English Letters: January 2012

Piano and guitar. do do do do do.
Vocal. I love you
Piano and guitar. do do do do do.
vocal. You love me
Piano and guitar. do do do do do.
vocal. I want you for my cup of tea.

It's teatime baby,
and I want you to know
That it's teatime baby
and I love you so.

one big lump
or could be two
stir it up for me and you

Oh it's teatime baby
and I need you to know.
That it's teatime baby
and I love you so.

add some milk
or keep it black
sip it slow or knock it back

Oh it's teatime baby
and I want you to know
That's it's teatime baby
and I love you so.

dunk my biscuit
in your drink
don't care what your Dada may think

Oh you're my teatime baby
and I love you so
you're my tea time baby.
Come on let's go..........(guitar , sax etc)

Tea in bed
is mighty fine
mornin' noon night any damn time

your my teatime baby
bring it on to me
your my teatime baby
you are my cup of tea.

Earl Grey
Lapsansousong
any old brew just bring it on

You're my teatime baby
and I love what you brew
you're my teatime baby
and I love you.

sip out of your cup
sip out of mine
fine bone china or cheap melamine

your my teatime baby
and you do it so fine
your my teatime baby
teatime every time.

etc etc repeat etc etc

Think John Mayle, Lead Belly, John Lee Hooker. Think do do do do do.

For the last ten years or so a team of us has travelled to Exmoor to shoot back to back days on a Friday and Saturday towards the end of January when the birds are wily and those that try to shoot them should be well practised. The shooting estate we visit has changed hands once in the decade but the consistency has been maintained and improved by the same young keeper, someone who's as hard as a spanner but as fair as a wrench.

We have never managed to stay in the same hotel for longer than three consecutive seasons. I'm not sure if this is because we are not welcome or because the rates change or because someone thinks it would be a good idea to go somewhere else. Where ever we lay our heads we always seem to have a good time. The Thursday evening gives the chance to catch up with those not seen for twelve months and those you were with only the day before. We all know each other and the food and drink we consume around the large round table serves to cement the relationship. The northern landlady realises that this shooting party is here to enjoy itself and some of us retire to the public bar afterwards and run into a team of young Hedge Fund Managers. The enthusiastic talk is of high birds and Russian hookers then before you can say Famous Grouse, it's on to high hookers and Russian birds. Sensible members of our team are in bed at a decent time but those of us who acted as though we were on a half term school outing didn't touch a pillow much before two in the morning. Not the best idea before a big day of any sort.

Our team consists of eleven like minded blokes. Not one of them has as many days out as some I could mention. To shoot for over ninety days a year is like moving from the occasional tube of Smarties to a daily diet of crack cocaine. Most of our lot would be delighted to shoot a dozen times a year.

Our team leader is Captain Birdseye. He looks like his namesake. Walks likes his namesake and quite likes fish fingers. He organises the days and tries to collect the monies due from those of us that think we have already paid but haven't. The good Captain is seventy. He's not alone. Twenty bore Moff has seven decades under his belt and likes to chat to the ladies. He's the first to doff his cap to the female picker up so he could be called Moff the doff but he isn't. As he makes himself known, he rotates at the hip giving him the justly deserved nick name of Snake Hips. John T has similar vintage but demonstrates a tad less of the serpent with his hips. The stiffness in his arm doesn't prevent the raising of a glass but it has proved a pain with the gun. This year he turned up with a new model that has a built in recoil suppressor system. It's apparently so good that unless you hear the bang you don't know you've pulled the trigger. Mr Q, the ex-garage proprietor, is the other senior member of the team. His motto of practice makes perfect is still being put to the test. Marty, who acts as minder to John T, always reminds me of that lovable rogue in Dad's Army, the spiv trader Private Walker. It's the pencil thin moustache and the chatty chappy that turns Marty into Walker. He's also very handy with his gun. Barty is the pink publican. Some men can carry off wearing pink rather well and the exuberant restaurateurs larger than life frame provides a considerable canvass on which to paint pink.He's colourful and the team have come to rely on his landlordly expertise at dispensing the liquid refreshments that seem to be called for after most drives. A brace of sharing Barratts (father and son) always deserve the accolade of best turned out guns. Even though we all wear ties out of respect for the occasion, the Barratts ties match the rest of their shooting outfits and father and son could be a cameo from an Edwardian game book. The two shortest members of the team are Stroudy and Kenty. Short men have to shoot straight and these two do. I am the only side by side, hence often undergunned and overwhelmed. I was also called the Harry Potter of the group but that had less to do with the magical potency of my shooting accuracy and more to do with the little round specs on the end of my nose.

