Countryside Diary

   by Jilly Beswick

Sunday. The torrential rain we've suffered for the last month may have spoiled your holiday, but spare a thought for those of us who live in the countryside. Our very existence is being threatened.

So, in addition to listening to us, please be quiet!

This morning, my husband Bugger and I surveyed the damage. Many of the subsidised crops - oil rapeseed, barley, grass, thistles, bracken, nettles, Japanese knotweed - have already been ruined by the wet weather.

Even the migrant workers, their canvas homes more or less afloat on liquid mud, seemed rather 'flattened', and Slavic.

Jolly lunch at Minsmere Hall, followed by a viola recital and spanking lottery in aid of Ukip.

Monday. More rain and blustery wind. It's certainly 'nice weather for ducks', as they are considerably harder to shoot while you're being buffeted by the elements!

Here is another truth Tony Blair can't seem to grasp. The price of rural conservation is eternal shooting. Guns and the countryside go together like animals and husbandry. Mr. Blair, of course, would rather see guns in the hands of black thugs (with their comically contrasting pink palms!!!) than in the ownership of hard-working farmers, who in this part of the world are the correct colour all over.

Choir practice in the evening. We are rehearsing an eclectic programme of songs for the annual village Turning Back The Clocks weekend. Negro spirituals, Gilbert and Sullivan, and a marvellous adaptation of the Ten Commandments set to The Onedin Line. The volatile Mr. Pursley had a little 'accident', but everyone very discreet and pretending not to notice - even Mrs. Crake, whose blouse received most of the 'DNA'!

Tuesday. With milk prices at an all-time low and the veterinary warning that our cattle may have TB, it's time to sample this year's first batch of sloe gin. Not quite as good as last year's, but what it lacks in quality is more than made up for in quantity, and it does allow me to skip lunch and dinner. Better than the Atkins diet! Bugger says I should call it the Fucking Gordon's Diet, and cheekily takes his belt to me! Aga's gone out now.

Wednesday. None of us owns the countryside. We are merely stewards, in sensible uniforms.

And what thanks do we get? You dedicate your life to preserving the timeless landscape of England, only to hear a homosexual-sounding minister on Radio 4 Longwave lisping about some 'new rural agenda' to Eddie Mair.

Where is the money for this 'new rural agenda' coming from? More importantly, where is it going?

Thursday. Weekly stocktaking. We're out of tilth conditioner, both kinds of phosphate, mulching powder, gin, blood and horn dust, potassium nitrate, poultry netting, faecal pellets, grated hoof, drinking water and steroids.

Thank you very much, Mr. Blair!

Friday. How sick to death I am of these so-called 'wildlife campaigners'. They should all be shot. There, I've said it.

Unlike the noble and uncomplaining grouse, however, wildlife campaigners almost always seek compensation through their lawyers.

No wonder Bugger's been a bit tense and violent, with this court case hanging over him. He'd been out 'lamping' for foxes late one night last year. Tiddly, yes perhaps, but he's enormously experienced in the use of a red-filtered night sight.

How on earth was he to know he was aiming not at the eyes of a fox, but at a pair of binoculars dangling from the fat neck of some wheezing Independent reader. Apparently he was 'seeking badgers', having consulted the 50 Best things To Do In The Countryside After Midnight!

Even worse luck for Bugger - it was an expanding bullet, and took one of chummy's lungs out. Bill Oddie has a great deal to answer for, in my opinion.

Sighs of relief all round today. Bugger found guilty of 'careless shooting', rather than 'reckless maiming'. The county court judge (Tim!) made a very amusing remark about how Bugger was being discharged with rather more care than certain expanding bullets he could think of.

Cue petulant squeaking from counsel for the defence, who looked shifty even before we discovered his name was Goldstein. Objection to this, objection to that, Bugger was on National Trust property at the time, had returned home to have a drink before calling the police, etc. These people are determined to have their pound of flesh, aren't they?

Tim put the oily little asylum seeker in his place: "Be quiet, or I'll have you taken down to the cells. You have nothing to do with the countryside. Listen to us! The Holocaust never happened!"

Bravo, Tim. If only all MPs were like this.

Saturday. Submit planning applications for 'change of use', to ensure we qualify for New Rural Agenda funding.

After years of lobbying, someone in Westminster has finally taken notice! However late, subsidies are always welcome.

We propose converting the lower meadow into a quad bike circuit, the hayfields into a children's butterfly habitat and the outer paddock into Gyppo World.

Still at the outline stage, but Bugger says attractions could include under-age Roma whores, baked hedgehogs, gaily-painted caravans and Bugger with his assault rifle.

 

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