Last Sunday past, for those that missed it, was what is known in pompous circles, as the 'Glorious Twelfth'. Actually to be fair, it was rather a nice day - perhaps not entirely 'glorious' but, being from Perth, my bar for what passes as a nice day is set rather high. But it was certainly pleasant, at the least. August 12, for those who lead real lives, is the day that every able bodied, ruddy faced, chinless upper-class twit in the land suddenly decides that they want to pretend to be all manly and self-sufficient rather than being spoon fed by Nanny, and so dust off the old 12 gauge that has been sitting under the stairs for, oh, about 11.9 months, and heads out to the moors to try to bag a couple of birds that have been bred specifically for the purpose of being needlessly slaughtered so that inadequate people can feel a bit less so for a brief moment.
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