Confessions from the City: The City sportsman on how the Square Mile's big shots let off steam
As the leaves start to turn and the first weekend of the pheasant season gets under way, I’ve never been busier.
I organise shoots for City types looking to let off steam away from the boardroom.
A fellow sportsman reminded me the other day of the time a certain property baron turned up on the moors carrying a bright pink Breda shotgun.
“Should go nicely with the blue camouflage gear and baseball cap,” grumbled one fellow sportsman, who had fallen prey to the tycoon’s penchant for nicking others’ birds.
Fashion faux pas are commonplace — a couple of seasons back, a novice turned up kitted out in motorcycle leathers and cowboy boots.
At the end of the day, the “bag” — the collective term for what has been shot — included a farmyard cat and an owl. He wasn’t invited back.
Bad behaviour is not too common on the shoots themselves — messing around gets people killed — but the same doesn’t go for the evenings.
"One port-soaked stockbroker discovered he had hopped in with another couple, having peed in their wardrobe."
<p>The City sportsman</p>
We once held an extravagant dinner after a day’s grouse shooting, accompanied by the usual liberal quantities of alcohol.
One port-soaked stockbroker got up in the night for the loo and, blundering around in the dark, achieved his mission.
On returning to bed, he was rather irritated that his wife had moved to his side and gained several stone.
“Move over you great lump,” he shouted — at which point he quickly discovered he had hopped in with another couple, having peed in their wardrobe.
It’s been quite different the last few years with more wealthy Arabs among the invitees.
I’ve heard of some who’ve dashed out under fire to slit the throats of wounded grouse — extremely dangerous, given that grouse fly very low.
But they will take the risk because they are not allowed to eat the birds unless they’ve been given a halal death.
But shooting can be rather dull at times, particularly for financial types with short attention spans.
I remember a famous financial PR man was shooting in a wood in Northamptonshire.
He was bored waiting for the birds to fly over so he put his gun down and played, ahem, another form of avian pastime — choking the chicken.
Another City PR ace, Brian Basham, was once accused of shooting a barn owl by accident — a charge he strenuously denies to this day.
In fairness to him, there was considerable question over whether he could hit a barn door, never mind a barn owl.
