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NEWCASTLE JOURNAL 28.10.04 – Sussex

I have been on a mini speaking tour during the last three weeks, and, although I have received great hospitality and very kind audiences, My Goodness, but I am sick of living out of suitcases. As the speaking has all been in aid of charitable causes, I do not accept a fee – just my expenses. There is a bit of self-interest involved as this speaking does help to keep my image in the public psyche, where I hope it will pop up when my new book comes out. When will that be? I hear you cry. Not before I’ve finished it, Pet, but thank you for asking and watch this space. It will be a very good investment. At one dinner, one of my novels (£15 RRP) made over £200 at auction. This was one of the books that WH Smith banned – a fact that has now become an attractive selling point. By the way, I am, of course, terribly sorry that WHS is foundered on a financial reef, but if the firm will go round being PC and banning books by fine upstanding citizens like myself, it is fair nigh to be expected.

Part of my tour took me as far afield as Cumberland – my family came from Westmorland, so I have refused, firmly, to accept the concept of Cumbria. In Cumberland, I spoke to a Farmers’ Group. There is real and widespread anger about the way this Government is treating the indigenous countryman and the anger is not just about Hunting, although that theme does run through the pattern of rural discontent. I told the Cumbrians my story of the French farmer whom I met at a market in Central France. This farmer was selling ‘saucisson’ piled on a wooden trestle table in the open air. He cut off a piece for me to try, with a wicked looking knife, which had been honed to a needle point. The sausage was delicious, even and in spite of the ash from the tab, which was permanently fixed to his lower lip. He told me that he had a pig farm. He killed his own pigs and made his own sausages on farm, then flogged them in the market. But, I asked him; did he never have problems with the officials of the Ay Ay Say (French for EEC)? He drew himself up to his full five feet (you can metricate that is you wish) waved his razor sharp knife at me and said:

“Monsieur, maintenant en France le Gestapo est MORT!” He left me in no doubt as to the fate of any official who dared to come nosing round HIS farm – into the sausage machine with them. The farmers in Cumberland left me in no doubt that the Gestapo is alive and well and living in Cumberland – it has just changed its name to DEFRA. Anyone fancy a slice of DEFRA sausage? It would be one way of removing the surplus of Civil Servants – especially those who are not civil and serve no one but themselves.

Another of my engagements took me to Sussex, a County that I do not know well, although I was a mud student on the Kent / Sussex borders, many years ago. The ‘Weald’ is a generic term for the low country that lies between the North and South Downs. ‘Weald’ is a corruption of the Saxon ‘Wald’. This is not surprising as it was once all forest. The area is still blessed with many areas of ancient woodland and very beautiful it looked with the leaf turning. The farms that were hacked out of the forest are on glutinous ‘Wealdon’ clay. Much of this land is still pasture and, in my student days, this was a great dairy area. One of the perks of my visit was a day with the Crawley and Horsham Foxhounds. We crossed many farms in the day, but not one dairy farm – suckler herds are now the thing. I had expected the country to be very suburban and, indeed, the edges are being steadily nibbled away, but the C&H is blessed by the fact that its core consists of a block of large and successful landed estates, all of which are enthusiastic supporters of the Hunt. In this matter the Hunt is truly blessed, as it is with its wise and experienced management. I had a lovely day, especially as I was allowed the privilege of a quad to follow the terrier man on his quad. I repaid his kindness by pushing HIS quad out of a bottomless clay hole in one of the twisting woodland paths. For this bit of kindness, I received a full blessing of Wealden clay all over my coat and breeches. I had forgotten that this clay dries into concrete. My coat got me some funny looks as I went through Gatwick Airport on the journey home. It is quite unbrushable and is now wallowing in a tank of water. Ah well – it was all for Charity.

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NEWCASTLE JOURNAL 21.10.04

John (‘Pop t’other pie in t’oven, Pauline Pet’) Prescott wants to pop a bun in our oven. When I say ‘our’, I mean those of us who live and work in the North East. The Deputy Pie Man wishes to impregnate us with an ‘Elected Regional Assembly’. Before you succumb to a delirium of joy at the DPM’s newly discovered enthusiasm for local democracy allow me to point out to you that for some generations, NE politics has been dominated by a deeply entrenched socialist Mafia, which scratches no backs apart from its own. Take the current County Council (well, some bugger should) 10 of the 12 members of the Political Administration of N.C.C are from wards in SE Northumberland and represent generations of entrenched political power. This will slide seamlessly into the ERA, when the strategic powers are removed from County Councils. Ah, some may say, but now we have the Liberal Democrats in the mixture – that will upset the Labour cart. Heaven Preserve Your Innocence! The Lib – Dems are neither liberal nor democratic – they lust only for power and will do anything and deal with anybody to achieve it and keep it – they are natural Mafiosi (even that great and good man, Alan Beith, is in favour of an ERA: a fact that might seem to pose more questions than it answers).

