Skip to comments.Is hunting with dogs really a priority? - Barry Beelzebub (UK)
Posted on 09/16/2004 6:58:05 PM PDT by BritishBulldog
It is dusk at Beelzebub Mansions. I wander down to the Lower Meadow where my man Whittaker is supposed to be exercising the remaining hounds, most of whom have been sold off to a Korean restaurant owner who displayed a remarkable interest in their well-muscled forms.
Sadly Whittaker, loosely clutching a near-empty flagon of Buckfast and Vimto in his hand, is slumped against the newly-erected mobile phone mast (for God's sake stop moaning it's fully 30 yards from the village primary school, you Nimbys).
His despair is obvious. A man who has survived three assassination attempts, 37 industrial tribunals, the Brighton bombing and a particularly cruel form of erectile dysfunction has been brought to his knees by a malicious and ideologically-motivated government.
Because as you read this, those bastards in Westminster will be banning hunting with dogs.
Now if I honestly thought that their sole reason for doing so was the welfare of the fox, I wouldn't really complain. Old Charlie might be a nasty, evil, greedy mass murderer, but at the end of the day he's one of God's creatures and as such deserves a degree of protection. After all, we let Liberal Democrats live don't we? And they're much worse.
But given this nation's current problems - rampant crime, a failing health service, a pitiful education system, non existent public transport and widespread moral bankruptcy - to have a Prime Minister so desperate to cling on to power that he'll provide a sop and valuable Parliamentary time to the rabid class warriors who underpin him is quite, quite obscene.
Because that's what this debate is all about. Class. If redundant Yorkshire miners were whiling away their dole-funded hours chasing foxes across t'moors on similarly redundant Blackpool donkeys while wearing threadbare blue boiler suits, no-one would give a toss. But sit a so-called toff wearing a pink jacket on board a £20,000 thoroughbred and the nasty, snidey side of NuLabour's class envy comes to the fore.
Why, they ask, should the rich have fun chasing and killing innocent animals? Err hang on. Have you never heard of members of the formerly working classes pursuing rabbits with ferrets? And what about all those ginger kids on council estates who keep kestrels in the airing cupboard?
What do those birds of prey eat? Weetabix and Pot Noodles?
And this is where we're going. Let the class warriors ban hunting, and what's next? Shooting is a gonner, obviously, even though the sport (if you want to call it that) keeps thousands of farmers in business and preserves millions of acres of woodland that would otherwise be given over to industrial farming. (And, we'll not mention it though, allows thousands of householders to keep a deadly weapon under the bed for when the gypsy burglars come calling.)
Next on the list (and the union members from the bus company who spend Sunday mornings down the Feeder will love this) will be angling. How dare you drag those poor creatures from the water with those barbaric hooks? Have three years in chokey, you brute.
And then what? Boxing? Rugby? Synchronised diving? Let's face it. A government that can ban egg and spoon races knows no bounds.
But my thoughts are with the man Whittaker. When the time comes, will the animal rights activists be there to help shoot our hounds? These animals can't be re-homed, after all. Imagine an undomesticated foxhound coming across your three year old's guinea pig. It's not going to work, is it?
So will Tone and his mates pull the trigger? I doubt it. And neither will I.
The battle of wills starts here. Come on and impose your ban. I await the CCTV cameras erected in forest glades with interest.
Buried amid the hundreds and thousands of public sector job adverts published in The Guardian every week (all paid for by you and me and all intended to keep a benevolent NuLabour in power) is occasionally one for an Umbrage Outreach Officer (Grade Two, £65k a year, six weeks holidays and five weeks sickness allowance, subsidised bike clips, no meat-eating, middle-class, non NuLabour-voting English people need apply).
The purpose of the Umbrage Outreach Officer is, unsurprisingly enough, to take umbrage (definition: the suspicion of injury or wrong; offense; resentment.) And the good news is that the Umbrage Outreach Officer works for you, the people who can't be arsed to take umbrage themselves. Oh, thank you Tony Blah. Another essential service delivered.
One of these chaps has had a spectacular success this week after discovering that the word "nit-picking" might be vaguely linked to the slave trade and should therefore be banned forthwith as it is clearly offensive to err slaves. And vegetarians. And Guardian readers. And other assorted right-on scum.
