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NEWCASTLE JOURNAL 31.3.05

Another Bank Holiday in all its dripping, mist shrouded, misery – all I can do is offer my condolences to all those who have set out with tents, extended families and hope for a merry country weekend over Easter. Easter has come early this year. Many of you will have wondered why Easter should be a movable feast (rather like my supper, which depends upon the mood and whim of the Dragon Lady). Easter is after all, perhaps the most important feast of the Christian Church, if any of you can remember what that is. For those of you from whose mind the meaning of Easter has momentarily slipped (“Ask your Nan, she knows all the old stories”) it is a Christian Feast that celebrates the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. So why you might ask does such an important occasion get shuttled round the calendar like a chess piece? Why does it not have a fixed date, like Christmas? This would make things much easier for modern planning. The answer lies in the pragmatism of the early Christian missionaries who set out to convert the English from their deeply held pagan traditions. Instead of ripping out all these old ways, root and branch, they merely painted over them and superimposed Christian festivals. They built their churches over the old pagan sacrificial stones and pasteurised the old pagan feast days by dedicating them to, often, rather obscure Saints – as if there were any other kind. The old Pagan festival of midwinter was plastered over by the celebration of the birth of Christ. Easter was superimposed on the old festival that greeted the return of Spring and the rebirth of life. The timing of this festival was controlled by the phases of the Moon and that ‘dearly beloved’ is why Easter is a ‘movable feast’. May I suggest that it is time that the Churches (Catholic and Apostolic) rationalised this rather untidy bit of churchery. Christ died for ‘us men and our salvation’, surely it would be more dignified if we settled on a fixed day in the year, on which his resurrection may be celebrated, rather than having it dragged hither and yon by Mother Moon? It would make the planning of holidays much easier too.

If I have a weakness and I am not saying that I have, that weakness would be for Tobacco. I have not smoked a fag since I was 14, which was when I took up the pipe. My generation seems to be the last one in which the pipe maintains. On the continent you see many young men puffing away with great content – this is probably because they have not been exposed to the toxic affects of PC. I know that the PC position (I wonder if it is the same as the ‘Missionary Position) is that tobacco kills you, but you are going to die in the end anyway. I am reminded of the man who went to his doctor and asked whether, if he gave up sex, tobacco and alcohol, he might live for an extra 10 years. The doctor said that that might indeed be the case, but why would he want to? Now I just know that some prune is going to write to me and say ‘don’t I know what smoke induced diseases cost the NHS?’ to which I should reply – ‘Yes my dear old prune, but don’t you know that it is the swingeing taxes on tobacco and booze that pays for the whole ramshackle structure?’ Not only that but if we smokers pop our clogs a bit early, then the Black Hole that Brown has dug in the pension pot gets that much smaller. So really you see we smokers are a boon to the rest of you.

Now, I also smoke cigars and they really can kill you. A few years ago I was in Cuba talking to a tobacco grower. He told me that his mother had been killed because she smoked cigars. I said that I was very sorry to hear that and had she died of cancer?

“No, No, Senor, but it was very sad. You see every day she used to climb up into that tree and sit on that branch smoking a cigar. Then one day she die”.

“Because of the smoke?”

“No, Senor, she fall out of tree and break her neck and she was only 92 – it was very sad”.

There are two conflicting morals to this sad story – one is that if you smoke cigars every day then you will certainly die in the end – on the other hand if you want to live to 92 and still be able to climb a tree, it would seem that a good cigar is a powerful incentive.

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NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 24. 3.05

Just spent a week in France, doing a bit of a recce and jolly hard work it was too – speaking French (mine is rough hewn, but serviceable) driving French and eating and drinking French. France has much to recommend it, as long as you keep away from major cities. It is six times the size of Britain with roughly the same population and much of it is profoundly rural.

Profoundly rural is what we seek. The first area of exploration was the Charollais – that’s right - where the cattle come from and everywhere these fine white beasts could be seen and tasted. It is very good beef, but would certainly have been all the better for hanging, which the French do not do. Somehow, and I cannot explain it, the Charollais did not feel right. As an old friend of mine used to say (in different circumstances) ‘If it feels wrong, then it is wrong – get out’. So we moved next door to the Brionnais. This we liked. It is a rolling country, rather similar to parts of South Devon. It is an area of beef and grass (we saw no plough anywhere in this part) and small farms, with stout houses built of beautiful yellow stone. There are plenty of these houses coming on the market, because (and here’s the rub) a lot of these small farmers are going out of business. They simply cannot compete with cattle coming in from the East, where production costs are so much lower. The land is usually absorbed by neighbours, whilst the houses are sold separately. This is a deeply rural area , with quiet little villages where dogs can still safely sleep in the middle of the street and where the local pub will do you a decent four course luncheon (inc wine) for c. £8 per head. The locals are very friendly and the weather on the whole, is kind, although they are getting worried about water. I think that I have written before that water will be the next cause of civil conflagration, although that might seem a contradiction in terms. Just consider that ‘Two Jags John’ is planning to build untold millions of new homes in the driest part of England. The untold millions of people who will live in those homes will not be happy bunnies when they have to fetch water from stand pipes and cannot wash their cars or water their flower beds. We, at least, can milk the Great White She Elephant of Kielder Water.

