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SHOOTING GAZETTE - DECEMBER
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 Arthur James, 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'. The whins were surrounded and hounds were put in and were quickly on. I took up position behind a stone wall below the whins with a clear field of fire below and a pellet proof barrier in front. The fox popped out of the whins. There was fusillade of shots and the fox popped back in again. This time he very sensibly popped in to a large hole. The Law says that the fox should be bolted and shot, but the Master decreed that this hole was an active badger sett and as such must not be disturbed. I unloaded my gun with considerable relief. We went on to the big wood up the burn. This place is always lifting with foxes 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. As a virtuous man, I had had no dealings with BB and had no idea what a kick it carries. 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 and Socialism. Mind you, whilst the suppression of Field sports is seen as one of the leading principles of Socialism in this country, this unpleasant state of mind is by no means universal. The Right to Hunt was one of the main planks in the platform of the French Revolution. I remember going out with a pack of Staghounds near Paris. We were accompanied all day by two van loads of Gendarmes. The Master explained to me that in France it was illegal to interfere with a hunt (this was in the days of Brigitte Bardot and 'les Anarchistes'). I asked him what happened if the Great Unwashed appeared? "Then" he said - "les Gendarmes 'ave the big sticks and they 'ave their sport." They were also jolly useful and stopped the traffic on every road the hunt came to. Engels (he of the famous comedy duo Marx'n Engels) was a mad keen foxhunter. It is even recorded that he used, on occasion, to take old Marx with him on his forays with the Cheshire. What Marx made of it all is sadly not recorded. Oh yes and here's a little puzzle for you. Who said? "The attraction of hunting is that it acts on the mind like a poultice on a sore" Bloody good that innit? I could not have put it better myself. Who said it? Leon Trotsky, that's who. Old Wat's Border Terrier died and we were all very sorry for him. It was the last of a famous strain. Then he slipped on the Fell and broke his leg. Wat lived alone and the neighbours rallied round. Jim called in to see if he could do owt? "Aye there's some tatties in a sack under the sink - ye could peel a few on them." Jim returned: "There's nowt in the sack but the body of a dog" "Hooshyerbugger! I doubt but I buried the sack of tatties by mistake."

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SHOOTING GAZETTE - NOVEMBER
I was standing in the Long Room at Purdeys, drinking a cup of coffee and minding my own business (as is my wont) when I was suddenly attacked by a Baroness. This is worthy of note because Baronesses usually ignore me and, by and large, I am very happy for that state to maintain, by and large, as I find them pretty terrifying creatures. This one did not disappoint. She was disgruntled about something I had written in this magazine - "something rude about her friend Jaques." I am rude to and about Jaques on a regular basis - the same basis that he stands on to be rude to and about me. I think that we both regard it as a sort of minor Blood Sport. I think that I have written before about the good and ardent Christian who regards himself as a mutual friend of the pair of us - a somewhat difficult position to maintain. He feels it his Christian Duty to try to reconcile Jaques and James and to this end lays on wonderful luncheons to 'bring us together'. Neither Jaques nor James came up on the last bus, so we both realise that it is in our continuing mutual interest for the lunches to continue and so we both behave with extreme prejudice, until our kindly host flees to catch his train (he has a fixation about always catching the 1600 to Reading, although the Dear only knows why anybody with a reasonable grasp on sanity should want to go to Reading) usually leaving J&J to deal with a decanter of decent Port. This we do in high good humour and without so much as a blood stain on the tablecloth. Indeed, so well do we get on (off the screen) that we have just started working together - in another place, I am sorry to say. However, in this place, for the sake of free lunches and to keep the Baroness's adrenalin pumping (not to mention the Kentish Keepers) I shall continue to insult the barbated old goat. And talking about Beards - how nice to see a picture of Lawlor in the Magazine. I am glad that the old boy is mending. I am not surprised that the Vigil Keepers were a bit nervous of him to begin with. He has a fierce look on him, altogether, beside being built like the proverbial brick… well, WC and having hands on him the size of shovels. But I will say no more, being ever mindful of the old Irish saying - "Is minic a bhris beal duine a shorn." Which translates (more or less) "It's often a fella's mouth broke his nose." And isn't that the truth of it. My fat friend Willy Poole has all the luck. He cajoled me into driving him out to 'The Gate'. The Gate is a nice little old fashioned pub that isn't near anywhere. I was driving because a soft drink sees me through the evening whilst Poole sucks up whisky like a pump. Why were we going to the Gate? I asked and he muttered something about a presentation, which sounded most unlikely to me. But damned if he wasn't right. Halfway through the evening they upped and presented him with this stalking stick - a Rolls- Royce of a stalking stick made of Red Wood with all brass fittings, a little hole in the top for a dog whistle and it even had a little engraved brass plaque on it - "Willy's Lang Stand." And what's more the local bard had even written a poem about it and as you will find all of this as hard to believe as I did, I hereunder present the poem

