Buying a Globe-Wernicke

Jim and his friends, Toby Bloodgood and Tom d'Arcy, wanted to be present at the debate sparked by their rat hunt, so they travelled up to London to attend. The night before the debate the Baronet and Mr d'Arcy stayed at their club, while Jim occupied a rather basic room at 'The Dangling Commoner' provided by Mr Sonthiel, although in the event he spent the night upstairs with Richard Finch in circumstances of greater comfort. Although the three 'country cousins', as Richard banteringly referred to them, were apprehensive about the outcome, taking the view that any publicity was bad, it was reassuring to them that Richard himself seemed quietly confident of the outcome. Norman, who did not have a work-related pretext for running up to London, did not attend, although he too was keenly interested, given that he had appeared in one of the photos published in The Guardian. So far, however, neither his wife, Samantha, nor her sister, Priscilla, seemed to be aware of his involvement in The Great Norfolk Rat Hunt. But who knew what might emerge in the course of the debate?

The day of the debate was a bright, sunny late Monday morning. It was held in a committee room off Westminster Hall and was not well attended by MPs, many of whom were still travelling up from their constituencies. Those who did attend had a special interest: they were either in favour of country sports or violently opposed to them, even though rat-hunting was not, strictly speaking, a sport at all. By contrast, the area of the committee room set aside for the public was full; some latecomers had to be accommodated in another room, where they could follow the debate on CCTV. The Serjeant-at-Arms had decreed that two separate sets of seats should be provided and the members of the opposing parties be persuaded to sit in one or the other. As a result, there were two opposing phalanxes; one made up of dark-or tweed-suited people; the other full of animal rights activists who were not keen to be identified. Most of them sported animal face masks of characters from The Wind in the Willows: there were several Toads, Moles, Badgers and Otters; even a few Stoats and Weasels, but the vast majority were Rats. The Press area was also quite full. One of the Deputy Speakers of the House of Commons was to preside.  

Mrs Twaddle entered first, attended by Mr Harradence, who wore a martyred expression and carried some bulky files bristling with reference flags. Twaddle wore a spectacular fright wig; almost 'Afro', but it added several inches to her stature. Mainly in shades of grey, it was streaked with vivid reds and greens. It clashed with her crow-black artificial eyebrows, eyelashes and with her makeup, which seemed to have been applied by a very drunk Picasso. The frames of her large bifocal spectacles were decorated with rhinestones. She wore a shapeless dress of vaguely ethnic design, ethnic bangles and other jewellery.

She's succeeded in making herself look like Dame Edna Everage after a wild night out on the town, thought Mr Harradence, who had vainly advised a sober and businesslike look. I've no doubt that it will make excellent television for all the wrong reasons, he reflected gloomily. At the very least, she should win the prize for Worst-Dressed Woman in the World.

The animal masks in the public seating cheered her loudly. Mrs Twaddle smiled graciously at them and looked smug. Mr Harradence groaned quietly.

God protect me from Gwen's friends, thought Mr Harradence. They are treating this debate (A) as a carnival, and (B) as a foreordained victory. They obviously do not realise whom Gwen is up against. 

The Government Spokesman, Richard Finch, had never been a Minister, let alone a Cabinet Minister; nevertheless he gave a good impression of being one when he entered, looking serious, attended by two civil servants from the Department to which he was temporarily attached, and his own researcher. All four wore dark suits with white shirts and sombre ties. He proceeded slowly and with dignity to his seat, bowed to the Deputy Speaker and sat down, looking expressionless. He took out a pair of black-framed eyeglasses, which he did not need - they were non -magnifying - polished them and surveyed the committee-room through them for a few moments. He continued to look inscrutable.

A bad sign, thought Mr Harradence, who had watched Richard's progress with mingled admiration and disapproval for several years.    

Some of the animal masks booed him, but Richard seemed not to notice; he now appeared to be absorbed in studying his notes.  That was unwise, even so.

Gwen Twaddle began her speech quite calmly, stating that she was opposed to all forms of animal cruelty and was it not time that this ceased to be a matter for 'sport' and 'entertainment'? She believed that a majority of British people now took this view, irrespective of their origins or political allegiance. She appealed for the application of 'civilized values' across public life. (This part had been drafted by Mr Harradence.) She then warmed to her theme and cited a number of Acts of Parliament intended to protect indigenous wildlife, but which did not in fact apply to the Brown Rat. At this point a smile flitted briefly across Richard Finch's features; Mr Harradence realized that Mrs Twaddle had fallen into her first self-created pit-trap and that Richard knew it too. Richard made a short note. Finally, in full throttle, she denounced rat hunting, hunting of any variety and all field sports. Carried away by her own eloquence, she ranted: 

“So-called country gentlemen - 'Toffs' - like Sir Toby Bloodgood, Baronet and Mr Thomas d'Arcy must understand that they are not living in the eighteenth century! They cannot ride roughshod over public opinion! The public will no longer tolerate their barbaric pastimes! Is it not time, Mr Deputy Speaker, that they, and their hunting dogs, were consigned to the scrap-heap of history?”

