Oh to Be in England
Prince Charles has apparently threatened to leave Britain if foxhunting is outlawed there. Now, I like hunting and killing small animals as much as the next guy but I wouldn’t give up the throne for it.
This can only mean that I haven’t any understanding at all of fox hunting or what animates the British soul.
That’s fine with me. I enjoy being mystified by deep cultural differences. I’m happy not being able to see any redeeming value in things that other people revere like lowriders, Vegemite, burkhas, Hello Kitty.
I have a feeling that if I knew enough about the fox hunting issue to have a coherent position on it, Britain would have lost a bit of its appeal for me.
Imagine you are the hereditary heir to the supreme wealth and social standing of one of history’s greatest societies. . . .you put up with everything from lousy weather, appalling food, and foul architecture that took up where the Luftwaffe left off . . . you tolerate grating accents, garish clothing and people who look like they’ve rubbed their hair with greasy newspaper and been slapped across the face with a golf shoe.
You manage to take all that in stride but once there’s a law that says you can no longer pursue little red rodents with a pack of enraged beagles . . . well that’s IT! This country is not fit for habitation. You can take your damn crown jewels and the palaces . . . I’m heading to Romania where I can pursue rodents of all colors without interference from the likes of YOU!
Yup, I’m missing something but I like it that way.