So, what form would this Trojan Horse of political malpractice take? I am told that it would consist of 25 members elected on a constituency basis; so rural Northumberland would get 2. 8 members would be elected by Proportional Representation, according to political party voting numbers and from party lists. Now if you have understood this so far, then there is something wrong with you. The whose point of the exercise is that no one is supposed to understand it – just close your eyes and pin your vote on the donkey. I have heard it said that the PR system benefits independents and minority parties. In the ERA such wretched creatures would be bulldozed flat and have a ‘sink estate’ built over them.

The next question you may like to ask is about your friendly neighbourhood District Council – forget it – DCs will be toast. But don’t worry you will have a choice when it comes to local, Local Government.

Option A would be for an emasculated version of the current County Council. I would remind you that the current CC has raised its share of the Council Tax by over 12% per annum for the last 4 years. The DCs have raised theirs, on average, by less than 3% over the same period.

Option B would be for Northumberland to be cut into two unitary districts. One section would be for the urban areas and the other would cover all rural areas.

What powers would the ERA have? I am glad you asked that. I far as I can make out, the ERA has no direct power, except for being able to raise local taxes. The ERA’s main task is to funnel down the directives from Downing Street. The ERA would be responsible for Planning - Housing Allocation - Transport (outwith roads) -Culture, to include tourism and sports (a hefty grant for Foxhunting, I hope) Public Health Strategy (no buses; you can all walk) Rural Policy (the buggeration of all country people) Environment – Crime Reduction – Fire and Rescue. I want you to note the word responsible, because although the ERA will be responsible for all the items listed above, it will have no actual authority over them. That will still come from Westminster. In other words you will be asked to vote for a system of ‘Taxation without Representation’. Historians amongst you will remember that that was the phrase that lost us America (oh yes; it belonged to us once) and I would not mind a bit if it brought us ‘Independence for Northumberland’. After all, the Kingdom of Northumbria once stretched from York to Aberdeen.

So, there you are, that is great fat porky that the Deputy Pie Man is desperate to thrust down our throats. I think it is all a scam. It has nothing to do with local democracy and everything to do with another layer of ‘fat government’; another layer of unnecessary bureaucracy; another set of bloated pensions, expense accounts and salaries to be paid for out of your ever dwindling thrifty. In short the ERA is a political deep fried Mars Bar – it could seriously damage your democratic health. However it is still said to be a free country, so vote as you wish.

I shall vote NO to the Assembly and ‘B’ for the option.

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NEWCASTLE JOURNAL 14.10.04

Hands up all those who have eaten a ‘‘Crubeen’’ – oh dear! What have you all been doing? Tucking into the deep fried Mars bars, I suppose. ‘Crubeens’ would be much better for you, although your first reaction – both to the thought and the sight of the finished articles piled on your plate – might be somewhat negative. I have just returned from Ireland. Readers of this column who survive for more than a month, may remember that I was setting off to Dublin, last Spring, to talk at a Field Sports Seminar, when I made the mistake of attempting a joke with an airport security jobsworth. For this grave error, I was detained, hoyed off the plane and very nearly arrested – Heigh Ho! Anyway the Irish, who take a properly relaxed view about officialdom, did me the honour of delaying the Seminar until last week. In view of this generosity of spirit, I took the precaution of flying from a different airport and by a different airline. I was rather shocked by the laxity of security – the security man actually tried a joke on me – well, I mean, really, what? I am glad to say that the Seminar was officially deemed a success and what is more, I was actually encouraged to sing afterwards! When I think of the lengths that people will go to, in this country, to prevent me from singing… Then, when I was being removed from the Seminar (at about 0200 hrs) hoarse from drinking out of wet glasses, I was kidnapped by the ‘Mountainy Men’. The ‘Mountainy Men’, as their name suggests live right out-bye in the mountains. They are hardy men with a proper contempt for all rules and regulations, including and especially, those concerned with licensing hours and physical restraint. As they are all wildly bearded and about 7 feet tall and 5 feet wide and have a deep-seated hatred of the English, it is politic to comply with their suggestions. They plied me with yet more whisky and suggested that I sing some more. So I did – not wishing to give offence, you understand. I finally hit my pillow somewhere around 03.30 hours – ah well… But what of the ‘Crubeens’? A ‘Crubeen’ is a pig’s trotter, which has been lightly boiled for some 12 hours. It is considered a great delicacy. It does not look much, but is in fact delicious. You pull it apart with your fingers, pick out all the juicy bits of meat and suck the bones. I had two helpings. Not only does it taste good, but, By Golly, it does you good. A ‘Crubeen’ will ream out the intestines like nothing else I know, apart from young cider. I am not sure that I can see them catching on in Northumberland, but they have certainly been added to my list of personal delicacies. I also managed two days hunting. Foxhunting is alive and well in Ireland and under no political threat – nationally anyway. The political problems all tend to be local. In as much as, whenever there is an internal hunt feud (the Irish do rather tend to internecine strife) there is a schism. The schism goes off and starts its own pack of hounds. This means that within a ‘recognised’ Hunt Country, there may be as many as 5 ‘unrecognised’ Hunts all operating in the same area and accepting no rules or regulations – sometimes meeting in the same area on the same day.

