legality' was a matter for considerable doubt. It bore
a handwritten sign declaring it to be the ''Race Leader". As it stubbornly
refused to start, I had my doubts about this. George admitted that he had
never ridden the damned thing, so we rang Fred, its keeper. Fred asked if
we had turned the fuel on. This had not occurred to me, as I never turn mine
off, anyway that seemed to do the trick and we chugged down the street to
the start outside the 'Hardrock Café' in Piccadilly and I parked it
neatly next to a Police Riot Van. The occupants seemed to be somewhat bemused
by this apparition and several debussed to inspect it and me, before shaking
their heads and remounting to check their riot shields. I then got hassle
from the Race Security Team, who questioned the legality of the quad and
of my own parentage. This lead to a certain unpleasantness until one of the
Race Head Sheds intervened and told them to sugar off. As the 'Race Leader'
it is important to have a 'Race Reader' who sits on the back and tells you
'faster or slower', so that the leading runners don't get caught in the mud
guards (there was only one and no mirror). I had Chuck from the New York
Fire Dept who was also charged with taking photographs. As a Race Reader,
Chuck was a fine photographer, but we got round the course without incident.
I wish I could say the same for my return (solo) through Central London.
The Quad and I attracted motorcycle cops as a jam pot attracts flies. I don't
think they had ever seen a man in a tweed cap on a quad before and I think
that it was only a quick calculation as the amount of form filling we represented
that kept us out of West End Central. My grateful thanks to George and the
quad is parked in Berkeley Square.
NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 18.7.02
I've
had a nose job. I had been conscious for some time that I was not breathing
properly
through my
nose - it felt as though both cundies were
permanently partly blocked. Mrs Poole has long complained about my
snoring. I always thought this wildly exaggerated and the sort of thing
that wives
do to try and keep their husbands in the position of cringing subjection
that modern feminist doctrines decree. Now where was I? Ah yes snoring,
well I had to face up to this after we stayed with my brother in law
and sister in law and their two grandchildren who were also staying came
running
into them in the middle of the night to say that they could not sleep
because a man was riding a motor bicycle in the other bedroom. After
that, I had
a few stern words from my sister in law, an experience from which few
men emerge un-marked. So, all in all, having weighed all the evidence
and taken
all the relevant facts into consideration, I thought that I had better
do something about me neb and so last Thursday when you were reading
my cosy column on whatever it was. I was sitting in Harley Street, London
with a large Frenchman poking about my nose. Now what happens is (and
I
know that you are all fascinated by medical details, because you never
spare me with your descriptions of your own medical conditions) that
with age, the fleshy tissue inside the nose thickens and thus begins
to obstruct
the nasal channel. Add to that the kink in the septum where someone
had rearranged the cartilage somewhat (possibly to reinforce an argument)
and you are looking at (if that be possible) a restricted airflow. Now
you
used to be able to have a surgical operation where they laid you out
completely and then reamed out all the spare tissue with a scalpel and
then stuffed
your nostrils with yards of surgical tape. You woke up feeling pretty
sorry for yourself, but that, or so I am told, was as nothing to when
the
time
came for them to haul the tape, inch by blood encrusted inch out of
your nose - think about it, or, on second thoughts don't. My nice Frenchman
(I warn you, he does look a bit like Dr Strangelove, but he is charming)
has changed all that, trained in E.N.T. and Dental Surgery, he felt
there
must be a better way and set about inventing it. He is skilled in the
use of local anaesthetics from his dentistry. He sticks acupuncture pins
all
over your ears and a nice lady gives you a couple of pills to chew.
You cease to feel your nose and the back of your throat. This is just
as
well, because M. le Medecin, then sets about the inside of your nose
with a laser
gun. I have to tell you that I never felt a thing. The only slightly
disconcerting thing was that I could smell the burning. Many of you will
be familiar
with the moment when the farrier clamps a red-hot shoe on the bottom
of a horse's hoof - there is a cloud of smoke and a pungent smell of
burning horn. That is exactly what it smelt like, or did I taste it?
I suppose
it was the cartilage. At last he said: "Et voila!" rather as
the Patron does when he lifts the lid off the Chef's Special "That's
it?" I asked. "C'est tout" The whole thing took about
20 minutes. For a few days after, you have a runny nose - rather like
the
messy bit of a cold, but apart from that and a certain rawness at the
back of the nose ( I don't feel like smoking just yet) there have been
no ill
effects on my person, but, be warned, the post operational damage to
the wallet is considerable.
The Sleep Disorder Clinic - 020 7629 8340
NEWCASTLE
JOURNAL - 4.7.02 The pied wagtails nest in a creeper outside my office
window.
The
fledglings
have just come off the nest. I was watching
one of them hopping about on the lawn. A few minutes later I looked
again - there was just a puff of grey feathers to show where it had
been. The
killer was sitting on the fence then glided away with a flap of his
wings - a beautiful blue grey killing machine - a sparrow hawk and
a male to
judge from his rufous underparts. I knew that they were about because
I have seen the scattered pigeon feathers in the Home Field, but I
had not
actually seen one here before. I do not grudge them the odd wagtail.
They have to eat and a sparrow hawk needs half a dozen little birds
every day
to keep it on the wing. Like many people we have a bird table in
the garden, but ours has a roof on it, which makes it more or less raptor
proof - a
bird table that is open to the sky is just a self- service cafeteria
for sparrow hawks. They can kill all the pigeons they like, but I want
to keep
my garden birds. We have a resident kestrel down by the pond and
I
spend more time watching him (I think) than I should. Kestrel is rather
a prosaic
name and I prefer the old name - Wind Hover. I was watching him the
other day. He was hovering over a gorse patch in the neighbour's field,
riding
the air currents with a flick of the wings. Suddenly he stooped,
folded his wings and dropped like a stone. I watched on and he reappeared
with something (a vole, I think) clutched in his talons - Shabash!
Sometimes
the poor chap gets mobbed by the corbies. The trees and bushes along
the burn are a great place for these birds and I dislike them thoroughly.
This
year I have played war with them, building two new crow traps. I
bait these with eggs and the crow, being an ace nest robber, cannot resist
them.
They
are very handsome birds, but look at the great dagger of a beak and
think of weakly lambs with their eyes and back ends pecked out whilst
still
alive. I have no regrets when I dispatch a Corby. I have rather lost
track but
we must have had at least 20 this spring. That will have saved a
lot
of nests. I am always surprised by the number of people, even indigenous
country
people, who cannot tell a rook from a crow. In fact their silhouettes
are quite different as are their beaks. The old saying: "If you
see one rook it is probably a crow and if you see a lot of crows they
are probably
rooks." Is broadly true. Rooks are gregarious and appear to
have a highly developed social system. I have watched 'Rook Parliaments'
of a
winter's evening with great gatherings, usually in a stubble field.
There is much complicated bowing and bobbing and a cacophony of noise,
before
flight after flight take off to their roost. I would love to know
the
meaning of this ritual. I was driving down a lonely road and on a
straight in front
of me the road was black with birds. At my approach they took off
as one. There must have been a couple of hundred and they were swallows.
I have
never seen this many swallows all together before and what were they
all doing sitting in the road? Another little mystery of nature.
Did
you know
that rooks use the smoke from a chimney to delouse themselves? I
never believed it either, but last winter I saw it done. The fire
was just
lit and smoke was billowing from the chimney. One after another rooks
came
to perch on the pot and spread their wings in the smoke - clever
birds.
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