Hundreds of thousands of pounds of our money will now be spent on training courses at which council employees from across the country will be taught, over three days in a country house hotel, not to use this naughty word in future.
One problem. It's all bollocks. According to the nation's foremost linguists at the Oxford English Dictionary, the first use of "nit-picking" was in 1951 and was held to mean a pedantic critic. Now I don't know about you, but I can't imagine that even the moral-free citizens of Liverpool were still running slaving ships in 1951. Well, maybe just the odd one, anyway.
What has happened here is quite possibly the most offensive case of racist stereotyping seen in a long time. And the irony of the situation is that it's been committed by a leading foot soldier of the Thought Police. Some lentil-eating, sandal-wearing, leather-elbowed idiot has sat down with a copy of the dictionary and concluded that the word "nit-picking" must surely refer to unfortunate slaves examining each other's hair for lice during the appalling trip across the Atlantic.
You can just see the light bulb appearing over his (or her) head as the wonderful revelation struck home. You can just imagine him (or her) running into the kitchen to show his (or her) possibly pipe-smoking partner (of either sex), who is dutifully simmering the mung beans and polenta casserole, while crying "Eureka! Another word on the banned list!" I bet the tantric sex in the Ikea-clad bedroom was truly spectacular that night. Apart from the methane emissions.
(I read an article on tantric sex in the church magazine the other day. Apparently the most popular position is called The Plumber, where you stay in all day and nobody comes.)
We've been here before, of course. It's not long since the phrase "nitty-gritty" was branded with similar opprobrium. And again, a supposed slave trade connection was used as the excuse, even though in this case the first recorded use had been in 1956. The mind truly boggles.
They must be competitive people at the Department of Umbrage Outreach Workers (even though competition is bad and must be banned), because the next day they followed up their nit-picking triumph with an all-out attack on the phrase "brain-storming", declaring it to be offensive to the mentally ill. No, really.
Let's not beat about the bush here. If you're mentally ill, the least of your problems is being offended by some red-socked junior advertising executive using that phrase in a meaningless management meeting. You're probably more worried about why you're wearing half a kilo of bananas on your head, why you've just licked your fingers and stuck them in a plug socket, or why the rocking horse in the fridge is singing a Kate Bush song in a Brazilian accent.
So there we have it. We now employ, at great expense, people to take offence at things the original people who should take offence can't really be bothered taking offence about because they're not really offended. Cheers,
Tone. Pass the performance indicators and I'll have a large port.
These Fathers For Justice geezers. What's that all about then?
Going to all the trouble of dressing up as Batman or Spiderman and then climbing up the front Buckingham Palace or the Clifton Suspension Bridge might seem like a clever way of getting some publicity, but it occurs to me that if they'd put as much effort into providing the entertainment at their children's birthday parties, they might not be on such bad terms with their ex-wives in the first place.
Their antics aren't just embarrassing for our security services. They're downright dangerous. What happens if the Al Qaeda lads start dressing up as cartoon characters? How is the poor copper with the machine gun and the itchy trigger finger supposed to know if the bloke dressed as Superman running down The Mall is a drunken city trader on his way home from a fancy dress party or a suicide bomber with 30lbs of Semtex strapped round his waist?
And how do you kill Superman anyway? Are they going to equip the Metropolitan Police with Kryptonite?
Comedy terrorists - the new threat to Western civilisation. I blame Del and Rodney Trotter.
So anyway, there's these two blokes stood outside their semi-detached rubble in an Iraqi village. "Here," says one. "Have a look at this picture of my son. He's a terrorist."
"Lovely boy," says the other. "But isn't it a shame they blow up so soon."
Thank you and goodnight.
Oh golly, am I going to hell if I laughed the whole time I was reading this?
Hounds, hounds, its hunting with HOUNDS, damnit.
Thank you! I am heartily tired of hearing them referred to as "dogs." They're HOUNDS. Calling them "dogs" creates a mental image of a group of Chihuahuas, Cockapoos, and Shi-Tzus yapping at a fox who could have them for lunch.