A Disturbing Sunday
03/20/2006
Disappointed that “Landward” is off on holiday, I reluctantly switched on “Country File” with the unpleasantly plastic John Craven to catch the long-range weather forecast, which together with Sunday churchgoing is the backbone of a countryman’s week. The television schedules had been adjusted to provide cover for the groaningly ancient Commonwealth Games, imagine my surprise when rather than the Craven physog; I was presented with Synchronized Swimming, a sport together with Lawn Bowls that I had assumed to have been banned in the 1970’s. I abhor subjective sport at any sort of competitive level, give me a bat, a ball, a goalmouth or at the very least a world record time to conquer and I am your man. However, the sight of young women suspended upside down underwater while revealing rather too much of their nethers to the strains of “Ave Maria” was all too much to bear. A gallery shot of the slightly subdued small band of supporters for this bizarre sport revealed a scattering of bald lechers amongst the cheering overweight grandmothers from Wigan, confirming my worst suspicions.
As I recovered from my Sunday morning trauma with a Hendrick’s stiffener, I had time to reflect on the approach of April fool’s day, and more importantly the modern vogue of rolling out the practical jokes before A day thereby confusing old duffers. The television started it all off with a weekend jape about a minor English actor, living in the Jordanian desert, inventing a wonder cream to “positively reduce the signs of ageing”. Apart from the fact that Diana Drummond Skinfoods are years ahead of him, any accountant worth his salt would have pointed out that the thespian in question would be much better off retraining as a cosmetic surgeon than trying to persuade ladies of a certain age to apply his war paint. Even the illustrious “The Field” magazine has joined the trend with an average article about treacle mining in Oxfordshire. After a top up, I further mused on the unfortunate naming of children born on A day, Elson Gamble springs to mind, poor chap never really got over being named after a chemical toilet by his happy parents.
With the approach of Avian Flu, and with our first sightings of wagtail and skylark, Lachie and I have been taking a long look at our pheasant breeding programme for next year. I regret that we have been following the fashion of London sportsmen and using French chicks to provide high, fast birds for driven shoots amongst the timber stands of Glen Trollaigh. Personally, I cannot hit the bally things and driven shooting is far too cold work for old shanks. Plans for next year will see the end to imported livestock and back to home bred, with a change to traditional warmer walk up shooting. I suppose that we may cheat a little by using the now illegal practice of not feeding birds the day before the shoot to give the older shots an unsporting advantage, but more fun. Happy days, yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.