Woman's Hour...

I often catch Woman's Hour on Radio 4, some very interesting stuff on, not enough cake in my humble opinion but one can't have everything. Anyway, on the show the other day there was a young rapper (as I believe these youngsters are called these days) who rejoiced under the name of Angel Haze. Now, she said some very sensible things, even if her manner of speaking and the style of her art did grate on me a little - yes, I am a bit of a fuddy-duddy middle class old chap, but I can't help that. One thing she did say made me screech my truck to a halt and search out my pen and trusty Moleskine notebook. It was this:

If you're not doing something to make the world a better place then you're not doing anything at all.

Perhaps there is some hope for this old world yet.

Why Do I Do It?

The express train roar from a huge skein of pinkfeet coming into your decoys, the early morning sun shooting shafts of light through the mist at the start of a May roe stalk, a covey of ptarmigan slipping over the edge of the hill in a flurry of spindrift. A walk one, stand one day with a group of people you've known for 25 years. Cock pheasants going to roost while you’re waiting on February pigeons coming to the wood, a dog you’ve trained battling against a January flood to pick a cock widgeon you managed to scramble down, a venison casserole, watching the pickers-up work after a drive, being able to dream on the Boss stand at the Game Fair. 

Long tails tits and their antics while you’re waiting for the drive to start, being put on a peg hidden from the rest of the line, a grouse shouting goback-goback-goback, two buddies to pull you out of the mud, sausage rolls and hot soup laced with sherry between drives, squeaking in a troublesome vixen from two fields away, the look on my boys face the first time he fired a rifle, the hunt clay shoot on a summers evening, loading for a top shot, having a bond with like-minded strangers, watching a peregrine pick off a teal, that hind you didn’t spot until she’d seen you, knowing that the way we run fieldsports in Britain is second to none. 

A shout of ‘woodcock’, splashing home over a flooded field with a bag full of duck, memories of a friend now departed, being on the leader board for the flush…at least until Carl Bloxham’s team arrived. A complement on your shooting from the keeper, giving your neighbour a brace of oven ready pheasants, the old boy leaning on the fence, finding sport in unlikely places, haring across a field in the back of a dodgy old Subaru pick up, printing a cloverleaf group, a steaming spaniel, a comfy chair, a glass of malt and a head full of memories, that’s why I do it. Because I love it, because there is nothing quite like it.

We Need to Talk

We really do, there are some things you need to know. Here they are. Taking drugs is sooo fucking stupid. Binge drinking and this so call nekking is really bloody stupid. Driving like an arse is bloody ridiculous. Polluting the planet is utterly bloody bonkers. Smoking is bloody ridiculous. Food waste, there's just no need. Indiscriminate breeding, you have to stop it. Religious extremism, oh grow up, god doesn't care if you grow a beard or don't eat pork. I imagine he does care if you mutilate your children's genitals. Abusing health care professionals is just not on. Quit the gluttony. If you can't manage any of this, just please stop chucking your fucking rubbish out of your car window.

Please excuse the sweary post. I'm angry.