The unspeakable in pursuit of the unspeakable
Lloyd Evans goes out with the hunt sabs and gets a terrible fright when he meets the hunt followers Nothing much has changed. That’s the current wisdom on the ban. If anything, the new code has been an unexpected blessing. Bigger fields, keener dogs, friskier horses, extra supporters and it’s all more or less cruelty-free. Happy families go squelching through the meadows to watch law-abiding hounds flush foxes from cover into the gleaming talons of golden eagles who rip out their throats in accordance with RSPCA guidelines. But the truth is rather different.
I found an atmosphere of suspicion, secrecy and aggression louring over the banned bloodsport. ‘Follow on foot. Call the huntline now,’ said the jaunty homepages of the hunting websites. I telephoned about a dozen numbers but received no replies to my innocent requests to join a meet. When I contacted a group of East London saboteurs whose cause is now enshrined in law — they seemed sullen and circumspect, like a forbidden brotherhood. I picked up on the furtive atmosphere myself. Doubting that the sabs would believe in the tally-ho Spectator’s impartiality, I posed as John West from the web-group BacktoBackNews.com. The sabs were sceptical and grilled me about BacktoBack’s activities. Only after they’d searched the internet (where both agency and reporter exist) did they agree to let me join a weekend sortie as an embedded correspondent. In true Che Guevara style, they sent me the rendezvous details at the very last minute, on the morning of the meet.
The black Land-Rover squealed to a halt outside a pub in a pretty village near Chelmsford. The door swung open and I clambered in, squeezing between two rows of saboteurs dressed head-to-toe in combat fatigues. Most wore low hoods or had scarves round their faces. There was a warm stench of feet, brandy and peanut-butter sandwiches. ‘Go, go, go!’ someone shouted. And off we sped. ‘Let’s hope we find the bastards,’ said a lean, friendly chap with a greying beard. He told me his name was Elbow and he gave me an apple. Steaming along the empty lanes we soon picked up an escort of hunt-followers. Not a friendly one either. Three leering skinheads in a white 4x4 with a quad-bike on its flank ridden by a meathead wearing a Barbour and a tie. The meathead grinned at us maliciously. His missing front teeth didn’t look as if they’d been removed by a dentist.
The 4x4 overtook us and then parked sideways, boxing us in on the lane. One of the sabs filmed the obstruction while the rest politely shouted, ‘Shift! You’re in the way.’ Their driver got out and came over. He stuck a fat paw into the van and tried to grab the camera. Our driver reversed sharply and spun round and then we headed off in the opposite direction. A mile up the road we pulled into a lay-by and Elbow got out, shinned up on to the roof and swept the horizon with his binoculars, like Rommel, looking for traces of the hunt. Far off, he spotted them and shouted a command. The sabs devanned and sprinted off up a footpath spraying the undergrowth with citronella, a lemony confection that ruins the scent. Mission accomplished, we piled back into the truck.
At the next lay-by more vehicles were waiting for us. Most belonged to local hunt-supporters who had gathered to watch the horses go past. They glared at us with distaste as we trooped out and made our way upfield to where the horses had gathered. Rounding a copse we saw the quadbike and the 4x4 parked alongside it. Lounging against the bonnet were four large and distinctly unfriendly men with shiny, hard, pink heads. I wanted to run away. We carried on walking. ‘Going grey with worry, are you?’ jeered one of them at Elbow, ‘and so you fucking should be.’ My jeans and leather jacket caught their attention. ‘This one’s not conforming. Forgot your uniform, you dopey c—?’ Ooh blimey. I began to feel sick. According to Andy McNab, the first rule of survival is not to stand out from the pack. I was a marked man. We carried on walking towards the middle of the field. A large stone sailed over our heads. ‘Sorry,’ called the skinheads facetiously. We turned. They were ambling towards us. ‘I don’t like this at all,’ said Elbow. Nor did I. I was sure we were about to be attacked. I imagined myself going down in a hail of fists, pleading for my life, ‘But I’m not a sab. I’m John West from BacktoBackNews dotcom. I can put a positive spin on this.’ To my relief the skinheads walked past us, laughing, and sauntered up towards the horses.
