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SHOOTING GAZETTE - JUNE

This used to be the time of year when our little hunt used to have its annual Barn Dance. It was a big do. I use the past tense because I am reminded of a little recitation that I sometime commit about a local fruit and produce show. Its punch line is:

“…But there ain’t a Flower show anymore, ‘cos the ‘all went – with the Vicar.”

The aim was to raise a lot of money from those of the Great British Public who were not accustomed to putting their hands in their pockets for Field Sports, or, in other words to tap the ‘Toonies’. ‘Toonies’ in this context was a relative term, as our country is 40 miles from the nearest conurbation. But the Barn did lie between the modest little towns that we will call Rothburn and Otterbury. It attracted the Golden (and disaffected) Youth of both towns, who would ‘chase the glowing hours with flying feet’ and I regret to say, the occasional flying fist. You have to get this in perspective. There has been bad blood between the two towns since time out of memory and goes back to the days when the only means of local employment involved the ‘lifting’ of other peoples’ cattle and the removal of their ‘insights’ – anything portable you could find in the house before you burned it down. Folk memories are currents that run deep and dark, but can surface at any time. Thus the Barn Dance involved the participation of quite a bit of local muscle to keep the peace and a strong contingent of the local constabulary to police the peace – if you see what I mean. The Barn Dance really was in a Barn – Farmer Armstrong’s hay barn to be exact and it was held at the time when last year’s hay had gone and before the current year’s shear had been installed. It was unfortunate that the previous year’s hay time had been of such abundance that a fair bit of old hay was still stacked at the back of the barn. Due to the fact that I was a Joint Master and of not inconsiderable bulk, I was appointed OC Security for the evening and selected a spot at the end of the Bar for my HQ. I also inspected the Constabulary. It looked comfortingly bulky and had brought along ‘The Dog’. The Dog was not so much a dog as a sort of Timber Wolf, which was secured to its handler by what looked like a length of what looked like anchor chain.

The Great British Public turned up in droves and what it may have lacked in social polish it more than made up for it in the amount of ironmongery that it had inserted in various parts of its collective anatomy. If we had been expecting a bit of trouble we were not disappointed. A few preliminary bouts were tactfully dealt with by the tact and diplomacy of our corps of stewards – “a firm grip on the throat, oft turneth away wrath,” as the Good Book saith. The main bout of the evening began by a small spat between two ladies (‘cherchez la femme’ is always a sound maxim when looking for the cause of a problem.) It seemed that the Rose of Otterbury – Ms Slack Alice took the huff at the amount of attention her beau was bestowing on Ms ‘Fag Ash’ Sharon – The Lily of Rothburn. This led to an argument and some verbal abuse. Ms Alice reinforced her claim by forcibly removing a couple of intricately beaded plaits from Ms Sharon’s head. Ms Sharon responded by deeply scoring Ms Alice’s face with her fingernails. This led to unpleasantness and a fight began. At the first sign of major trouble, I made a decision to shorten my lines of communications and made a tactical withdrawal to a forward observation position - underneath a trestle table. I felt that my presence would raise the morale of our Stewards. There was a fine old ruction going on, with shouting, snarling and the crash of breaking glass. Then above the ruckus a single voice was heard. It said ‘WOOF!’ – the Timber Wolf was ready to play. I don’t know if you have ever seen people going 4 deep out through a single door, but it is quite amazing how quickly a large space can be cleared by this method. In a very short time the barn was empty of revellers. Then came a still, small voice – it said - “Fire!” and then “FIRE!” and the first orange tongue of flame could be seen licking up the hay bales at the back:

“EVERYBODY OUT!” I bellowed then I realised that there was nobody left but me. Everybody else was outside watching the ‘sparks fly upwards’. I gave myself permission to leave my post and left.

That’s it really – there isn’t a Barn Dance anymore. It went with the barn.

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