Hunting is a political issue in this country and is hotting up. As I understand it, the House of Lords has come up with the wheeze of rolling up the Bill that Mr Blair originally intended and sticking it back in his own mouth or any other convenient orifice. This might be a grave political discomfort to him. You may have noticed that Mr Blair has retired to the netty whenever the subject of hunting has been debated in the House of Commons. I fear that he may now have to emerge from the closet and stand up for whatever principles he may be able to muster. This could be a problem for him. It would appear that when it comes to principles, he keeps them tucked well down in his pockets. His pockets appear to be deep and his arms short. After all it does take a very deep pocket to conceal a W.M.D. and he has not managed to find the wretched things yet. He may well discover that he is in for ‘interesting times’ within the meaning of the old Chinese curse. This is especially pertinent as he seems to have totally ignored the Chinese science of ‘feng shui’ when it comes to buying his new house. I understand that it stands right by the spot where the old Tyburn gallows stood. Many hundreds of unfortunates danced the ‘hangman’s jig’ on that site. There would be a certain irony if the new householder choked to his political death on Hunting.

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NEWCASTLE JOURNAL 7.10.04

Do you realise that there are only 12 weeks to Christmas? What a ghastly thought. I hate Christmas. Still as people say – ‘it’s a wonderful time for the kiddies.’ That is may be, but I don’t like ‘kiddies’. When I was a child, there were no ‘kiddies’. Kids were young goats, or possible, young roe deer, although some stalkers prefer to call them calves. A child was a child – a young human animal that had to be transformed into a human being. There is a lot of argument as to the moment when a human animal becomes a human being. Some will have it to be the moment of conception. Others maintain that it occurs when the foetus reaches a certain stage of development. If you want my opinion (and you are going to get it) the question is nothing like as simple as some would have it. I speak as a proven sire (the Boy is doing very well thank you, he is an IT wizard in London and gets wed next Spring) and a stockman. Over the years, I have dealt with any number of young animals. I have done my best to ease them into the world and, in extremis, eased them out of it. I have nurtured them and where it has been applicable, trained them for their purpose in life. All of this has helped to produce a certain philosophy in my regard to human children. I do not think that when they appear in the world, muling, puking and bloody, that they are any more than human animals (and all we humans are animals at base). The young human animal has to be trained to be a Human Being – its nature has to be nurtured. Look around you today and you will see some who have never made it and are never likely to – their natures have never been nurtured, or trained. A human is a working animal. All working animals have to be trained during their formative years. These are the early period when the young mind is most malleable. The Society of Jesus had a saying to the effect that if it had control of a child up to the age of seven, the Society would give you a Jesuit. You may not want a Jesuit, but if you want a socially functional and well-adjusted child – those first 7 years are vital. Allow any young animal to run uninstructed and unchecked for too long and you are looking at a potential disaster. This fact is clear for all to see (those who wish to see that is) on our urban streets. By the time the Powers that Should Be, but seldom are, have got round to handing out restrictions for anti-social behaviour, or electronic ‘tagging’ the battle for the soul of a child has been lost, or, more likely, never fought. What a bloody waste and yet another victim to bloody Political Correctness.

I can give you a small example of what I mean. A couple of years ago, I was persuaded to take on a German Wirehaired Pointer from a rescue home. He was a truly beautiful dog, but had been regarded purely as a fashion accessory. He and his pedigree had been through three different homes and, when I say ‘been through’, I mean exactly that, he was a well-bred working dog who had been given no proper outlet for his bred-in skills and energies. He was 15 months old and, if he knew his name, he did not respond to it. He was a disaster waiting to happen. I will not harrow you with details of the ‘Trials of Tigger’ – I called him that because he appeared to be made of springs. I will tell you that, although he likes to do everything in overdrive, he is now a charming and obedient dog, who loves his work. Getting him from where he was to where he is was a very hard lead for Tigger and for myself. It could have been avoided had he received a firm but gentle upbringing from the start.

Ah! I hear you say, but Tigger is only a dog. You cannot compare him with a human child. Yes I can. The same principles of nurture and training apply as well to a human puppy as to a canine child. You may notice that I have deliberately avoided the question of genetic influences, which I do consider to be important. The last time I tried to discuss them in this column, I was told that I was out of order, so I won’t.

As to ‘Kids’ my advice is to forget about them – rejoice in them as young animals and then make them into human beings.

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