She sat down amid the applause of the Wind in the Willows masks.  

Richard stood and surveyed the scene. He congratulated the Hon. Lady on securing a debate on this issue. He then corrected her understanding of the applicable Statute Law. Neither the Wildlife and Countryside Act nor any of the other statutes to which she had referred protected the Brown, or Common, Rat (Rattus norvegicus), which was the species in question. He had looked as far back as Richard III, and had discovered only two ancient statutes that referred to rats – which he quoted in Latin – and these enjoined citizens to destroy them whenever and wherever they were to be found, as enemies of His Majesty and  His Majesty's subjects. They referred to all rats, irrespective of species, although he accepted that the King had probably had the Black, Ship, or Old English Rat (Rattus rattus) foremost in his mind; the Brown Rat had arrived in England much later, in the eighteenth century, and had since then displaced the Black Rat.    

The Brown Rat (Rattus norvegicus) had been clearly defined as vermin in official publications, which he cited, of the Department of Agriculture, Food and Fisheries. Rats, whether Brown or Black, were highly undesirable additions to our fauna, like Grey Squirrel, the Coypu and the Musk Rat but even worse and more damaging. They were invasive, non-indigenous species that destroyed or contaminated millions of pounds' worth of human and animal food every year; rats were the vectors of epidemic diseases, including some fatal to humans; they posed a threat to ground-nesting birds, and in short their extinction in the UK was an outcome greatly to be desired. Regrettably the Government did not expect to achieve this in the foreseeable future, as the rats reproduced too fast and were too adaptable. The best response at present was the control of the horrible species, which was what Sir Toby and his friends had been engaged in; they were to be commended, not pilloried.    

Yells and screams from the masks; Mr Deputy Speaker shouted “Order, Order!” Mr Harradence held his head in his hands. Richard continued:

What methods of control were available? Poison, which the Hon. Lady seemed not to rule out, presumably because it did not involve dogs or rural enjoyment, had been used in the past, but not without causing problems. It could take a long time to work, condemning the rats to a lingering death lasting over days. Richard described this is stomach-churning detail. Worse still, it could enter the food-chain. Animals, including domestic cats and dogs, but also cute foxes and badgers, could eat poisoned rats and die, likewise in horrible agony. Rare birds of prey could ingest them, with fatal results. The most effective and eco-friendly method was still the use of dogs, preferably terriers, assisted by their human owners. This delivered a quick, if violent, death for the rats. Only a prejudiced townie, with no practical knowledge of rural affairs, would suggest otherwise.

Then Richard really put the boot in: Although the debate had allowed him to clarify a few topical issues for the public, he questioned whether it had been a good use of Parliamentary time. Mrs Twaddle's application for a debate had all-too-clearly been driven by prejudice and emotion; by her dislike of the idea of a lot of young, white males coming together to engage in a rat hunt and actually enjoying it! Her concern for the rats was both misplaced and hypocritical. Richard recalled the Puritans' banning of bear-baiting in the seventeenth century; it had been driven by no concern for the bears' welfare, but by the Puritans' dislike of public entertainment.

An MP stood up and Richard gave way.

Question: How could the Hon. Gentleman be so sure of the Puritans' motives?

Richard replied that a little research would show that he was correct: soon after the closure of the bear-pits, the bears had all been shot by a firing-squad, commanded by Colonel Pride (laughter). This did not suggest a high degree of concern for animal rights on the Puritans' part (more laughter). Closing his remarks, he said that Mrs Twaddle had once again lived up to her name (yet more laughter). It was to be hoped that she had learned something from today's debate; if nothing else, that rural people knew best how to manage rural affairs. It was perhaps to be expected that she would identify emotionally with an introduced pest species whose members, if they had the vote, would no doubt vote for her Party...

“Order, order, I will have Order!” shouted the Deputy Speaker above the uproar that now broke out. Mrs Twaddle began her closing remarks, but did not get far because the Deputy Speaker silenced her for using very un-Parliamentary language. As Hansard later recorded: “Uproar. Cries of 'Shame!'. Several Hon. Members walked out. The debate closed without a vote being taken.”

Back in Portcullis House, Mrs Twaddle rounded on Mr Harradence:

“This is all your fault, Harradence!”

Stung by the injustice of this remark, Mr Harradence's training did not on this occasion restrain him: “No, Gwen. It was not my fault. You chose the subject; you were never likely to win the debate but, had you stuck to my draft speech, you might have won a few brownie points. Instead you got carried away by your own prejudices and – I suppose – eloquence, and made a fool of yourself. You disregarded my advice, so I accept no responsibility for the outcome. We should meet later today, or perhaps tomorrow, for a postmortem; by which time reason will,  hopefully, have resumed her throne.”

