A tale of the Welsh’s beef with the badger, and an opposition leader caught running with the fox and chasing with the hounds on the hunting issue.

 

Hello.

Welcome to my little bloggins. So, without any further ado I’ll begin.

2010  then, the International Year of Biodiversity no less. Kicking us off on the year’s quest to raise the public’s awareness of the plight of all the world’s ecosystems, and the critters that dwell within them, is the news that Welsh rural affairs minister, Elin Jones, has sanctioned a pro-active, non-selective cull of all badger populations in areas of west Wales, in a bid to stamp out the curse of bovine TB. Yay!

It is well known that badgers carry the mycobacterium that can cause TB in cattle, and so for a period spanning nearly a decade, a group of independent scientists (ISG), working on behalf of Defra, researched and published peer-reviewed papers on the epidemiology of TB in cattle and badgers, and observed the effects that a series of Randomised Badger Culling Trials (RBCT) had on the spread of the disease.  They published their final report in June 2007.

In its conclusion the report found that “badger culling can make no meaningful contribution to cattle TB control in Britain. Indeed some policies under consideration are likely to make matters worse rather than better”. Also “weaknesses in cattle testing regimes mean that cattle themselves contribute significantly to the persistence and spread of disease in all areas where TB occurs, and in some parts of Britain are likely to be the main source of infection”. It goes on to state that “Scientific findings indicate that the rising incidence of disease can be reversed, and geographical spread contained,  by the rigid application of cattle-based control measures alone”. Err… So no killing then? “No”.

That being the case, Elin, of sound farming heritage herself, and the Welsh Assembly are, in a breath-taking spectacle of defiance, flicking the ‘V’s to science and fact, and, in a move that would confound even the logic of a toddler, are opting instead for a return to the superstitious wisdom of folk-lore and a mass slaughter of the Wildlife Trusts UK’s icon species. In the full knowledge that such actions are highly likely to make matters worse.

Worse, that is.

It would take a very mischievous person to suggest that, while market prices for carcasses fluctuate, a set level of compensation to farmers with stricken cattle may actually render infection from TB economically viable. A very mischievous person indeed, mind.

Endangered: Wikkle Fwuffles.

 

In other non-news, Tory leader, Dave; 44, London, is widely believed to be preparing a repeal of the law banning fox hunting in England and Wales, as a first and defining act of his almost guaranteed take-over of Downing Street this May. This sits awkwardly next to some examples of the more hyperbolic, clueless bum dribble, designed to pay lip service to biodiversity that he’s been spouting of late (the issuing of ‘biodiversity credits’ that I touched upon in an earlier entry being a case in point). I can’t help but invoke the Orwellian spectre of all animals being equal, but some  more equal than others in his case.

Though the fox is officially classed as vermin in this country, and while I acknowledge that its population may require some level of control in places, I would also point out that it does provide a net amount of beneficial services, free of charge, as a member of this country’s rural and urban ecosystems, and has a right to be treated humanely as much as any beast. The method of ‘population control’ favoured by the men and women who see fit to engage in hours long, distressing pursuit of foxes on horseback with hounds, while dressed like a bunch of top hats, is both about as effective and offensive as the Foreign Office attempting to tackle the debates raging around immigration by donning pointy white hoods and setting fire to crosses. But then we already knew that, didn’t we? Fox hunting has about as much to do with population control of foxes as Glenn Beck has to do with presenting Fox news in a rational, and not at all histrionic fashion.

Its worth pointing out though, that while David Cameron supports the barbarous recreation of elitist equestrians, he no longer partakes in weekend meets himself anymore, no. One eye-wateringly awful photographic reminder of his patrician-class proclivities is obviously enough.

 

<wince>

 

So, while the first half of the year, the International Year of Biodiversity, lest we forget, looks set to extinguish most of the cast of ‘The Wind in the Willows’, I wonder what the other half will bring? Maybe the Scottish Parliament will issue a Fatwa on The Famous Scottish Grouse? Or will Cameron’s government, once securely ensconced, declare a Jihad on all the creatures featured in Beatrix Potter’s tales?

On the ‘at risk’ register.

 

The take-home message here is that, apparently, if you are a farmer or a Conservative (two breeds not always easily distinguishable, it must be said), biodiversity can just fuck off!

The end.

