Foxy Business

Hello all, hope you all had a splendid festive season and all that. 

I wasn’t entirely sure what I was going to write about this week,

Boxing Day used to be some important occasion in the psychopathic tosser calendar, but since the Hunting Act of 2004, it’s instead become an occasion to assemble with other like-minded twats.  Or at least, it has become the occasion to re-ignite the debate.  Or, I should say, attempt to re-ignite the debate; a debate this crushingly one sided can hope for little more than that.  Four-fifths of the country agree on this.  That’s as close to unanimity as you’re likely to get.  You’d be hard pressed to find a stronger consensus on any political issue.  You’d have a better chance of reinstating the Witchcraft Act of 1604.

So, this is not one of those things where I’m playing devil’s advocate.  This is one of those rare instances where people believe as they should believe.  In other words, everyone agrees with me. 

The news was replete with images of ridiculous tosspots, dressed, appropriately enough, like ridiculous tosspots.  This is the sort of twat that even the Conservative party – an organisation whose highest principle is that of psychopathic twattery – now disdains.  Every time I see images of this sort of thing, I find myself hoping for a nearby predator de-cloaks in time to obliterate the entire rabble with a shoulder-mounted energy cannon.  

On reflection, this would probably be a bit excessive.  But it would demonstrate the helplessness of the fox quite nicely; though it must be said that any description of a fox as ‘helpless’ is likely to meet disagreement.  The word ‘helpless’ is quite context sensitive, so let’s clarify.  I’m helpless when it comes to certain forms of bakery.  Humans are helpless when it comes to eight-foot invisible aliens.  Foxes are helpless when faced with a pack of ravenous dogs.  

As evidence of the fox’s lack of helplessness, they cite the damage a fox will do to the inside of a chicken coop.  Well, alright.  Imagine, if you will, if I were to open a chicken farm in the middle of the Serengeti.  A lion might well be able to get inside the chicken coop and, having done so, would probably kill all of my chickens.  This isn’t a personal slight, nor was it borne out of malice.  It’s because a lion, for lack of a better term, is a fucking lion.  According to this logic, I’d then be granted license to kill not only this lion, but every lion within a twelve mile radius.

If this analogy sounds ridiculous, then you probably aren’t considering it from the perspective of a chicken.  What’s the difference between a fox and a lion?  If you’re a chicken, there is no difference.  Both will kill you.  Your chance of survival is zero.  To use another example, this is like giving Eamonn Holmes the key to the candy shop, and then letting him lick your lollypop.  In other words, it’s asking for touble.

I wish I could say that I didn’t understand why the fox-hunting people derive so much pleasure from this sort of thing.  But the answer is obvious.  It’s because a great deal of pleasure can be gotten from inflicting suffering; which in this case comes in the form of the fox’s fear, and ultimate grisly death.

Of course, there is a problem here.  This particular kind of pleasure might be thwarted by other unpleasant feelings, such as guilt and remorse and empathy.  And so the fox-hunting people take efforts to ignore these things out of existence.  It’s a sort of enforced psychopathy.  “It’s tradition!” they exclaim, as though that justifies everything.  If you ever feel like you’re doing something stupid or evil, then that tried and tested pronouncement should be enough to exorcise all doubt.

Now, I feel it’s important to draw a distinction between this fuckwittery and that other sort of hunting, popular in American and Scandinavia, where participants troupe through a freezing forest in order to shoot an elk.  Whil this activity strikes me as unpalatable, it seems quite distinct from the one we’re talking around.  You see, it’s pretty difficult to track something down and shoot it, even taking into account the enormous technological advantage the modern hunter is afforded. 

Even more distinct are the sorts of hunting carried out by our ancestors, to whom hunting things was not a sport but a means of survival.  That tradition has been around longer than the one under discussion, by several orders of magnitude.  It predates the birth of the species, and is practiced, in one form or another, by virtually every carnivorous animal on the planet.

I will therefore compromise and endorse a partial repeal of the hunting ban, with the following provisions attached:

  1. Hunters may take no weapons with them on the hunt, but they are allowed to make their own weapons out of things they find on the way.
  2. Same goes for dogs.  You can’t take them.

The first step would be to find a suitable pebble to serve as a whittling knife.  Having done that, the aspiring hunter would then find a suitable tree branch, and whittle that down to form a crude bow-and-arrow.  They’d then stalk the fox (or badger or bear or whatever) and kill it with my endorsement.  This is the sort of thing that a hunter should be doing.  This requires a modicum of skill.  It’s what you’d call fair.

The problem is that none of the fox hunting people would be able to do this.  Because they’re not really hunters, and what they do does not really constitute a hunt.  The word ‘hunt’ implies some sort of struggle between hunter and hunted.  It’s no more of a ‘hunt’ than my hunt for a gin and tonic later this evening.  So fuck this idiocy; I hope you’ll all raise a toast with me later, in celebration of another year of its illegality, and in hope of its eventual extinction.

Happy New Year!



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