FA R M I N G●Jeremy Clarkson
When it comes to farmyard pest control,
you’re either a man or a mouse
W
e all accept that
life is the most
precious thing
and as a result we
would burn our
beliefs to save
a friend, and
ourselves to save
our children.
Some go further
still, making
themselves pasty-faced and
weedy by only eating plants,
because they don’t want to
be responsible for the death
of an animal. And that’s
where things start to get
complicated. Especially if you
want to be a farmer.
Last weekend my friend
Reggie, who owns the Cotswold
Wildlife Park, invited me over
to see a rhinoceros that had just
been born. And as I stood therelooking at its fantastic mother,
I found myself wondering how
on earth anyone could kill such
a magnificent thing.
I appreciate, of course, that
the poachers are poor and that
the only way they can feed their
children is by feeding the idiotic
Chinese belief that horn makes
you horny. But I like to think
— and it’s easy sitting here at
my quartz-topped kitchen
island — that if I were in their
sandals I could not and would
not pull the trigger. No matter
how poor I was.
So how then can I be a
farmer, because what I do all
day is look after my cows and
feed them and keep them warm
so that one day in the not too
distant future I can murder
them for money? No. Hang on.
It’s worse than that because,actually, I pay a hitman to
murder them for me.
It’s weird. I truly love animals
and especially birds. But I also
love roast beef and chicken and
foie gras and baby sturgeon and
oysters and pork and ham and
bacon. And get this for added
confusion: while I will happily
shoot a partridge so that I can
eat it with some sprouts and
a bit of mashed potato, I won’t
shoot an equally delicious
woodcock. Why? No idea.
I’ve long held a belief that we
only really care about animals
that are one of three things:
cute, magnificent or delicious
— Attenborough, for instance,
rarely covers the stickleback —
but actually, it’s more muddled
than that.
I would happily shoot a grey
squirrel — and have — but