All the estate agents that we talked to spoke of the influx of English refugees, escaping from the Blair Terror – it may soon turn Brown, but that certainly will not be a change for the better. Another good thing about France is that they will never allow Political Correctness into their country. They regard PC as a ghastly American nonsense that has no place in any sensible country and how right they are.

Of course we went hunting. People seem surprised when told that hunting is alive and well and living in France – indeed the ‘right to hunt’ was one of the planks of the French Revolution. It even has its own political party (‘The Hunting, Shooting and Fishing Party’) which gets about 4% of the vote. There are c.300 official packs of hounds in France hunting - Boar, Red Deer, Roe Deer and Hares. These are conducted very formally and scientifically according to the ancient laws of Venery. There are also many informal packs run by the local ‘communes’ – you can often see the hounds lying about the village streets. There are also ‘Terrier Clubs’ which dig out foxes and badgers with great enthusiasm.

We went Boar Hunting with old friends with whom we have stayed many times. When it goes right it can be very exciting. A Boar looks ungainly, but can move like lightening and a good boar can run for 20 miles, before it finally stands at bay. Now before I get any ‘poor-little-piggy-wiggy-being-torn-to–pieces’ nonsense, let me say that it is not quite like that. A boar can weigh up to 500 pounds; it is quick as a cat and has razor sharp tusks. It has to be dispatched as quickly as possible, before it does nasty damage to the hounds around it. It cannot be shot because of danger to the hounds and because that would be considered an insult to the Boar. So someone thrusts a short sword (this happened a few years ago) into your hand and tells you to ‘Serve’ (despatch) the beast, which looks bigger and blacker and more annoyed by the minute (just look at those tusks) with a quick thrust behind the shoulder and into the heart – ‘get it right’ they say ‘because if you don’t the Sanglier will...’ well, I did.

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NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 17.3.05

Oh Dear! What can we do with DEFRA? Well, I know what I would like to do with it, but this is a family newspaper and I could not guarantee that it would only be read after the ‘Nine o’clock watershed. This ‘9 o’clock watershed’ business is a nonsense any way. As far as I can see these days, the idea that all children are cosily tucked up in their pits by 2100 hrs is a myth anyway – children seem to be allowed to run riot all night, or until they collapse in a tantrum of tiredness. Never mind, they can catch up their lost sleep at school. They might as well – they don’t seem to learn anything anyway.

But back to DEFRA – I thought that I had lost the capacity for surprise, but this egregious body did surprise me not long since. It tried to slip in an order which said that it was no longer legal to shoot magpies, pigeons, or corvids (last week I wrote ‘corbies’ and some bright spark changed it to ‘corgies’. I may not like corgies, but I have no intention of shooting them) unless you could prove that you had tried all ‘non-lethal methods’ of persuading these verminous birds to fly away and leave you in peace. I think that it was just another example of ‘bunny hugger buggeration’ and DEFRA thought that it could slip it and no one would notice. They did. There was uproar amongst the organisations that represent the Countryside and its various sports, none of whom had been consulted:

“Who – Me?” said DEFRA with a sickly smile:

“Yes – You” said the organisations

“Just joking, lads” said DEFRA slipping backwards round the corner. At the time of writing, it has taken the order with it – back round the corner. Those of us who have seen magpies working a hedgerow at nesting time, with a view to gobbling up the songbird nestlings will be relieved. As will those who have come across an ‘owlt’ ewe (what? Oh all right then, a ‘ewe on her back’) alive, but with her eyes pecked out by the friendly neighbourhood CORBIES will also be relieved. Mind you, I do not blame the birds, they are just ‘good old boys’ doing what comes naturally to get by, as when the pigeons strip your vegetables. I have no idea what these ‘non lethal methods’ of controlling these pests might be and neither I suspect does DEFRA. I wonder if I detect a bit of RSPB influence here. That much respected and politically correct society is dead against the idea that any form of wildlife kills any other form of wildlife. It is very coy about the fact that it has had to start shooting foxes on one of its reserves. It seems that the foxes, being strictly non PC, were threatening a breeding colony of some sort of rare tern. Of course the thing that no body dares to say is that the biggest threat to small birds and mammals in this country is the domestic moggy. Pussy cats are thought to be responsible for the demise of something like 70% of the song birds in this country. This is a disgrace as it deprives the magpies and the corbies of some of their bait. DEFRA really should do something about cats – don’t hold your breath.

