I saw this on Facebook courtesy of Animal Rights UK and make no apologies for showing this to my worldwide audience, which is probably about as small as the remaining African lions.
On further research this story dates back three years so maybe someone has got it in for the weasel in the picture; on the evidence presented, who cares, whatever their motives. I dare say the lion was not consulted either.
I’d not seen it before so read on and judge for yourselves courtesy of sections from the posted article. To my mind, it says as much about the arrogance of the uber-wealthy than anything else.
Millionaire banker and member of Countryside Alliance, Sir David Scholey is the coward pictured above. A former director of the Bank of England, BT, Anglo American, Vodafone, SG Warburg, Sainsburys, a BBC governor and a Tory Party donor to name a few.
An ugly fat cat shooting a beautiful big cat simply because he can.
He is one of many wealthy individuals spending small fortunes to shoot lions in South Africa.
These lions are bred from cubs simply to be shot often after bringing in tourists to play with them and boasting of conservation work. They are then prepared to be released into shooting areas and lured out in front of so called trophy hunters.
If this were not bad enough, in many cases the shooters will have been drinking and blast the animal many times before death.
Some “operations” allow the use of high powered bow and arrows and will provide the head and skin for use as a rug and a wall trophy.
This can be a very cruel world but there are times when humans plumb the depths of sub-humanity.
That a privileged member of the so-called elite is capable of the above is simply a disgrace.
Cry Me A River
Another one bites the dust! If there is any comfort in this age of robbing bastard, parasitic politicians it is that people power is starting to make a difference, especially when an election looms.
True, the cheating slime-bags rarely cough up in retribution but, shorn of their trappings of office, most wither and fade away like a rotting plant.
Unless that is you are the master of darkness, old creepy Mandelson, who got booted out twice but keeps coming back like a TCP resistant bad boil.
A peerage for this man? Just goes to prove that, regardless of which side of the House they sit, they definitely are “all in it together!”
In answer to the creaming off of allowances why not apply the principles of the Benefits Cap to MPs? Maybe they might also see what happens when you let people pour in unchecked into the most expensive place on Earth, most without a penny to their name.
Hear, hear?
Money Can’t Buy Me Love
BBC 2’s Under Offer – Estate Agents On The Job offers another classic slice of the British at their worst. Seated, Gary Hersham, operates exclusively within the bit of London now owned by the Far East and Russia and spends his life kissing arse.
You have to watch this programme to see the ultimate pompous twit dirty money can buy.
Acting like royalty – rather than an estate agent ranking lower in social terms than a banker or a politician – he preens his way through his chauffeur driven days like a smug Liberace.
Tormenting his PA – a camp, ginger version of Manuel – as if a legalised blood sport he may well earn a fortune as millions of doubtless filthy money flows through his sticky mitts.
But I have to say he just looks totally miserable – young Russian wife as well – and so in need of a beer and a good laugh.
Cheer up Gaz…nobody likes you and we don’t care!
Saturdays With Molly
The current Mrs W insisted I venture into the bright lights – Leeds – recently, clear evidence that the magical combined attractions of my wit and bonhomie allied to the soothing effects of award winning ales at The Scruffy are losing their “allure”.
While we were in Leeds we bumped into Yorkshire & England cricketer, Jonny Bairstow. In a piece characterised so far by some of life’s knobs, I am pleased to say that this extremely talented young sportsman is an absolutely top bloke.
Sadly for Jonny he has broken a finger and is out for six weeks as the season looms. Now…back to Molly…who also faced a critical fitness test on a chilly first Tuesday practice session last week.
Could he get his arm over (the bar) – yes. Could he grip (the bottle) – yes. Did it taste great – oh yes! And so it was that Molly was declared “fit” for the season ahead and twenty-odd Saturdays of sneaking a few in before the wife arrives.
There we were, first shamelessly embellished tall-tales of a brand new season in full flow ready to take on the mighty Skipton, a venue renowned for its sumptuous teas necessitating fielding first whatever the conditions.
As I resume my Second Team career – one foot in the sawdust – it’s great that Villas youth policy is paying off and I will be joined by my old junior opening partner…albeit over thirty years on!
Having almost retired from the game due to an arranged marriage, old arse-biter Duck is back, lighter and fitter than ever after a recent operation to strip out some varicose veins.
Sadly the marriage failed due to a clash of cultures – he liked to laugh, she didn’t – and so the old muckers are back and Bet Fred has it odds-on that a run-out will occur within the first ten overs. You can also get each-way on a hamstring popping.
Skipton is one of the few places I have actually had a “run-in” with an opponent. Several seasons ago their First Team was led by a strange little man who’s place in the team seemed due only to the fact his wife made the cakes.
He wore his trousers higher than Simon Cowell – leading to being nicknamed Bilbo Baggins – and moved slower than Molly. Like most utterly crap cricketers he tried to justify his “place” by simply being obnoxious.
We batted first on a typical Skipton day – flood conditions – and early on an appeal was dismissed by the umpire. Bilbo was incensed but as I tried to calm him down, up he strode, eyes popping like a druggie and spat the words through my grill.
“You can f*ck off!”
Mercifully, Bilbo was demoted to the Stiffs not long after, as even his team-mates could not justify excellent cakes as good reason to put up with a blatant knob any longer. Will he be waiting when Saturday comes?
Feedback
A few month’s ago I took a trial subscription to Money Week but cancelled soon after. This week I had a call for some feedback as to why I had not persevered.
“Do you want honest feedback?” I asked.
“Love it mate” said the caller.
“It was shit”
“We don’t have a box for that!”
Wanted – Good Home for Chucky the Chocolate Rabbit
I recently acquired Chucky to raffle on behalf of the cricket club which we did – twice! The thing is nobody seems to want to contemplate even attempting to eat Chucky.
Maybe he is too big, or maybe that mad stare that greets me each and every time I climb the stairs scares the shit out of people too?
Maybe I am hallucinating, maybe I’ve spent far too long propping the bar up at The Scruffy but I swear that Chucky might get it if I get a stinker of a decision from a deaf, blind umpire on Saturday.
So if you don’t want to see Chucky get his head smashed in courtesy of my cricket bat…any suggestions?
And Finally…Shock Horror
Shock news this week that your kebab may not actually be what it says! Not sure that will put the target market-place off, used as they are to pre-loading with a bottle of Lambrini followed by twenty Jager Bombs?
Happy Easter.
Michael Dunn says
Beauty again!
Louis Gacquin says
Rumour has it that Molly performed better than you with ball AND bat this weekend Mr Lord?
Patch says
I love Lindt chocolate