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SHOOTING GAZETTE - MARCH
I don't suppose many readers of this magazine go to Hunt Balls - well no more
do I - not no more. I hate Hunt Balls.
For the twenty-five years that I hunted hounds, I used to attend them out of
the stern sense of duty. As soon as I had hung up my horn, I packed my tail
coat away in a trunk, along with my sense of social duty and plenty of mothballs.
I then recluded and retired to my armchair with a book and a pipe. I am a true
misanthrope like many woodland stalkers. A friend of mine has the theory that
all Roe stalkers are socially dysfunctional, because they spend so many hours
alone in the woods. I would point out that I was socially dysfunctional long
before I started Roe stalking - ever since childhood in fact. Any psychologist
reading this will have scribbled - "psychopath? " on his pad, by
now. Indeed any psychologist would find a rich vein to mine in the Shooting
Gazette - look at Lawlor, for instance and, of course Jaques - nutty as fruit
cakes and what about Young Will? Definite incipient Megalomania there, I fear.
Back to Hunt Balls: during my years as a Master of Foxhound, the iron well
and truly entered into my soul (see Book of Common Prayer). I am all for Hunt
Balls, just so as I do not have to attend. So, did I never enjoy them? I suppose
that I did as a young man when I used to set out with my hopes and acne all
a-glow at the thought of some hot totty, but somehow my hopes were never realised.
However there are some Hunt Balls that stick in my memory.
There was a Hunt Ball in the south. It was decided that when the band stopped
for supper, we would have a mock hunt. The very fit Master of the Beagles in
his green tailcoat would make an ideal quarry and he would be hunted by a pack
of bitches of which there seemed to be an enthusiastic plenty. The time came
and we set the 'fox' away. We gave him plenty of law although the Ladies took
some restraining, and then blew them away. On a screaming scent (Arpege, I
suspect) they ran through the passages and out into the car park where they
nearly rolled him over. They coursed him back into the house and were snapping
at his brush when he went to ground in the Gents. I was sent in to bolt him
and was just in time to see him disappear through the window and out into the
darkness. The Bitches were marking strong when I came out to explain the situation,
but before I could explain, there was a screech of - "There he is!" Dear
Old Col Pole-Wigley had hunted the Beagles back in the 1940s and still wore
his old green tailcoat. He had been enjoying a quiet bite of supper with 'The
Memsahib' and her sister and they were now heading for their table, but the
Bitches had blood in the eye and all they saw was a green coat. The Colonel
only had time to say - "I say, what…" before he disappeared
beneath a screaming worrying crowd of Harpies, from out of which appeared a
stream of garments starting with his shoes and ending with… well never
mind: "Worry! Worry! Worry!" we all shouted and they did until the
extent of their mistake was laid bare for all to see. We hurried the old chap
into the Gents and reunited him with his clothing - all except for one coat
tail. This mysteriously reappeared next morning, tacked to the door of the
Beagle kennels. I must say that the old boy was very good about it and as for
the Memsahib - she said she had never seen anything like it since Quetta in
1936… I recall another Hunt Ball . It was a first for my younger brother.
I was given firm parental instructions about looking after him. I set out for
the Ball
in my pickup and, not wishing to waste scarce time or expensive petrol (3 shillings
a gallon), I stopped on the way to pick up a deceased Blackface tup. In the
small hours of the morning, I was having a restoring glass, when someone came
up and whispered in my ear - my Brother was in the Gents and a 'bit under the
weather'. Under the weather, my eye, he was pallatic and horizontal. With the
help of some stalwart farmers, we bore him, horizontally, to my pick-up and
laid him out in the back. It was some hours later that I weaved my way home
(no breathalyser in those days) and with my mind much occupied went to bed
and forgot all about the brother. I found him the next morning, snoring a storm
and cuddling the tup in what can only be described as an erotic embrace.
So Hunt Balls to you, Mate. I've had 'em.
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