There's probably little point in relating what happened on each drive. Suffice to say that the birds flew and some were shot but most were not. Stroudy had the Friday shot of the day, a ridiculous pigeon that hit the ground about two minutes after the cartridge had been loosed from his over and under. We stopped for lunch on the first day with drives before and after. You don't often see a thin shot when you leaf through the pages of the shooting press. We do like our grub and the full English is followed by soup and sausages which is followed by a full luncheon (chicken pie, potatoes and cheesy leeks, cheese and cake or fruit for those who are concerned about their five a day) There is always a fair ration of assorted drink throughout the day which made us all waddle like penguins back to the hotel for supper.

Friday night sees another round table dinner with fine wine and spoof. Spoof is a game of chance and some skill (a bit like shooting itself) that allows each participant to guess the collective number of coins held in players clenched fists. Each player can choose to hold between nothing and three coins so there is plenty of room for wrong calls. As the number of players reduces so the game becomes more skilful and those that have called correctly sit it out with a relaxed and smug look on their face. By tradition the looser is expected to arrive at his peg on the first drive the following morning and shoot without his trousers. Silly I know but very funny when it isn't you. Last year Mr Q lost so this year he refused to take part. In a spirited game the last two were the keeper and young Barratt. The keeper (our guest at dinner) looked more sweaty than he had all day. I guess the thought of having to place the guns in a state of half undress brought the moisture to his brow. In the end a well thought out call from the keeper had young Barratt on the ropes and beaten.

While most retired to bed four of us took to the bar again and joined the Hedge Funders for an even more boisterous night. It was like a mini Olympic Games with events such as wrestling, talking loudly, shirt ripping (apparently pockets on shirts are just not the done thing), nipple tweaking (boys only), cigar smoking and of course drinking. Getting Barty up the stairs to his room at the top of the hotel was the most strenuous event of all but after several refusals and one rather bad fall we got him home.

After breakfast on the Saturday morning the bills were presented and scrutinised with the annual vigilance that always results in proclamations of if so and so didn't have a starter why was his tariff for dinner the same. These minor objections are always overruled and the good northern landlady got her payment and breathed a visible sigh of relief as we bundled out of the door and off to the Moor.

The first drive did indeed reveal young Barratt's buttocks with the word "Over" emblazoned across them (presumably by his father's hand). The fresh air to his nether regions did much to lift his shooting ability and he killed some very high birds with deadly accuracy.

We shot six different drives from the previous day and each offered up the sort of birds that require good shots to fetch them down. On one such it was Stroudy who again killed a cock bird so high that I wouldn't have even raised my gun to it. Some of the pheasants were seventy yards or more over our heads. Stroudy is a tall man when it comes to shooting. We shot through, as the saying goes, and enjoyed a beef lunch in the shoot lodge with its open log fire and open bar.

The valleys in that part of Exmoor were about three hundred birds lighter than when we had arrived. At over £40 a bird our wallets were lighter too. Once again we had enjoyed a wonderful two days and Exmoor had enjoyed us. We had enjoyed each other's company. We had probably eaten and drunk too much. We had laughed, laughed until we cried. We had been immensely privileged and we had treated the sport with great respect and always safety first. But if shooting is about anything, high on the list of requirements comes the company. I think that ours is the best there is, but then I would say that wouldn't I?