" There's Band Stands and Hat stands
Grand Stands an' Taxi Stands
But nowt sae fancy as the Lang Stand
Now owned by Willy Poole

It's six foot lang an nice and strang
Tae stop him fallin' wie a bang
Tae steady the shot nay matter how lang
An' the hand of Willy Poole

Here's a health tae stalkin' in all its forms
As ye struggle on through brackin and borns
Through clarts an' bogs, thickets an' thorns
'Cos that's the World o' Willy Poole

A day oot wie your rifle's grand
So enjoy yer sport afore it's banned
You're one o' the last heroes o' wor land
So it's Good Luck tae Willy Poole

Well, yes, ok up to a point, but the bugger has all the luck all ready. He's fat, greedy, lecherous and is locally known as 'Deep Poole' because - "Ye might as well thra' whisky in a pond as let yon Wully sup it" and I won't tell you what he said when I told him about being chased by the Baroness.

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SHOOTING GAZETTE - OCTOBER
October can be a glorious month in the woods and on the hills. It used to be the month when I went to Scotland for a stag. I remember one trip when I had a great argument with a Stalker, which you must admit is a brave thing to do. The argument was about whether deer could swim or not. I maintained that red deer were famous swimmers. Not so cried the Stalker. But, I insisted, I had seen stags swimming. Ah yes, said he, the shtags could swim nae bother, It was the hinds he was talking about - it was impossible for them to swim. Why so? I asked. Why, Man because they fill up with water and drown. Why so? I asked. Had I never looked at a hind's rear end, said he? Often enough I said. Well then, said he? Well then what, said I? He shuffled his tackety boots and stared off in the direction of the Hebrides. At last he could contain himself no longer, what sort of fool was I that I did not see that a hind had an 'apertoor' at the back end? were she to enter to water she would just fill up with water through this 'apertoor' until she drowned. There is no use attempting to argue with 40 years of experience and generations of bred-in wisdom, so there you are, you learn something new every day. I should not be surprised if we did not see a bit of an argument in the letter column about that one. Some years ago I went stalking in S.West Scotland and, of course, chose a period when the Atlantic Ocean was chucking in front after front. The rain would have been perpendicular if the gales had not driven it horizontal and no self-respecting deer was coming out to play in that weather, so the stalker and I spent a lot of time yarning in the truck. Amongst its contents I noticed a large bright orange golfing umbrella, whereby it seems hung a story. The Estate attracted a lot of German punters. One of these was very large and even louder. His Frau on the other hand, whilst being engineered on the same generous lines, was almost totally silent. Although she was obviously not enamoured with stalking (or anything else that anyone could see, forbye the eating) Mein Herr insisted that she accompany him everywhere to rejoice in the success of his Venery. This success was not notable and by the end of the week certain marks of desperation were starting to show. Then came the day when a watery sun peeked through on a ragged looking dawn. The little party set forth and, mirabile dictu, there, feeding away in a clear fell was a nice six-pointer buck. With the wind full in the face stalker and rifle set off to creep and crawl to a handy knoll that would give them cover and a handy firing position for a nice 70-yard shot. The Frau was left - a silent Loden lump at the edge of the trees. The team got to the knoll. Mein Herr crawled to the top, sighted with great care and started to ease the safety off. At which moment several things happened. It started to rain and the buck, which had been feeding quietly all this time, threw up his head and, with a horrified glance, fled. The team said much the same thing in two different languages, but what had spooked the buck? They looked round and there was the huge and silent Frau wrestling to raise a huge bright orange golfing umbrella. Mein Herr said not another word, but hurled his rifle to the ground and jumped on it. He then marched across the clearing, felled his wife with a massive right hook and disappeared into the trees (probably to annex Austria) leaving the stalker with two rifles, 20 stone of recumbent Hausfrau and an orange umbrella, which the stalker kept in lieu of the tip he never received. Old Dr Cox was a much-respected G.P. on the Borders and it is good to say that his son carries on the respect and the practice to this day. Cox Sr was a great believer in keeping his thumb on the public pulse as well as private ones. There was no better place to do this than in the shop of Jimmy the Barber - the local gossip exchange. So if the good Doctor was needed urgently (this was in the days when telephones were the exception rather than the rule) Jimmy's was a good place to try. A young Elliot was trying to make his way into the world before he was properly due. The anxious father was sent on an urgent quest for Dr Cox. Red faced and sweating he burst into the calm of the Barber's shop: "Dr Cox in here?" Jimmy paused momentarily in the midst of a tonsorial massacre and shifted the Woodbine in his lips:

