Cock of the Moor

My friend Don has the great good luck (marrying an earl's daughter probably helped as well) to be invited sometimes to shoot on a ducal grouse moor. Very grand, my dears, those gates do not swing open for corporate  types such as your correspondent.

He pitched up one day early in September to find that the assembled multitude was a very mixed bag - unlike the days' bag, which was to be driven grouse. In particular, his, and everybody's else's, attention was drawn to a regular turkey cock - an American millionaire - or maybe billionaire - who had done well in flat pack furniture and decided to enjoy the fruits of plastic faced chipboard, and how. Somehow he had managed to get through the ducal vetting process by chumming up to his grace's nephew. Messrs P and Messrs H&H and other establishments had been paid proper attention during a frantic 6 hours shopping (and no doubt Christmas bonuses adjusted as a result).  Even though he had considerable experience in stalking elk in Canada and boars in Hungary he had even troubled to visit one of those wonderfully smart clay grounds to the west of London for a two hour lesson, and knew these grouses (grice?) would cause him no problem.

The old Scottish keeper also knew a thing or two, and promptly dispatched his laconic but experienced under keeper to load for Mr Melamine. They took up position in a stone butt, a safety lesson was growled briefly through ("Dinna shoot either side of these wee sticks; raise your gun if you turn; nae ground game") and the action began.

Whatever the clays did, the grouse had not been trained to the same rules. The moor was blasted with lead to front and back of butt 6 whilst the picker up (safely crouching in a ditch very well back) enjoyed a small cigar and his spaniels giggled and looked down the line for rabbits.

Our American novice was not a man to be deterred by initial failure and continued to blast away and the grouse continued to sail by.  The loader continued to work his way through box after box of ammunition with occasional grunt of "behind, sor", "left, sor", "high and reet, sor".

Finally a perfect single bird appeared in front, approaching fast, rising a little, the perfect presentation. Our American raised his gun, reflected on all he had been taught, and fired one barrel, and then, to make sure, the other. "That one must come down" he shouted.

The loader squinted at the sky: "Only if he's hungry, sor"

Legally Blond

Some days, I really think I am going to give all this up. You spend weeks and months setting up complex structures, make huge efforts to get buy-in from all your fellow professionals, punt vast amounts of money to get everything in place on the target date, and then finally the date comes, the meeting begins, and you realise nobody is on your side. Indeed, you are being ritually humiliated. Shooting this is, of course, not derivatives structuring.

It was a syndicate day yesterday. Each year we get an invitation to a wonderful place where the twentieth century has been overlooked and it is still run as though Tum-tum were expected to join the guns.  So it is on with the old tweed plus fours, hip flasks, proper boots, and loaders.

A few years ago I was allocated a highly competent loader and such are her skills I have retained her services for our day each year since, having to pay more each year to fight off competing offers from my fellow guns. Yes, I did say "her". She is a highly competent loader. I think. The gun usually seems to have cartridges in it anyway. Diana is, as it happens, very pretty, very blond, and very curvaceous. She gives big hugs for skillful shooting on high birds and warm kisses for downed pigeons. Not something I would normally encourage from a loader, but here it seems to work for me.

So for this year I once again upped the daily rate - she is earning almost as much per day as I am now - and arranged to meet at the first drive.

Scene: a woodland clearing. Ancient and dirty Land Rovers and beat up Toyotas are scattered around. Dramatis Personae: A large group of men in various combinations of ageing green and brown country clothes, mainly briar and water-proof.  Eager spaniels and snooty labs. A hairy fox terrier. Enter stage centre: A procession of shiny Land Rovers and Range Rovers.

Yes, you read that right. "A large group of men". No women. No shapely bubbly pretty blonds; no Diana, to be precise.  I - for it is I - struggled out of the back of the Rangy, looked around and behind and even under the assembled multitude, but no blonds.

Various men in various shades of woodland mud made their way to my fellow shootists, shouldered their guns and their cartridge bags. Your hero stood alone, conspicuously blond less.  The shootists gathered together, ready for their briefing.

Dick, our team captain turned - if only he could execute such an elegant pirouette in pursuit of passing high pheasants - and said, smirking, very positively smirking "Ah, B...., I suppose you heard  that Diana twisted an ankle yesterday, but never mind, we know your special tastes, and have got you the perfect substitute".  Good man, Dick.  He waved at the line up of bashed beater's vehicles and a door opened. I stood a little straighter and got ready to raise my cap.

But it stayed firmly on the bald patch.  Out of a Toyota Hilux got a pretty blond, long legs, snug fitting jeans, rouged cheeks, eyes wonderfully made up.  Very snug fitting jeans, so snug, that if I had had any doubts, it was clear that this blond was male.

He strolled over to me and extended a hand which, even at this moment of crisis, I noted to be perfectly manicured. "Helloooo, I 'm going to be handling your double barrelled today". A little flick of the long blond forelock.

"Erm...oh, well, to be honest, I don't really need a loader today, just brought the one gun, don't you know"

My new blond blinked and shrugged and looked down, then looked up, straight into my eyes "But I could be so useful to you in the woods".  O-my-god.  "Er, well, I think maybe you might be more useful picking up." O-my-god; what have I just said? "Or with the beaters". Aaagh, stop digging B.

Suddenly a howl of laughter from my so-called mates behind me. "Not so keen on blonds after all, B?" Downright guffawing broke out. "Meet Damian, he's Josh the underkeeper's brother, and he is at acting school.  Diana will be along in a minute and you're paying her double rates today. You've been framed, matey."

