Slightly to my surprise I have had an invitation to shoot (pheasants) before Christmas. Normally I am highly unlikely to get a proper invite to a driven shoot this side of 25 December. Plenty of stomping about in bushes and crouching for pigeons, but
nothing much driven. This is because anyone I know with a shoot is desperately letting it pay for its upkeep and the keeper's wages so that they can get a few "free" days shooting for themselves later on.
This is the time of year, up to Christmas, when most shooting is commercially let for the very good reason that there are more birds and the weather is likely to be better. (It will be interesting to see just how much the recession affects corporate shooting days).
Added to which by the middle of November there is a sort of creeping expectation of Christmas and a general air of looming festivity to jolly everyone along, recession or no. After Christmas when everything goes flat and the weather is likely to be foul and most of the birds have been shot by the paying guests is the time when the shooting sponger comes into his own.
Shooting spongers let it be known that we are always available at short notice to make up numbers and won't be in the least bit offended if we are rung up at the very last minute – even the night before – if someone has dropped out unexpectedly. Have gun: will travel.
I know of one brilliant shot who is actually known as Mr Sponge to his face after Soapey Sponge, the eponymous hero of R S Surtee's hunting yarn Mr Sponge's Sporting Tour. Soapey rather brilliantly passed himself off as a wealthy fox hunting man, which he wasn't, who invited himself to stay all over the country and hunt. Once installed he sponged mercilessly and was almost impossible to shift.
I can't say that my 21st century Mr Sponge is that bad. I don't think his host has ever thrown him out, but he has acquired the nickname Mr Sponge for managing to shoot at an astonishing number of places. And wherever you go there he is, well ensconced with a large whisky describing his latest duck flighting expedition to the Hindu Kush in a 1932 Rolls-Royce shooting brake with an Indian Prince, or partridges in Morocco with the king. When not shooting he is in an aeroplane or on the road heading for the next engagement. High birds in Devon today, low birds in Caithness tomorrow. He has recently sold a house Perthshire in favour of an establishment near Penrith within easy reach of the motorway so that he is better placed for a racing start to the coverts or moors. I am not sure that Mrs Sponge is that enthusiastic about the peripatetic nature of their lives, seldom two nights in the same bed, but she is very loyal, good with the dogs, and smiles wanly if it is suggested she must be bored witless incanting "good shot" 150 times a day and listening to incessant shooting stories at dinner.
I have to sneakingly admit they are quite entertaining. As it happens the shoot to which I am summoned so unseasonably early is run by a syndicate in which a friend is a member, so it is all rather flattering to be asked as his guest.
After that it's back to the gorse and the rough stuff to hold myself in sponge-like readiness for last-minute invitations.
arobertson@scotsman.com
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