WHILE you slump on the sofa expelling the richest flatulence of the year, the aristocracy is out for a lovely traditional hunt. This is what you’d need to join in the murdery fun:
To begin with, you’ll need a healthy contempt for your fellow man, otherwise you’ll find riding horses across their gardens in pursuit of a fox somewhat rude. Develop this by going to Sports Direct and observing their customers.
Then you’ll need to become comfortable with senseless cruelty in the name of entertainment. Reality television can help with this, especially if you have access to the late-00s series of Big Brother when ‘duty of care’ was an alien concept.
A familiarity with killing is also key, but you can’t just go out and take lives willy-nilly if you’re not already posh. Instead, pop into Pets at Home and conversationally tell the guinea pigs how you’d love to murder them. It’s fine, they’re natural born test subjects.
Next you need to get the local authority figures on your side. Invite the local police chiefs, magistrates and judges round for dinner. Feed them lavishly, get them drunk, and film them driving themselves home. After that they’ll happily look the other way as you break the law.
On the day of the hunt, it wouldn’t do to turn up in camouflage gear. A fox, after all, is not the Predator. Dress in your brightest red jacket and tight trousers that reveal how small your penis really is, and how engorged it becomes at slaughter.
Then grab your horse and off you go with your new chums. If you don’t have a horse, you are very much not invited to this party.
Above all, remember it’s a sport and you’re there to have fun. Unlike the foxes. But it’s okay, because foxes can’t feel pain and actually enjoy a bracing chase before they die.