Oh, the Humanity

Some well-bred chums of Britain's Head Boy are a trifle concerned that bad weather may have interfered with the breeding of the grouse, and hence with the shooting season which traditionally begins on this date. Of course they are not concerned merely because they're purple-faced half-wits whose idea of sport is to take a scattergun loaded with metal pellets and hunt the ferocious primordial chicken after the servants have scared it within range. Nor are they concerned merely because they're inbred sadists who have to wear baggy tweeds in order to compensate for their regrettable deficiencies in the mental region; nor yet are they concerned merely because they fear that short rations at table may necessitate a trip to the food bank before the daily Prince Regent's Memorial Belching Contest can take place with all due ceremony. They are concerned, of course, primarily because of their responsibilities towards the lower classes. The business of fattening birds, slaughtering wildlife and scattering chunks of lead across the environment is apparently the only thing standing between a couple of thousand peasants and starvation. It is to be hoped that future generations of grouse will be able to summon up sufficient public spirit to replenish the species in time for the next massacre, since most peasants tend to move too fast for shooting them to be a sporting proposition.