Ken – lost Wurzal and promiser of 100 tonnes of topsoil – stopped me the other night to enquire on the health, or otherwise, of our useless chickens.
Me: “Bloody rubbish Ken, I’m considering eating them, why?”
LW: “Well we’ve been bailing in the field” – indicates large open area of recently cut grass in case I am unaware of what a field looks like “and we’ve seen about six of yon foxy buggers”
Me: (pretending I know about this stuff) “So, haha, did you shoot them hahha hah, er”
LW quizzically “Of course not”
Me: “Ah, well, you know, I thought, farmers, er, you know, er”
LW: “I’m 72 and bloody lousy shot. Your man over on the estate has a couple of hunting rifles and he’s bagged at least four of ’em last night”
Me: “Right…, er. 4 you say, right, that’s er quite a lot, any more left?”
LW: “Yeah get the vixen’s first and then come back for the cubs as they’ll be milling about lost. Easy Kills. So if you see lights and hear pops tonight, don’t worry it’s JUST SOME FUCKING NUTJOB WITH TWO SODDING ASSUALT RIFLES WHO HAS THE FULL BINDERED SET OF “GUNS’N’AMMO” UNDER HIS BED, AND THE MENTAL HEALTH PROFESSIONALS TELL ME HE HAS SOME SIGNIFICANT VIOLENCE ISSUES, WILL BE RE-ENACTING THE FIFTY PLUS BODY COUNT SCENE FROM RAMBO.”
(I’m paraphrasing here, but let me tell you this is a pretty accurate transcript of how it entered my head.
Me: “Right, appreciate it if he doesn’t break in in a berserker frenzy and shoot the dog, cat, children, that kind of thing”
LW laughing “Oh no, he’s a lovely lad really… ” PAUSE “lock your doors tho” LONGER PAUSE “He can get a bit” SCRATCHES CHIN “enthusiastic”
The fox has the chickens. The nutter has the foxes (and I’ve spared you on exactly what they do with the remains) and I have to go and get a large glass of something soothing.
Bring back foxhunting that’s what I say. As I’m unlikely to suffer a visceral killing from a bunch of ponces with stupid accents, and a body clock which stopped in 1873.