High life
Cocks only
Taki
New York
Such is the hunger here for information concerning the innermost secrets of the British upper classes that Esquire the magazine that is the arbiter of all that is elegant, fashionable and politically knowledgeable in America — has deemed it necessary to publish an article on the etiquette of pheasant shooting. As an editor told me: 'Too many Americans were making fools of themselves while shooting. And for the first time since our independence too many on us realised it. There will be no more culture-shock when shooting from now on.' The author of the article was, of course, an Englishman, Alistair Home, the noted historian. Mercifully, Home chose to Instruct through humour rather than preach through intimidation. By this I mean that he began by providing a lexicon of standard English shooting verbiage. And because of the article enormous changes have already taken place. Now American ladies do not blush and protest at the word 'pricked', and American gentlemen do not go crying to the doctor when a running cock is mentioned. Nor does the question, 'Did you have a good bag today?' warrant a punch on the nose from puritanical executives.
Nevertheless, America is till a far cry from England. For example, last week in Southampton, Long Island, a place which cannot compare with the English moors in beauty or atmosphere but provides plenty of room for good shooting, an American 'gentleman' shot low and instead of getting a beater he hit nd-less than five joggers. (Americans tend to like sticking together even when practising individual sports such as running.) Worse, the joggers did not see their getting shot Is an inevitable risk which those playing outdoors must accept. They called the police. And in Southampton the police are mostly Polish immigrants who hate crime and criminals. When they heard about the gunfire they armed themselves with heavy artillery and charged behind armoured personnel carriers. By the time the misunderstanding was cleared up the place looked like a Chicago speakeasy after a gang battle. Ironically, it was St. Valentine's Day.
At another shoot, again in Southampton, an American-Italian socialite shot across the line of guns, decimating a group of newly-rich record company executives out trying to impress their girlfriends. While they lay writhing in their brand new tweeds and cursing the 'dirty Dago', the predictable happened. The police were summoned by one of the hysterical women more used to discos than cocks. When the host explained to the police that the offender was not only a gentleman but also the finest shot in Italy, they were not impressed. No wonder,' said one officer. 'The way he shoots he must be the only one left.'
Despite the numerous social gaffes and accidents, one Must give credit to the Americans for trying. Since the Esquire article there are no more thirty-foot long Cadillac limousines or Filipino houseboys doubling as beaters or pickers-up. The latter are now all English, most of them second sons of aristocrats who now come to America as there is no longer an Empire to absorb them.
But the greatest accomplishment of the new-English manner school is the acquisition of the accoutrement that always gave one away in the past. The gun. Suddenly there are no more embarrassingly new shiny ones around. Even a novice shot — like the pop star who held his gun like a guitar — owns a pair of old Purdeys.
Needless to say there are still many things the new-English do wrong to give themselves away. Such as asking visitors to admire their dogs, or putting ice in drinks, or having large bathrooms with showers in them. But let us give them a break. They will learn soon enough. To me they all sound frightfully English. Actually, I cannot tell them apart, but that is perhaps because I am Greek.
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