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SHOOTING GAZETTE - APRIL 2005

The other day I attended a luncheon meeting in London. It was a Press do hosted by the Countryside Alliance to put the Press in the picture as to the current political situation. Simon Hart spoke eloquently and fluently throughout the meal and told us nothing. The message really was that there was nothing to tell. The whole business of the Hunting Act lay under a cloud of obscurity. It was obvious that the Government was blundering about in the same cloud. It had opened a nasty can of worms and had no idea where the worms might be crawling to. By the time that you read this, things may have become clearer. What was made clear at the meeting was that a General Election was hull down on the horizon and that there were a lot of Labour MPs perched on the edge of very slender majorities. Were CA supporters to pile into these constituencies and help the opponents of those precariously placed Labour MPs, then changes for the better might result. Many of you may remember the way that the egregious Jackie Ballard was slid on her ear from her seat in Taunton. All right thinking readers of the Shooting Gazette (and I cannot but think that that means ALL readers) should get off their backsides and pile into these constituencies.

But what of the lunch, I hear you cry - it was a set menu and I was interested to see that the main course was:

“Roast leg of English with Rosemary”. This seemed to beg the question ‘English What?’ Whatever it was it was very tough and more or less inedible, but that’s the English for you. It was probably the remains of some blootered binge drinker that Chef had picked up in Soho on his way to work.

Next time we might have ‘Roast Leg of Welsh’ – I just hope that it will not be Alun Michael – I couldn’t fancy that. It may be of interest to note that the Lunch was held at the Farmers’ Club. You are forgiven for thinking that whilst the Farmers’ Club may not be able to print a menu properly, there is no excuse for it to present poor quality meat.

Thinking about farmers and we should be, makes me think of ‘leys’. I remember being out hunting some years ago, with one of the smarter packs. We came to a gate into a grass field. The gate had a rather crudely painted sign on it saying ‘Newley’. I was next to an exquisite couple, who had ‘Tooney’ painted all over them:

“What does that mean?” asked the female,

“Oh, I expect it’s just the farmer’s name,” said her male partner and without more ado, he threw open the gate and galloped straight across the seeds. I am glad to say that the MFH explained his mistake to him, albeit in terms that these days might have laid the MFH open to prosecution under Section 5 of the Public Order Act. I think that I have got that right, but I earnestly entreat all readers to check up on this one. Perhaps the Editor (all bow) might get his legal department to lay it out for us all. The provisions of Section 5 (if I have got that right) are a load of dung that is just waiting to fall on all sporting people. There are some overworked and emotional Gamekeepers of my acquaintance, who might be especially vulnerable in this respect and might, just might, lay themselves open to criminal prosecution and all the dung that that carries with it. I was not aware of it until my friendly local copper explained it to me. Ignorance of the law is no defence.

Talking about ‘leys’, I am old enough to remember the days when there were serious TV programmes dedicated to Farming. I treasure the memory of a discussion programme on ‘leys’ and the panellist who said, in all seriousness:

“Well, I always say that the secret of a good ley is a good firm bottom”. Who amongst us would disagree with that?

As we are thinking about misapprehension, I would point out that it often arises from confusions with dialects. I remember an old lady in Devon who took her husband to the doctor. The doctor was young and recently arrived from darkest Ruislip (Middx). When the old lady complained about her husband’s ‘yearin’, dialect dysfunction clicked in. The Doc handed her a specimen bottle and suggested that she get her husband to fill it and then bring it back so that the contents might be tested:

“You silly born bugger – t’idn’t nothing wrong with his witter – ‘ee can piss like a cart horse. ‘Tis ‘is yearin. The silly old bugger’s so deaf as a bliddy post”.

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