curse
Bobbing his fluffy ears in fright
(So vigilant all day and night) –
A villain up to his old tricks
Or martyr on his crucifix?
‘And now, brothers and sisters, sing out for our little siblings.’
And to the tune of ‘Jerusalem’, the audience sang out lustily.
‘And did those paws in ancient times
Scamper on England’s mountains green?
And did the duck and grouse divine
Fly forth upon our clouded hills?
Bring me my scroll of burning gold
Bring me my quill, my Muse, my lyre,
I will not cease from Mental Fight
Nor shall my odes sleep in my brain
Till we have every blood sport banned
In England, not just on my land.’
----
Chapter 7
« ^ »
After that there were almost no dry eyes in the house. The entire audience, with the exception of the baroness and – through loyalty to her – Amiss, leaped to their feet in a standing ovation. He gazed at the floor; she was slumped in her chair in an attitude of despair. On closer inspection she appeared to be fast asleep. Since it was her fault he was enduring this agony, Amiss was damned if he was going to be left to it on his own. Mindful of her previous performance, he patted her gingerly on the shoulder and then on the thigh. She grabbed his hand instantly.
‘I didn’t know you cared.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Jack. Will you knock it off.’
Not for the first time in their relationship, he envied Jack’s complete indifference to public opinion. He was already uncomfortably aware of glances from people further down the line, not to speak of mumblings behind of the ‘disgraceful-what-a-dreadful-woman’ variety.
The ovation eventually subsided, and the chairman got to his feet again.
‘Very touching, very touching. I feel we are all privileged to have had such an extraordinarily moving and emotional experience. Even the hard hearts among the so-called gentry can surely not do other than melt when they have the good fortune to be exposed to the loving words of Brother Francis.’
Amiss could hear continuous snuffling from behind. Brother Francis had clearly slain the little old ladies.
‘Now, I would like to call on our young friend from the Rights of Animals League, Jerry Dolamore, who though a comparatively recent arrival on our shores from the Antipodes has made himself an inspiration for the campaign for animal rights. His brilliance and eloquence have earned him many admirers.
‘Please, friends, welcome the man who during the last few months has done so much to mobilize popular support for our great cause.’
Thunderous applause greeted Dolamore. Gazing at his squat figure and the pallid face with an outcrop of facial hair that resembled a pile of clippings from a salon floor, Amiss found his popularity hard to understand. He wore a striped cotton collarless shirt four sizes too big for him and well past its best, unbuttoned far enough down to reveal a grimy white vest.
Expecting a bore and a whinger, Amiss shifted in an effort to find a more comfortable position. But from his opening words, and despite the rather nasal quality of his voice and the unattractive Australian accent, Dolamore’s effect was even more electric than Brother Francis’s.
He eschewed all niceties. ‘This is war,’ he began. ‘We represent the forces of good against the forces of evil.’
Amiss and the baroness looked at each other and simultaneously said, ‘Savanarola.’
‘Ssshh,’ came from behind.
The baroness directed a withering glance over her shoulder at the perpetrator. Dolamore’s voice rose. ‘This is not about stopping cruelty; this is about wiping out animaphobia. About abolishing speciesism. It is about recognizing that no one has the right wantonly to kill any animal, for eating, for wearing or, above all, for pleasure. This is about rights and equality and before I have finished we will have enshrined in this country a bill of rights for animals, which spells out their right to safety, to protection, to food and to shelter.
‘Some say we are
Bobbing his fluffy ears in fright
(So vigilant all day and night) –
A villain up to his old tricks
Or martyr on his crucifix?
‘And now, brothers and sisters, sing out for our little siblings.’
And to the tune of ‘Jerusalem’, the audience sang out lustily.
‘And did those paws in ancient times
Scamper on England’s mountains green?
And did the duck and grouse divine
Fly forth upon our clouded hills?
Bring me my scroll of burning gold
Bring me my quill, my Muse, my lyre,
I will not cease from Mental Fight
Nor shall my odes sleep in my brain
Till we have every blood sport banned
In England, not just on my land.’
----
Chapter 7
« ^ »
After that there were almost no dry eyes in the house. The entire audience, with the exception of the baroness and – through loyalty to her – Amiss, leaped to their feet in a standing ovation. He gazed at the floor; she was slumped in her chair in an attitude of despair. On closer inspection she appeared to be fast asleep. Since it was her fault he was enduring this agony, Amiss was damned if he was going to be left to it on his own. Mindful of her previous performance, he patted her gingerly on the shoulder and then on the thigh. She grabbed his hand instantly.
‘I didn’t know you cared.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Jack. Will you knock it off.’
Not for the first time in their relationship, he envied Jack’s complete indifference to public opinion. He was already uncomfortably aware of glances from people further down the line, not to speak of mumblings behind of the ‘disgraceful-what-a-dreadful-woman’ variety.
The ovation eventually subsided, and the chairman got to his feet again.
‘Very touching, very touching. I feel we are all privileged to have had such an extraordinarily moving and emotional experience. Even the hard hearts among the so-called gentry can surely not do other than melt when they have the good fortune to be exposed to the loving words of Brother Francis.’
Amiss could hear continuous snuffling from behind. Brother Francis had clearly slain the little old ladies.
‘Now, I would like to call on our young friend from the Rights of Animals League, Jerry Dolamore, who though a comparatively recent arrival on our shores from the Antipodes has made himself an inspiration for the campaign for animal rights. His brilliance and eloquence have earned him many admirers.
‘Please, friends, welcome the man who during the last few months has done so much to mobilize popular support for our great cause.’
Thunderous applause greeted Dolamore. Gazing at his squat figure and the pallid face with an outcrop of facial hair that resembled a pile of clippings from a salon floor, Amiss found his popularity hard to understand. He wore a striped cotton collarless shirt four sizes too big for him and well past its best, unbuttoned far enough down to reveal a grimy white vest.
Expecting a bore and a whinger, Amiss shifted in an effort to find a more comfortable position. But from his opening words, and despite the rather nasal quality of his voice and the unattractive Australian accent, Dolamore’s effect was even more electric than Brother Francis’s.
He eschewed all niceties. ‘This is war,’ he began. ‘We represent the forces of good against the forces of evil.’
Amiss and the baroness looked at each other and simultaneously said, ‘Savanarola.’
‘Ssshh,’ came from behind.
The baroness directed a withering glance over her shoulder at the perpetrator. Dolamore’s voice rose. ‘This is not about stopping cruelty; this is about wiping out animaphobia. About abolishing speciesism. It is about recognizing that no one has the right wantonly to kill any animal, for eating, for wearing or, above all, for pleasure. This is about rights and equality and before I have finished we will have enshrined in this country a bill of rights for animals, which spells out their right to safety, to protection, to food and to shelter.
‘Some say we are
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