Writing on this page last Monday, a John Fitzgerald of Callan, Co Kilkenny applauded the recent British ban on fox-hunting, writes Kevin Myers.
Urging our politicians to do the same, he added: "Throughout our long and turbulent history, the red-coated hunter was a symbol of oppression and tyranny. During the Famine, he rode to hounds across a countryside ravaged by hunger and disease. He was the one who gave the order to evict entire families into poverty. It was he who sent out the crowbar gangs to torch his tenants' humble shacks."
Well said, sir! Well said indeed! By Jove, I think we now have the Geraldine school of history, which places blame where it lies: fairly and squarely on the huntsmen and women of Ireland. First chair of this school of history is held by Professor Septimus Bleat, who takes over from here.
Thank you. Yes, all our woes can be attributed to huntsmen. So, for example, it is still widely believed that the Black and Tans were named after the Limerick hunt, but this was a lie concocted by Dublin Castle to conceal the truth that it was the hunt itself which was recruited to the RIC.
And what a scourge they were to the plain people of Ireland! Red-coated huntsmen set fire to Cork and burnt Balbriggan. Let us not forget the huntsmen in Croke Park on Bloody Sunday after Michael Collins's boys had bravely bumped off a few hounds in their kennels that morning. In they went, these ruthless friends of the British, hitting the poor spectators with their whips. . .
-You mean their crops?
Fool! Blithering idiot! How can hitting anyone with wheat or barley or oats hurt them? No, I meant with those evil whips such as only the Tsar of Russia would have used against his serfs.
- You mean his knouts?
No, cretin! His I mean his serfs! Kindly do not interrupt me again. The huntsman has ever been the scourge of the Irish nation. Wherever you have found treachery, you will find the cunning, smirking, moustache-twirling figure of the huntsman behind it! Huntsmen scattered the French fleet in '98, and then put down the gallant men of Wexford. Go further back in history, and you will repeatedly discover the diabolical figure of the redcoat, deflowering our maidens fare.
- You mean maidens fair, surely.
Quiet! I told you to shut up. Picture it. Acushla, acushla, murmurs the pure and virtuous colleen, her words echoing cross the glen. I hear you calling me, the pure Gaelic swain calls out to his betrothed. But neither Seánín nor Mavournín could possibly know that through the rushes steals the figure of the huntsman. Ah, but stay! Behold! Aaargh. Ladies! Avert thine eyes! He is in an aroused condition! This pre-simian fiend. . .
- Priapic, I think.
I will not tell you again! . .pushes open the door of the humble cabin, and there, recumbent on a litter that has never known the stain of sin, lies the bashful Irish virgin, the inviolate anemone of her womanhood untouched by human hand. With a single bound, he pinions her to her chaste linen, a little sob escaping her lips before the huntsman's foetid fist clamps her mouth shut.
That virtuous cry is enough! Seánín hears it and flies across the glen, passes by an old woman (a-plucking young nettles, she ne'er heard him coming) and finds the huntsman tearing at - forgive me - Mavournín's sh*ft.
- Her shaft? No, no, surely he had the shaft, not her - she's a woman, and women don't. . .
Silence, you insolent dolt! There are ladies present, Gaels who are unused to such robust, unIrish language. I was trying to spare their blushes. I meant of course (between ourselves) her shift. But of course, Mavournín has fought like a true Gael to preserve her virtue from the red-coated Sassenach. And now, with a single blow, Seánín slays her assailant. For this noble deed, the judge, in his red coat and riding cap at the assizes, sentences him to be hung, drawn and quartered, and then sent to Botany Bay.
Mavournín stands on the quayside, waving as the prison-ship sails out across the bay. From the vessel, a voice carries stoutly across the waters. "Lo, round the fields of Athenry. . ." - as behind Mavournín, a figure in red approaches. But this time there is no Seánín to save her. . .
Such has been the history of Ireland. Not content with ravaging the plain people of Ireland, huntsmen also pursue and kill little wild foxes. These are peaceful little vegetarians that ask only to be left alone in peace grazing on their pastures, until they reach old age and retire to a pleasant old foxes' home, where they can smoke their pipes and reminisce until the final twilight descends. When we get rid of the huntsman, that is the paradise to which our foxes and our land will return.
- A question, Septimus. What is the difference between you and hunting?
I don't know. What is it?
- Not much. You're both a complete and utter w*n*er sport. But hunting's a complete and utter winter sport.