Mrs Twaddle was temporarily inarticulate with rage. Since her late husband's death, no-one had ever dared to speak to her in such direct, uncompromising terms. Only a few gurgling sounds escaped her technicolor lips. As Mr Harradence left her office, a heavy object missed his head by inches and smashed against the wall. “Get out!” screamed his employer. “Get out! Get out! Get out!” 

Happy to comply, Mr Harradence headed back to the New Palace of Westminster. Although it was not long past midday, at least one of its numerous bars (he had so far counted fourteen) should by now be open and he urgently needed a stiff gin. The Bishops' Bar of the House of Lords seemed like a good place to start his quest.  

Meanwhile Richard Finch was being chaired, shoulder-high, by his cheering supporters, to 'The Dangling Commoner', which was well-known to be his favourite watering-hole, even if very few people realised that he actually lived there during the week. Mr Sonthiel, who had followed the debate on television, had champagne ready on ice for anyone who wanted it, although not a few of the country squires, farm workers and hunt servants who were present preferred ale.  

“For he's a jolly good fellow!” they sang. A message arrived from the Secretary of State for Agriculture, Food and Fisheries in Brussels:  

“Congratulations on putting the Government's case so eloquently and setting out the correct legal position on rats. You have silenced that maniacal old time-waster, Gwen Twaddle, albeit I fear only temporarily. The Prime Minister will no doubt be in touch.”  

Whoop te-do! thought Richard. Not so long ago I was a dangerous maverick. Now, suddenly, I am flavour of the week.

  Far away in Frinton Norman's wife, Samantha, received a letter with enclosures from her friend and neighbour, Mrs Stebbings, who was likewise on holiday at the seaside, in Swanage, Dorset. Among other observations, she read with mounting alarm and puzzlement:

“As you know, I sit on the committees of several animal welfare organisations. Judge my surprise then, when I saw in my sister-in-law's copy of The Guardian, some photos of the infamous Norfolk Rat Hunt, which has been in the news, and in the background of one of them (enclosed) your husband, Norman, is clearly visible. What on earth was he doing in such company?

“Another thing; Norman seems to have been entertaining friends in your absence. That is of course no business of mine and I expect that you know all about it. I mention it for only one reason; according to Mrs Hutchence, whom I telephoned to make sure that she had been watering the plants in my conservatory, one of the visitors looked very like your ex-brother-in-law, Humphrey Pringle, whom she had met over drinks at your house; she is convinced that it was him. Given the circumstances, I was surprised. Moreover they were sunbathing almost naked in your back garden, so she got a good look!”    

I bet she did. What the hell has been going while I have been in Frinton? Samantha wondered.   

Jim had celebrated their victory with Richard Finch, Toby Bloodgood and Tom d'Arcy to some purpose. They ended their day in Richard's enormous king-sized bed and a good time was had by all. 

“A bit like being back at Eton!” joked Sir Toby, who revealed that he had been rusticated from Eton for doing 'the usual thing' with the son of his parents' local Lord Lieutenant. That was what had made it really scandalous. "What made it even funnier was the Lord Lieutenant's name: he was called General Hardy.  I leave you to guess what his son's nickname was!"

It did not take them very long to work that out*. A few days later, at Little Kansas, Jim received a perplexing letter from Richard: 

“I remember your asking me at one point whether I had ever had sex with a woman. I can't think why you would want to know that, but let me reassure you that I have. My first Regiment was the Bombardier Guards and I soon found that one's guardsmen were splendidly uninhibited about sex. I approved, of course, but they also expected their Lieutenants, including me, to join them on their raids into whatever red light districts were available locally! So I did. 

“The last time I knowingly did it was when I was serving with the Para Regiment in BAOR (i. e. The British Army of the Rhine). For various reasons I had it in for an arrogant American Major – I forget whether he was Army or Air Force – who had made anti-homosexual remarks a bit too often in my presence. One evening, when I knew that he would be away, I called at his house. His wife, who was far nicer than him and was, I seem to recall, English, was at home and offered me a drink. One thing led to another and I seduced her! She seemed to enjoy it, although she was a bit drunk at the time. I have often wondered whether the husband ever suspected!

“I also said that I thought that you reminded me of someone in my past. I now think that it was maybe myself! I enclose a photo of me, taken while I was at Sandhurst. My hair was almost as short then as yours is now, and shorter than I have ever worn it since. Anyway, see what you think; I'd say that there was a facial resemblance.”

Oh my God, thought Jim as he started at the photo. What I am now thinking is so appalling that it could not possibly be true; surely even Richard would draw the line at that, wouldn't he? And he certainly wouldn't make a joke about it, would he? 

Once again Jim stared out of the window and wondered how it was all going to end. In Suffolk, Norman was having very similar thoughts. So, in London, with a vengeance, was Mr Harradence.  

*Note: "Kiss Me" Hardy, after Lord Nelson's alleged last words.