We got back to the road and I detached myself from the sabs who I felt were giving me an image problem. I approached the civilian hunt-supporters. ‘Here to watch?’ I politely inquired of a man smoking a pipe. He gave me his best Silent Yeoman face. ‘Ynh,’ he nodded. ‘Lovely day out?’ I tried charmingly. ‘Ynh’, he grunted. ‘Just drag-hunting, right?’ ‘Ynh.’ And before I could try again he silenced me with the sort of look that Gary Glitter might get in Santa’s Grotto. I glanced hopefully towards his neighbours but they avoided my gaze and stared at the grass. Was this sport? It looked about as much fun as watching mist gather.
A police van pulled up and three doughnut-eating cops got out. Feeling more secure, I went back to the skinheads to propose an interview. ‘Ah,’ said the Skinhead Driver, ‘I thought you wasn’t one of them. You look like you wash.’ He explained his objections to the saboteurs. ‘They interfere with us so we interfere with them. They scare people, walking around in battle fatigues and army boots.’ I noticed he was wearing battle fatigues and army boots. ‘They’re out to intimidate the Hunt. And it’s not nice, is it, intimidation?’ This was the man who’d just tried to rip a camcorder out of a saboteur’s hand. ‘They’ve got no business round here. Bunch of townies.’ ‘Where are you from?’ I asked.
‘Bethnal Green.’ Tempted as I was to lay bare the many contradictions of his outlook, I resisted the urge and climbed back into the Land-Rover.
For the next three hours we tailed the hunt. Driving, stopping, running, spraying. The police kept a close watch, puffing and wheezing after us as we hoofed across the dew-bright meadows. I began to enjoy myself, pounding the ancient paths, leaping ditches, enjoying the freezing air as it cleansed and refreshed my city lungs. I wouldn’t do it again, though, unlike the sabs who are out there every weekend, convinced the ban will be ignored without their constant scrutiny.
When I quizzed the cops about the law, they hedged heroically. ‘I’m not getting involved in any conversations,’ said a tubby constable as he lit a sneaky roll-up behind an oak tree.
‘If they start chasing a fox you’ll have to arrest them.’ ‘Maybe. If it happened right under our noses.’ But the police were keeping their noses well away from the hunt. Through habit per haps, they shadowed the sabs all day. Late in the afternoon, news came in of trouble at a Suffolk meet. ‘Someone nutted Bevan. Got it on camera. C—’s been nicked.’ Subdued elation greeted this news.
Sabs aren’t given to wild celebrations. They remind me of the early Christians: poor, illdressed, unloved, malnourished, ridiculed by the people they want to convert, subjected to harassment, insults and the odd hurled stone. What’s interesting, and rather depressing, is that the hunt-supporters are now gripped by the same zealous fanaticism. Like a persecuted minority they turn out every week, carping and grumbling, to demonstrate their belief in their decaffeinated sport. But without a kill what is a hunt? A very tame goosechase indeed.
The trail-setter makes his way across the countryside, dragging a throttled vixen on a rope. Behind follows a queue of lumbering horses. The hounds race around in circles baffled by the mingled scents of dead fox here and industrial strength 7-Up squirted by the sabs. Apart from the lovely views and the odd tootle of a hunting horn, there’s very little to gratify the senses. No tension or drama, hardly any action. It’s about as exciting as netball. And the hunt-supporters seem to realise that their attendance is purely symbolic. I saw dozens of them standing at the edges of the fields, like Easter Island statues, staring forlornly into the heart of nothing.
It’s left to the bullyboy fringe to add spice with low-level aggro. As the meeting ended we crossed paths with them again. There was a ritual exchange of asterisked threats. ‘See you next Saturday, mother-f—s!’ ‘You’ll bottle it, you bunch of —heads!’ Just like the football terraces. It’s probably no coincidence that Essex lacks a Premiership club.
So this is the net result of the ban: before it we had one group of embittered activists; now we have two. Doubling the frustration has cost 700 hours of parliamentary time. And a small goldmine is spent every week, maintaining the present levels of hostility and hatred. The law turns out to have nothing to do with animals at all. It’s about one group’s right to spoil another group’s fun. I didn’t see a fox all day.
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