Country Life

If I’m honest, I’m not quite sure why I started reading Country Life magazine.  Probably, it was in the hugely mistaken belief, which is the driver behind any story about celebrity, that through reading about a subject, one could become part of that world.  This is not a new phenomenon and is why so much Young Adult fiction has a dash of the fantasy, many teenagers spend a lot of time wishing that they were somewhere or someone else, the irony is of course that eventually they get their wish, they turn into an adult, someone else entirely, although one would hope they never lose their taste for Haribo.

Country Life magazine is, at first glance, the publication most associated with waiting rooms, the exception being the waiting room at Dignatas, in which the sole reading material available is the ‘Daily Main’, after reading which some visitors have been heard to exclaim ‘Fucking Hurry Up’ at the door marked ‘Exit’.

Anyone taking a cursory glance at the cover, advertising, contents and overall glossiness of the publication might think that this is the magazine for Torfs.

It is.  But it’s so much more.

With the exception of the ‘Evening Star’ (the sister paper to the ‘Morning Star’ and yet not remotely associated with the inexplicably more popular ‘Daily Star’, the ‘Evening Star’ being the sort of newspaper that would be published by the hard left if they had knocked off after publishing the morning edition, celebrated as traditional journalists do, then brought out an edition where they really wrote what they thought and where every editorial began ‘Right…’) Country Life is the most militant publication not actually produced in the front room of a self styled ‘activist’ who wears a combination of corduroy and cheesecloth and churns out their publication on one of those hand cranked printers the sole purpose of which was to give millions of schoolchildren an introduction to purple ink and solvent abuse.

Think I’m joking?

Here’s how militant Country Life is.  It abhors littering.  And bad behaviour.  And ill manners.  And unnecessary noise.  It hates pollution.  It is an advocate of the preservation of environment.  It is the champion of the agricultural sector that we rely upon to, you know, eat.

Moreover, it champions the preservation of our heritage.  This takes many forms.  The most obvious is that it tends towards Stately Home Porn but, and this is the saving grace, it knows where to draw the line.  Published every week apart from at Christmas where one imagines the entire staff are off first killing and then cooking their Christmas dinner or at least causing a scene at Waitrose, the magazine often spreads a feature over two issues, occasionally this will be a feature on a Stately Home with words about architecture and history, and images (‘figs’, never photos) of the grand hall, the long drive, the privy, and so on.  Occasionally, if it is not term time and the younger daughter of the house is back from a Scottish university where she doesn’t have to pay fees (how do you think these people hold on to their wealth) there will be a picture of a young woman in a ballgown, cuddling spaniels.  Otherwise, images of the owners remain mysteriously absent.  That’s because usually they might be confused with the gargoyles festooning the East Wing.

I started buying Country Life magazine when I noticed that it featured articles of interest to me, such as farming, food production and the future of our environment.  The property pages I skipped past and the section on antiques and the art market were not really for me, I couldn’t afford a £12,000,000 estate in Scotland or an oil painting of the same place at the same price.

I started subscribing to Country Life because it had something important to report every week, or something interesting to say about gargoyles, or because it featured an estate for sale that looks like an oil painting, and there’s always the lottery.

It’s also something of a counterpoint to the rest of the media (apart from ‘the Field’ magazine).

And, of course, there’s always the young lady gracing the frontispiece, like a posh Page Three.

English eccentrics - Car Pets

There’s a certain sort of person who keeps soft toys on their bed.  These people are called children.

Anyone else with a stuffed toy on their bed is to be approached with caution for a number of reasons.  In ascending order of things you have to worry about; least sinister is that the soft toy is a container for something, such as a sex aid or recreational drugs, and is owned by a person unfamiliar with the concept of draws, or the socially acceptable receptacle for contraband, a hollowed-out book (why else do they issue Clarkson in hardback?).  Or it could be some sort of surveillance device, which is OK if it’s owned by the adult who will shortly be using it to keep an eye on the nanny, the cleaner or her cheating dirtbag husband, or by somebody who has their own website, less OK if it was a gift from somebody.  Worst case scenario, it’s a soft toy purchased and owned by an adult, who has given it a name.

The exception to the soft toy prohibition is if the soft toy was a gift from a boyfriend either purchased as a token of affection ‘to keep you company when I am not here’ (Translation: ‘I don’t trust you, you skank’, or won at a fun fair through a game of skill although, frankly, if you can win a soft toy at a fun fair, the thing deserves to go in the trophy cabinet in the chap’s front room, not sit on a pillow.

The sort of person who keeps a soft toy in their car is a different class of nutter entirely.

Again, the only acceptable owner of a soft toy resident in a car is a child.  Such soft toys are not only useful for playing games with and sleeping with or resting one’s head on, but are jolly useful for striking a sibling.  Warning: such toys quickly achieve character which, if not offset by frequent laundering, can develop into personality.

Adults keep soft toys in cars because…fuck knows.  If they are a bloke and don’t have children, it’s probably because they are a peado.  If they are a woman, it’s probably because they have run out of space on their bed.  Again, acceptable uses include a bear-cam to keep an eye on the chauffeur, or as a head rest on a long journey, or a short journey back from the pub, but otherwise you have to wonder.

Having said all that, the sight of car pets makes me smile, and I have been known when travelling in a car with car pets to put on an impromptu puppet show.

Top tip: always remember that the driver, who has the power to screech to a halt and order you out of the car, will have great affection for her car pets and is unlikely to find any one-act play that concludes in frenzied furry sexual congress accompanied by hoots and grunts nearly as amusing as you do.

A dusting of weather

Saaaannnnnnnndddddstooooooooooorrrrrrmmmmmmm!  Sandstorm.  Sandstorm!  Sandstorm.  The Red Death is upon us!
Well, it is if you believe the newspapers.  Apparently the good people of England have awoken to find strange deposits on their cars.  Hardly a novelty if you habitually park underneath a tree, but in this case it’s a thin film of dust.  And not just any dust.  African dust.
Luckily, since the inexorable rise of the UKIP, Daily Mail readers have been trained how to react, instinctively and without thinking, to any threat originating from overseas.  And this is the worst kind of overseas threat, a threat from Africa that has travelled through Europe and crossed the channel to arrive in England, possibly simply to settle on the cars of hard working families, but possibly to claim benefits, or even possibly both.
Apparently the wind (already, along with his villainous cohort the rain, an element as unwelcome in England as a fox turd in the fondue) has picked up some of the Sahara, blown it across Europe and evenly distributed it across the Home Counties. 
Now the English, by and large, know how to react to sand being blown about the place.  Christ knows, any English holidaymaker who has spent time on an English beach is used to eating sandwiches that are at least 7% mineral deposit thanks to the summer ‘breeze’ whipping along the beach.  The correct reaction to a sandstorm is to erect a brightly coloured windbreak, hunker down and drink flask tea until it’s time to go to the pub.
Reality, of course, fell a little short of the full-on award-winning CGI FX that people were secretly hoping for (after this winter’s storms, England has become a nation of not so much storm chasers, but people who are chased by storms and have a smartphone and a desire to get their footage on Sky, the BBC or at least YouHooTube with the tag ‘weather fail’).  As it transpired, this was hardly the sort of weather event that caused the arse of even the most nervous camel to snap shut.
As a weather event, it did give one a sense of perspective, billions of grains of sand blown across two continents, before ending its journey on the windscreen of a VW in Essex.
And it did indeed result in a thin film of dust on many a car, so resulting in many an Englishman taking his car to the local Romanian hand car wash – a foreign import the English are happy not to moan about.