These happy dayz are yours and mine…

 

Welcome to the new year, your new year, my new year. It’s also a brand new decade, would you Adam and Eve it, and the fourth one I’ve personally ushered in. Not a fact upon which I’m inclined to dwell too long or hard.

I trust everybody is refreshed, and has adequately recovered from the season’s over-indulgences? After all, how else are we to demonstrate our love for the little lord Jesus than by eating and drinking so much that we are literally sick? (That wasn’t just me, right?) What better way is there of carrying out the mandatory end-of-year worship of the chap who brought us the combined gifts of self-loathing, a profound fear of the future, rudimentary carpentry, and an annual excuse for Jeremy Clarkson to ‘write’ another hugely insightful treatise on what’s wrong with anyone who isn’t him, than by compiling an Amazon wish list, maxing out our credit cards, and exercising grotesque levels of consumption as though it were our birthright? None, that’s what.

Anyhoo, it’s a new year; a new start, and now that I’ve sufficiently recovered from my own seasonal excesses, I feel able to confront this century’s pre-adolescent phase with a sense of hope that remarkably manages to spring forth in defiance of it being the winter’s bleakest month. So long as the old saw that states an intention to start as one means to go on doesn’t require too strict adherence (as that would mean, in my case, spending the year semi-conscious in a drunken stupor, crying, and with jazz hands that could shake the life back into Elvis), then I’m hot to trot.

In a break from my usual eschewing of the early January tradition that sees many making To-Do lists of self-improvement, commonly trotted out in the form of ‘New Year’s Resolutions’ (typically by folk who are eternally resilient to having thus far failed to honour a single promise to themselves, and who generally massively over-estimate their ability to stay away from lard-based foodstuffs), I’ve decided to embrace the spirit of looking optimistically to the future, and set myself some goals for the year ahead. I usually shy away from the ritualistic yearly opportunity to demonstrate my will-power deficiency, opting instead for a perennial, more protracted display of my failure to operate on even the most perfunctory levels.

However, ‘tis, undeniably, the season to follow one’s dreams, and dreams, as the amblyopic high-priestess of pop Gabrielle once warbled, can come true. Sadly, the continuing earthly existence of Jeremy Clarkson  bears weary testimony to the fact that, where my dreams are concerned, this is rarely true. But undeterred by such setbacks, here I bravely go…

So, alongside all the standard platitudes about getting fit, losing weight, drinking less, etc, I am also, in my wide-eyed aspirational naivety, going to include the following endeavours toward the new, improved me:

1. Make a list of books to read/re-read*. Read them.

*Otherwise relatively vice-free, I physically cannot walk past a book shop without making at least one impulsive purchase. Unfortunately, I am also a glacially slow reader these days, and very easily distracted. The number of unread and half read books in my possession bothers me enormously so I resolve here and now to make a list of twelve books to get through between now and next noel.

2. Finish the course I began back in 2006.*

*In my defence I have managed to complete two other courses during this hiatus, and the whole ‘getting-divorced-and-having-to-move-house-seven-times’ thing meanwhile contributed to my lack of dedication to this particular educational path. But a commitment is a commitment, right?

3. Significantly ramp up my level of Tory bashing.*

*While I realise that some people (who probably won’t be reading this so who cares?) may object to this in the interests of balance, and while I’m all in favour of a bit of non-partisan political prick baiting, I feel compelled to point out that this is an election year, and wherever there’s a Tory putting itself  front and centre (and this being an election year, you can count on it being frequently) I will be ready with a withering riposte to their wind-baggery. Balance can go fuck itself. This is war so saddle up.

4. Rediscover old talents,* foster new ones.**

*I’m told I have a bit of a flair for drawing and what-not. Unfortunately, due to the hateful attitude I was exposed to as a youth: that any activity not directly exploitable for financial gain is necessarily a waste of time, I’m ashamed to say that I all but abandoned the pursuit. I’ve since had an epiphany in the realisation that the most effective rebellion against this act of juvenile oppression is to spend my thirties as an unemployed aspiring artist. Hoorah!

** I have currently at my disposal two perfectly good acoustic guitars, yet a repertoire of approximately four chords. While this renders me a tad over-qualified for membership of a Status-Quo tribute outfit, it renders the guitars as nothing more than a pair of elaborate dust traps.

5. Eat more chocolate.

Yeah, you heard.

6. Urban Farming.

Self explanatory, really.

So, that’s it. That’s the list. As you were…