A great deal of my working life was taken up with dealing with ‘fallen stock’ – that is the carcases of animals that have died on farms. For as long as I can remember, this problem was dealt with by the Hunts, which provided a free, swift and efficient service for the collection of carcases. This cleared the kett off the farms, for which the farmer was grateful. It also supplied a free source of protein for the hunts. The good flesh was fed to the hounds. The rubbish was put into skips. Every so often a cheerful man came with a lorry and took the stuff away for processing. Nervous readers should skip this next bit. The grease that the processing resulted in was used for many different purposes – some of it provided a base for things like ice cream and cosmetics. Nothing was wasted. DEFRA has put a stop to this. Soon there will be no hunts left to do the ‘knacker round’ – DEFRA has now taken it over, but at a price and with its customary efficiency. I heard of a farmer who rang DEFRA to have them collect a dead cow. For two weeks the carcase lay outside the farm’s holiday cottage, swelling and smelling in the full heat of summer. This did the farmer’s attempt at ‘diversification’ a whole lot of no good – ‘Merrie England’ indeed.

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NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 3.3.05

As I understand it we, in this country, are fools with our money – no that is not quite correct – it is the government that plays silly buggers with our cash. You often hear talk of ‘Government Money’, but, of course, there is no such thing - governments have no money. The money that they spread about and expect us to tug our forelocks and grovel in gratitude for, is in fact OUR money. Money which the government (by sleight of the political hand and threats of the utmost rigour of the law) removes from the modest wedge that we try to earn by the sweat of our brow. This is the money that the government squanders. Ah I hear you say but is it not right that we should spend our money on those less fortunate than ourselves? Absolutely – it is ‘meet, right and our bounden duty’ so to do, but you don’t want that money going to waste do you? As it might be on fat salaries and pensions for MPS? The sad fact is that most MPs are totally useless and dysfunctional. They become MPs because no one but the taxpayer would be fool enough to employ them. You think that I exaggerate? Just try running your finger down a list of MPs and ask yourself just how many of those names you would employ and what you would employ them as. No, I thought not.

And how else does the government spend our money? Well, what about the c. £ 12 billion that we pour every year into the bottomless pit of Brussels and for what? Of course I don’t believe the old fable that Brussels merely endorses our cheque and hands it straight to Dublin, but the Irish are very Good Europeans and very good horse dealers. I remember a friend of mine going to Ireland in search of a ‘Hunter Chaser’. A nice sort of horse was pulled out for his inspection:

“How’s he bred?” he asked the owner. The owner rubbed his stubbly chin and thought before answering:

“Well now and how would you like him bred?” Now that’s the spirit that gets you everywhere in the EU. Here we are with a rotting NHS and septic schools and yet we pour all this money into the Euro pig trough. It is suggested that giving this money is in fact illegal. It seems that it is illegal to pour public money into an operation that does not operate a proper accounting system. For at least 8 years the EU auditors have refused to sign off the EU accounts. The government adopts a very coy attitude to questions on this matter.

What about aid to poor nations, then – surely that is something worthy? I am told that we recently sent £30 million to the government of Uganda – shortly afterwards the Ugandans spent £30 million plus on a new Presidential jet plane. What a strange coincidence!

I am writing this piece in a small, but friendly hotel in London. I have spent two days seeking advice on properties in France. By the way, I am very gruntled by all the kind people, who have expressed sadness in the fact that I am thinking of quitting this country. It is indeed a sadness to feel the desire to quit the country where I was bred and buttered. I am particularly pleased by the letter sent to the Journal by Mr Alan Savage, who regards my scribblings as ‘better than Prozac’ (I take this as a compliment). All I have ever done in my writing is to fight a corner for the Indigenous Countryman and the established traditions of the English countryside. But the England that I have known and loved is fast disappearing along with the rural way of life that I have always treasured. This government is set on destroying that way of life. I feel that the time has come to seek pastures new, if only because there soon will not be any pastures (old or new) left in this country, nor the people left to work them. This makes me disgruntled. This country is being throttled in red tape. Our lives are now ruled by bureaucratic ‘jobsworths’, who have nothing to do but invent stupid rules and shuffle round bits of meaningless paper. My incinerator feeds on a regular diet of DEFRA circulars. I fully expect to receive one banning all incinerators that do not conform with BF/123/ US/ 456/ 2005 as amended in subsection 3 (a). That one should burn nicely.

I can assure Mr Savage that I have no intention of ‘dropping The Journal’s readers’. This column will continue for as long as our Editor wants it to. As for my future, only God knows that. So grateful thanks to all my readers and may they go well with God.

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