Gosh what a perfectly dreadful time it has been lately. London has been absolutely sardined with cousins from the country down here protesting about the horrid hunting ban. Now I adore spending time with the rosy-cheeked in-laws when I am in the sticks but town is town and country’s country. Darlings I do believe there hasn’t been so much tweed in the big smoke since they came down to pick up the ragamuffins during the Blitz. So I’m told by the elders.
I cannot blame them for getting so red in the face though. Well, redder. Those ghastly lefties are trying to ban something they simply don’t understand. How many of them know the joy of a good ride in the morning, the thrill of something powerful between your legs and an exciting climax? Bally few of them, that’s how many. In fact if old Teflon Tony knew that particular joy then we might all be better off.
Tristram Tuffington-Bart is organising an anti-anti-hunt ball down at his mother’s place and it should be a splendid evening. He says there will be a full-scale hunt through the old stately pile, except we will be chasing chaps dressed up as leftie Labourites and when we catch them we will whip them within an inch of their Bolshie lives. Pippi van Muflin, being soppy old Pippi, is worried that these poor coves might get hurt but Tristram says it’s ok because they will be local peasants who are only too happy to do it for £20, a glass of mulled wine and the chance of a glimpse of Lady Tuffer’s celebrated bosom.
There will be a collection for the Ferry Two — that silly oaf Otis and his drug-addled mother who got themselves up in front of the beak last week — and Johnny Roxburgh will be raffling off some of his hounds to raise bail money for anyone else who gets themselves nickered, or whatever the expression is that the working classes use. First prize is two slobbering foxhounds guaranteed to rip your postman’s arm off and shake him like a rag-doll. Second prize is four dogs. Mieow.
Oh and there will be lashings and lashings of shampoo. Do you really think I’d go to the trouble of being driven all the way down to Hampshire if there wasn’t a shipload of Bolly to make the thing bearable? Darlings, you should know Lady P better than that. Much as I adore being in the saddle, it hardly compares to the bliss of Bolly. God put peasants on this earth to pick grapes and it would be pretty churlish of their betters not to fully enjoy the sweaty labours of the rustics. Bottom’s up.
Of course, the lefties don’t understand the joy of champers — they are all brown ale, sandwiches and overactive armpits. So how can these heathens possibly understand hunting — or the beautiful game as Tristram T-B calls it? They think it is just a bunch of bloodthirsty toffs chasing poor little foxes so that their hounds can rip them to pieces. Such poppycock. It is a bunch of bloodthirsty toffs chasing poor little foxes so that their hounds can rip them to pieces and then they can enjoy a good bucket of Bolly after it. The Labourites just can’t understand the difference. No proper upbringing, you see
Mind you darlings, a decent upbringing is no guarantee of class. Every stately home has a tradesman’s entrance, as my old aunt Agatha used to say. Take that slutlette Tara Palmer-Tomkinson for example. She is as close to Royalty as Camilla’s cat but as near to the gutter as a tramp at the theatre.
She’s been ballyhooing it with the rest of them about hunting but I happen to know that she’s never been on a horse in her life. She has a fizzog like Shergar and has had more rides than Lester Piggott but she wouldn’t know a bridle from a groom. In fact, Henny’s brother Marcus rides out with the Beaufort and he tells me that la P-T is always first in the queue for the riding crops but never swings her leg over anything that can’t ask for Vaseline and gin. Oh, did I say that out loud?
So there you have it. If the lefties have their way and ban a perfectly innocent pastime like hunting then all the riding crops, whips and knee-length leather boots will be left at the disposal of Tara P-T and her nymphosexual chums. Do you really want that, chaps?