Of ponies, dogs and A.A. Gill’s cock
People, on the whole, are quite fond of animals. Dogs and cats have their loyal followers and apologists. There are others who swear by snakes, rabbits, spiders, pigeons and God knows what else as their belovèd companions. Ken Livingstone, for instance, the mayor of London, is quite possibly the world’s most famous newt fancier.
Horses, of course, are also very popular. Like the following, rather old news story shows:
The three-year-old Shetland, who has a taste for Guinness and cheese crisps, can be found in the bar on most days after his owner worried he was spending too much time on his own. Alfie first trotted down to The Woodman in Woodmansterne, Surrey, three months ago after he started squealing when he was left in his pen.
Owner Sharon Sutherland said, “I wondered if we might not be allowed in but the sign banning animals only said dogs were not allowed – it didn’t say anything about horses.”
Matthew Lowe, the pub’s landlord, said, “My wife thought it was a dog at first, but we soon realised it wasn’t. I was just surprised at first, but now it’s fine. He’s a lovely horse, he doesn’t cause any problems, but he does need to work on his toilet training.”
Having a miniature pony as a free-loading customer might seem a bit strange at first but apart from that small matter of toilet training, ponies should cause less problems than your average dog. At least ponies don’t bark, sniff your crotch or try to have sex with one of your legs.
In Austria, by the way, they have taken things even further. There, dogs are not merely (barely) tolerated companions in restaurants and pubs, they are actually invited to all manner of social and cultural expeditions. So, in Vienna they now have ‘doggy days’ in the cinema:
Vienna’s dog owners can now share their favourite movies with their pets after Admiral-Kino, one of the city’s old traditional cinemas, on Wednesday introduced the Austrian capital’s first “Doggy Day” at the movies.
Every first Thursday of the month, dogs will be allowed into the 95-year-old establishment to enjoy big screen adventures. For €6 ($8,8) per biped and accompanying quadruped, special cuddle seats are available to the Viennese moviegoers and their best friend, complete with fresh water and dog popcorn for the four-pawed audience.
“Lassie,” “101 Dalmatians” or other movies that may be especially suitable for the dogs’ taste would, however, not be on the programme, the cinema said. The Admiral management also asked pet owners not to forget leashes and muzzles and only bring dogs who “liked the cinema and are friendly and agreeable companions”.
The same applied to humans, the cinema said.
Of course, there will always be grumpy nay-sayers, so not everybody shares these loving feelings for animals. Enter master A.A. Gill, restaurant critic for the Times online.
Being a restaurant critic he obviously does love animals – but not exactly in a sentimental or animal rights kind of way. Here’s what he has to say about the desperate plight of the factory chicken:
Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn dish of boiled wattles about the lives of chickens. Giving them a hay bale, a square yard of grass and an hour a day in the chilly drizzle is a bit like putting a bridge table on death row. If you care about the quality of chickens’ lives, their happiness, there’s only one thing you can morally do: don’t eat them. Animals are bred into humiliating, unnatural shapes and idiotic imbecility in strange, unnatural habitats, and then die for dinner. Get over it or eat grass. The only thing you should campaign about is whether they’re improved eating. This zoomorphic sentimentality, this Beatrix Pot-au-feu of food, is as dysfunctional and disassociated from the reality of field and table as medical foodies who think that all breakfast is either poison or a cure for cancer.
In the same column he also told a very moving story of his old Balinese pet cock:
I once had a big, black, Balinese cock. It was about a yard tall, fully extended, and was very black, with a sinewy, metallic, blue-green iridescence. Game cocks are fighting birds and all leg. They have tiny, malevolent, beady heads, like the missile triggers on Top Gun joysticks. This one had the look and temperament of Naomi Campbell waiting for room service. Hens fled from its dark, murderous lust. To my knowledge, it shagged three peacocks, one labrador and an idling lawn mower. It would hide behind hay bales, and go for the cow man at head height, feet first. It had spurs sharp enough to eviscerate a spleen. It was one bad mother, kung-fu chop-chop, cocky cock. And after it had rounded up a terrified gardener, a gardener’s boy, a topless-sunbathing belly dancer – don’t ask – and a vet with hay fever, and chased them into a pig’s ark with a farrowing old spot, it became sadly obvious that there was no room in Surrey for the badass game cock and any bipedal mammal. It had to be dispatched.
It was like trying to kill Rasputin. First, my friend, the hooray farmer, went to stab it in the throat with a machete, but was swiftly beaten back to the kitchen, swearing like a drunk duchess and bleeding from the temple. After a lot of Highland courage was consumed, eight of us crept out with flaming torches, scythes, antique Murdi spears and mashie niblicks. The battle wasn’t exactly heroic, but it was bloody frightening. Finally, I blew one of its legs off with a shotgun and beat it to death with a baseball bat. It didn’t go quietly.
Somehow I don’t think you would see monsieur Gill buy the next round for a miniature Shetland pony – or take a dog to see the next Hollywood blockbuster.
Still, when the animal finally has stopped moving, there’s no better man to talk you through the culinary processes by which it ends up on your plate.
By the way, Gill was less than impressed with his Balinese cock in that regard:
And then I cooked him. After hours of boiling, its dark, grey thighs were still the texture of soggy teak and the broth tasted of bitter tears and bile. I wore its tail in my tam-o’-shanter.
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