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"
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