It’s that time of year when the pretend gentry love to dress up in tweed, wear silly hats and walk around thinking they are hunter gatherer manly types by blasting the living daylights out of birds with scatter guns. Yes this the middle of pheasant killing time.

In deepest darkest Wales the posh oiks (them that wear pinstripes at work and want to be real men at weekends) use to gather and pay a fortune at the stotties to shoot these pesky birds that are too stoopid to run away. A few hundred miles away a totally different type of flat cap wearer (sans whippet) tries the same thing, only difference is here they only seem to breed about 100 birds and come the start of the season 90% have been run over because they don’t move. In Wales there was thousands of the blighters so chance of a kill was high.

It pleasures me immensely to see the posh oiks going home empty handed after killing nowt, cos there is none of em left.

Hats off to the lowly pheasant that they missed and if you don’t shift on Monday I’ll run ya down!!!