That’s Oscar Wilde’s description of fox-hunting. My farm in England is a favourite ride of the local fox hunt, and when I’d been there for a while they asked for permission to cross my land.

The local hunt is not very good. Most members are desk-jockeys and poor riders. So when the huntsman blew his horn, two riders already fell off in the excitement. To leave my field they had to go over a little fence, and that proved a killer. Two horses jumped without their riders, and one rider went one better and  jumped without his horse who cleverly put on the brakes at the last moment.

A visitor down from London said. “How can you support such a cruel sport.” I replied “You city folk don’t understand. They never catch the fox, it’s just like keep fit classes for him.”  And sure enough, 10 minutes after the hunt disappeared, there was the fox, crossing the field at the edge of the woods,  returning to his den after his workout.

Actually, the main excitement of the day was the anti-hunt protest, whereby 10 protesters tried to disrupt the hunt, and about 20 police tried to stop them. One of the policemen told me: “Everyone volunteers for anti-protester duty. All our magistrates are pro-hunting so we can beat up the protestors with impunity. And we are paid overtime!”  Sure enough the only blood spilt was between the police and the protesters.

Isn’t it an odd world that we live in?