"Nay, Lad, arnly shaves and hair cuts in here."

SHOOTING GAZETTE - SEPTEMBER
A letter in the last issue from a Lady Gamekeeper taking me to task for something that I done wrote in the issue before that. I don't mind constructive criticism, as long as the people concerned have actually taken the trouble to READ the article, but all too often they have just skimmed through it (can't blame them for that) and then made an assumption on what I had written when in fact it was not what I had written. This is what this good lady had obviously done and had then written a long and angry letter of protest. Normally I ignore such letters, but she did make one accusation that I feel duty bound to refute. She says (and I quote) "If Arthur James knew the problems keepers get, he'd be glad to shoot them." Well, that rocked me back a bit. I can honestly say that I have never thought of shooting a Gamekeeper. For starters it would mean yet another variation on my FAC and I do not know what round would be suitable. For seconders, I have great admiration for these magnificent creatures and, like Hunt Servants; they must be regarded as an endangered species. I have to admit that there are certain keepers I have known about whom I have had thoughts of mild GBH, but I have never acted on these thoughts, unlike my friend Big Jock. Big Jock herds a valley with numerous foxes all of which he regards as his personal property. He heard tell that a local keeper was treading on his turf and therefore on his toes. This is not a good thing to do as Big Jock stands nearly 7 feet square above his toes. He met the keeper concerned outside the pub one night and, lifting him up by the lapels of his coat, growled - "If I catch ye above the bridge again, I'll hoy ye in the bluidy river." I think that we all agree that close personal contact between hunting and shooting people is essential for the continuance of mutual goodwill. And talking of shooting foxes, which as a rule I do not, I am minded of a lad I know who does a lot of agricultural contracting. He spends long hours in the cab of his combine and, for diversion, from what must become a somewhat tedious process, he relieves the boredom by carrying a shot gun in the cab and taking pot shots at passing wildlife. On this particular day a fox popped out of the stand of wheat he was working on, so he upped with his 'bundook' and terminated it with extreme prejudice (as they say in the CIA). It was getting dark when he finished the wheat and he wondered what to do with the mortal husk of the dead fox, so he slung it in his pick up. Now the farmer he was harvesting for was an elderly man who had not been out to the field and knew nothing about the fox. In their declining years the shared passion between the farmer and his wife was for their flock of very special hens (Speckled Whynots, or something). The contractor was well aware of this passion, but being a man with a warped sense of humour, he crept up upon the hen house in the darkening and lifting the shuttered door, he inserted the front end of the dead fox and dropped the shutter so that the hind quarters nd brush remained outside in plain sight. It was this plain sight that greeted the farmer's wife when she came out in the morning to release and feed the hens. The conclusion to which she jumped was understandable: "John! John! Come quick and bring the gun! There's a fox at the hens!" Old John came hirpling out and seeing what he saw, loosed off two barrels at it. The blast of shot had the effect of reducing the front of the hen house to match wood and of reducing several hens to feathers and chicken mince. It also further mangled the mortal remains of the fox. These were displayed with some pride to the contractor when he returned to work. He, canny fellow, acted like the Tar Baby in the tale of Brer Fox and said nothing, containing his feelings until he was alone in the cab of the combine. I know a man who used to travel around the Highlands and Islands flogging animal feed blocks. He was once on the tiny island of Jura (c. 12 miles by 24 miles) there he was talking to an ancient crofter. In the course of chat he asked the old man if he had ever been to the mainland? The old man thought carefully about this and eventually replied in the negative. He had never been to the mainland but had - "travelled extensively on Jura."

