NoJo
Happily Marred
- Joined
- May 19, 2002
- Posts
- 15,398
Most weekends I play in a function band. The gig's well-paid, and it's fun (but a major strain on my back -- my keyboards are heavy).
Last Saturday the event was the a Hunt Ball, where the recently banned "sport" of fox-hunting was celebrated by Somerset farmers and landowners. I was not looking forward to playing for these upper-class twits. Probably antisemites too.
But being law-abiding folk in Somerset, there was no Hunt. Instead, a pony-race took place. Strapping young men dressed as maidens or Robin Hood, pretty young girls dressed as foxes or Robin Hood rode a half-mile steeplechase in the hot Summer night, on auctioned ponies and mares. In spite of Somerset being the cider capital of England, Fosters and Smirnoff Ice were the drinks of choice. The women wore gowns, the men Dickie bows, sweating uncomfortably in the sweltering tent.
Between sets, I overheard them speaking: To my surprise, mostly slow Somerset drawls rather than posh accents. Farmers complaining how they had to convert their farmhouses into B&B's. The mood was one of the defiance of the defeated: Their way of life is disappearing. A young man sported a T-shirt depicting a caricature of Blair with the words "Give us back our hunt" which already looked as anachronistic as the "Nuclear Power? No Thanks" stickers of twenty years ago.
The Hunt Ball was nothing to do with hunting or foxes. It's simply a place where young locals could meet, drink, dance and (behind the portacabin where the band changed), have a quick fuck. Not one fox was torn to shreds the whole evening.
Last Saturday the event was the a Hunt Ball, where the recently banned "sport" of fox-hunting was celebrated by Somerset farmers and landowners. I was not looking forward to playing for these upper-class twits. Probably antisemites too.
But being law-abiding folk in Somerset, there was no Hunt. Instead, a pony-race took place. Strapping young men dressed as maidens or Robin Hood, pretty young girls dressed as foxes or Robin Hood rode a half-mile steeplechase in the hot Summer night, on auctioned ponies and mares. In spite of Somerset being the cider capital of England, Fosters and Smirnoff Ice were the drinks of choice. The women wore gowns, the men Dickie bows, sweating uncomfortably in the sweltering tent.
Between sets, I overheard them speaking: To my surprise, mostly slow Somerset drawls rather than posh accents. Farmers complaining how they had to convert their farmhouses into B&B's. The mood was one of the defiance of the defeated: Their way of life is disappearing. A young man sported a T-shirt depicting a caricature of Blair with the words "Give us back our hunt" which already looked as anachronistic as the "Nuclear Power? No Thanks" stickers of twenty years ago.
The Hunt Ball was nothing to do with hunting or foxes. It's simply a place where young locals could meet, drink, dance and (behind the portacabin where the band changed), have a quick fuck. Not one fox was torn to shreds the whole evening.