Like Drawing Teeth

A far distant tapping, sticks against tree trunks. Whimpering from an eager spaniel behind, more tapping in the wood in front. Check foot positioning, check next pair of cartridges in the belt, check the line hasn’t spotted something. Don’t fiddle with safety catch, just relax and be ready.

Jamie’s cigar smoke drifting down the line. A few more falling leaves create a momentary frisson. But it is just drifting golden leaves. Relax. More tapping, nearer.

Now utter silence and then the spaniel whimpers again.  Everything is in suspense, apart from that damn dog. High grey cloud moving slowly across, but furious black skies building up behind. It will rain before lunch and we will be drenched. But just now all that matters is waiting for the beaters to reach the bracken and scrub on the centre of the wood. The tapping has stopped.

They must be in the open now, moving towards the oaks that fell in some storm years ago and have lain there ever since. Any minute the action will start. Feet; cartridges; check the line, check the sky.

Any minute and there will be shouts, tapping, the birds will be rising. Please don’t let the first one come over me.

Jamie has thrown down his cigar and his toe is twisting it into the grass. What has he heard? What has he seen? His gun is in both hands. Mark, next to him, slings his old side by side off his shoulder and adopts the same posture.

More tapping, but with a different beat. They must be at the fallen oaks. A shout of “Ready!” Clicks, a call of “Now!”  A flurry of fiercely beating wings, crashing through the branches, a familiar double screech, then the bird is rising through the filigree of naked branches; to me. Straight to me.

And the drill enters the tooth, the jaw is forced down. Not even the memory of one of last year’s most perfect days can overcome the noise, the screaming, the vibration, the sheer bloody ghastliness of having a tooth drilled.

A Sporting Gentleman

One of Stuffer’s little sidelines to keep the (stuffed) wolf from the door is taking out rich sportsmen to the great estates of the southern and western Home Counties to bag a deer. On this particular occasion he was rung by Lord M who had as his guest an Italian count who was, so Lord M understood, of considerable sporting prowess and would like to bag a roe deer, and as his visit was brief, this to be before dinner the following day.

Stuffer smelt the merest whiff of trouble but business is business and next day at 4.30pm he turned up at M Hall to collect his new disciple. He seemed very charming, and as befitted an Italian sporting gentlemen he was immaculately turned out, with wonderfully expensive equipment, shone, lacquered and polished. When he produced for Stuffer’s approval a handmade Italian sporting rifle obviously used with care and cared for to the highest possible standard, Stuffer decided his previous reservations had been wrong and he was indeed accompanying a true and experienced sportsman.

Stuffer had selected, given the time constraints and the need to impress his new Italian friend, and, even more so, Lord M, a place where a roe buck had the nightly habit of coming to a glade on the edge of a wood on the south side of the park, close to a gate into a field with views of the downs. If roe deer smoked, said Stuffer, he would have presumed that the buck was in the habit of enjoying the view across the downs whilst smoking his nightly cigar before dinner.

There was a high seat in position already, and the roe seemed to almost invariably visit between 6 and 7pm. So if for some reason he hadn’t turned up (with his light Corona no doubt) by 7pm, there was still a chance to move elsewhere in the wood for a second attempt.

The count was loaded into Stuffer’s Toyota with his kit and his unloaded gun across his knees, and they set off. As they drove down the park drive Stuffer was slightly disconcerted as the count, espying a rabbit, pointed the rifle out of the window at it and shouting “Bang! You die!”  But when this deadly threat had also been visited on two pigeons, a jay, and a circling buzzard he was happy to put this down to amiable eccentricity.

They reached the high seat at 5.15pm and our sportsman was made comfortable with a bottle of water,  bullets to hand, and the lovely sporting rifle on his knees.

“Right” said Stuffer, “Sit quietly here, try not to move, and if by quarter to seven nothing has happened I’ll be back to move you”

“Hour and one half” exclaimed the count, “Two hours almost?”

Stuffer explained that deer were sensitive to change in familiar places so it was necessary to be well out of sight before the merest scent of human presence might alert him to danger.

The count raised an eyebrow but said nothing more, and Stuffer bounced away across the park to a quiet place where nobody would disturb a little slumber. This he was into when he was aroused by a bang, the unmistakable sound of a rifle shot, not far away. He looked at the Toyota clock, not believing he could have been asleep an hour or so, and found he hadn’t; it was 5.30.

It seemed unlikely that the deer had changed its habits so dramatically, but you never know, so he started the engine and drove back across the park and down the wood drive, where he was very startled to meet the count running towards him, arms up, red faced, looking panic stricken. Stuffer stopped, leapt out, and put his arm on the count’s shoulder and said some calming words.

When the count’s breathing was under control he said “Now what is the matter? Did you get your buck?”

 "No” shouted the count. “The sheeps”.

“ The sheeps?  What sheeps?"

“The sheeps down there, behind the gate”

“The sheeps – er, the sheep – won’t harm you”

“No, come!” said the Italian beginning to walk back along the track to the gate. “I sit in my ‘igh seat. But is very boring. The gun, it is my brother’s, I do not know it,  So I practise at the aiming, and I quietly call “O sheeps, pfff, you die”.
“I do this and then, bang, the gun she fires by ‘erself, and, and, and...”

“And...?” said Stuffer.

“The sheeps, it dies”

By now they were at the gate and there on the other side was a motionless  sheep, on its side. Stuffer went up to it and gave it the quick once over. Its cause of death was immediately obvious. A perfect headshot, straight through the brain.


One, as Stuffer said, he would have been very proud of, at least if to a deer. And especially if, as the Italian confessed on the way back to M Hall, he had never fired a sporting rifle before. The sheep they buried in a woodland ditch. The buck, they agreed, had not turned up.