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SHOOTING GAZETTE - AUGUST
Many, many moons ago when both the world and I were young, I moved to a new MFHship. There were two reasons for this move. The first was - money. I had loved the wild hunting in the old country, but wild hunting = wild country and wild country = very few people and very few people = very little money. In those far off days, most hunts were run on the 'Guarantee' system. The Hunt Committee guaranteed to pay the Master £X per annum, in return for which the MFH guaranteed to hunt the country Y days per week and pay all running costs. The MFH might pocket any surplus, but must find any deficit out of his own pocket. This may present problems if all that there is in the pocket of the magisterial coat is a lambsfoot knife, a roll of baler band, a rather grubby packet of mints and a neat little foil wrapped package that Barbers used to describe as - 'something for the weekend'. I carried it as an act of faith in the belief that once I became a MFH my acne would disappear and nubile ladies would fight to share my bed. The packet stayed in my pocket for a gey long time. As a failed Chartered Accountant, I had worked out my costings with great care and total inaccuracy. I was an optimist in those days and when I tell you that I received the princely sum of £2,000 per annum out of which, I fed the horses and hounds, ran a lorry and a pick-up and employed 1.5 people AND ran my own teeth AND went to the pub on a Saturday night, you will see that I was not only a truly failed accountant, but a fruit and nut case as well. Even so I struggled along for 3 seasons. What finally did for me was when petrol went to 3/9 (Three shillings and nine pence = c.18p) per gallon - perhaps you would like to pause and think about that. I asked the Committee for more money. The Committee was convinced that I drank the Guarantee and told me, not totally politely, to shove off - so I did. That was one reason for the move; the second was that this particular hunt had been engaged in bloody internecine strife since time out of memory. The origins of this feud were neither known nor cared about. All I knew and cared about was that I became collateral damage and skint to boot. So I packed my worldly goods, which, with 6 terriers and a gamecock, fitted in the back of an old Bedford van and moved 150 miles North and East into a country of gentle rolling downland. It was a gentle country too - no feuds. I used to say that as a hunt it was like the 40-year-old virgin - thankful for small mercies. Of course the first thing a new MFH has to do is to spend his summer prowling the country and getting to know people. There were little villages tucked away in the downs where modern life had hardly impinged and where the agricultural climacteric of 1970s was not even a cloud on the horizon. It was to one of these remote hamlets that I came one evening and was pleased to hear voices raised lustily in song, aided and abetted by thundering chords on an only slightly out of tune piano. Now, I love a good singsong in the pub, so I rubbed my hands and prepared for action. Then I paused and listened with more attention. I knew the tune, but never thought to hear it being committed, con brio, gusto and I wot not what else in a quiet English village. The tune was undoubtedly the 'Horst Wessel' Song - that well known Nazi marching song: "Die fahne hoch- die reihen fest geschlossen"; except that in broad Wessex it came out as:"Der fanny hock - der rains fast gersploshing" - hardly Hoch Deutsche, but an approximation of German none the less. Had, I wondered, a crack detachment of Waffen SS been dropped into darkest Wiltshire during the War and forgotten in the Peace - like those old Japs who were always turning up on remote Pacific Islands? There was only one way to find out, so with straight back, beating heart and boggling mind, I marched into the pub. The singing quavered to a halt. Everything looked normal; there was no one who looked like an obvious Standartenfuehrer. There was even a local farmer whom I knew had fought with the Wiltshire Regiment. There was a pleasant faced young man sitting at the piano. I bought him a pint. We chatted. He was a schoolmaster, or so he said: "That song" I said. He roared with laughter: "Horst Wessel? It's a good tune." I nodded round the bar: "Do they know what it is?" "Haven't a clue - as you probably heard they've adapted the German into Wessex demotic. They just think it's a rattling good tune. They call it 'The Horse Weasel Song.' "