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SPORTING SHOOTER - FEBRUARY 2004
And talking about partridges, which we were not, but we are now,
our hills are alive with the buggers now, or at least they were back
in the autumn. I do not approve of this. It is unnatural to stick
a lot of foreign birds on a wind blasted hillside and treat them
like clay pigeons with wings. It may be good business, but I cannot
bring myself to regard it as sport. Sport is the pursuit of wild
game as the Actress said to the Bishop. And talking of sport, I am
reminded of the man who lived in the midlands and was an enthusiastic
member of a syndicate in Hampshire. This, at least, was what he told
his wife. Every week in the shooting season, he would give the spouse
a smacking kiss. She would then stand at the door waving her lace
handkerchief, as he drove away, his car laden with all the paraphernalia
of the sportsman. In fact the `Hampshire Syndicate` was in Berkshire
and the only other member was a merry, and very sporting, widow woman.
To cover his tracks, our `gun' had a long-standing arrangement with
a friendly local butcher and game dealer. In preparation for the
day, the gun would ring up the butcher, who would have a nice freshly
shot brace of birds waiting for collection by the gun on his way
home. He could thus return in triumph to the little woman after a
good day's sport with evidence to show and an empty cartridge bag
- if you will pardon the expression. This worked well for many years,
until the day when our gun set out for `a day at the partridges'.
He was late and was a bit put out to find (when he stopped to ring
the butcher) that his old friend had popped his clogs since the end
of last season and that the shop was under new management. The new
butcher was a most obliging man - a brace of partridges? Absolutely
- no problem - he would have them ready for collection that evening.
Our man had a good day. He was on form. So was the widow - to the
extent that they both wished that he had a second gun. As a result,
the last drive of the day finished a bit later than planned. However,
the new butcher was waiting as promised. The gun thanked him and
took the bag that was handed to him. He did not pause to wonder why
the birds were in a carrier bag - new butcher / new ways. He just
bunged the bag in the boot and put the pedal to the metal. So home
came the hunter to his usual triumphal greeting. The triumph slipped
a bit when the wife opened the carrier bag - there was a brace of
partridges all right - plucked, drawn and oven ready in neat little
cling-filmed trays.
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