Published: July 19, 2010
They must really love it to be a success.”Karin Gabrielsson, of a Stockholm-based animal welfare agency, agrees that, far from being cruel, the activity enhances the lives of its participants “We’ve certainly never seen it as a problem. It’s not uncommon in Sweden to take your rabbit out for a walk on a leash – people do it with cats as well – and it gives the rabbit a much better environment than keeping it in a small cage”So far the sport has remained resolutely Scandinavian, but might it catch on in this country? There are 1.4 million domestic rabbits in the UK, and at least 37.5 million in the wild. It all adds up to a vast reservoir of untapped show-jumping talent. The British Rabbit Council (who organise the rabbit equivalent of Crufts in Doncaster every January) is extremely twitchy about the concept: “Our members are only interested in exhibiting their rabbits,” says a spokesperson. “It’s all right for people involved in wacky television programmes, but I don’t think our members would go for it.”Much more enthusiastic is John Hird of the British Small Animals Veterinary Association. “Rabbits do have a tremendous facility for play and are much more intelligent than people give them credit for. You get a lot more feedback from a rabbit than from a gerbil or a hamster.” And the issue of animal welfare? “They probably enjoy it, and it would be difficult to coerce them – the rabbit fear reaction is to become fossilised.” Hird is enthusiastic about the thought of his rabbit clients’ participation “I don’t see why it shouldn’t catch on.
Cock-fighting’s dead now, thankfully, but people love a bet, don’t they?” !. Show me a beautiful girl and I’ll show you a smug businessman with his wad out, on the pull Easy. Look: there he is, 3ft away, blowing off to his subordinates, hand reaching out for a pat, a tweak, a grope Come on, darling Come on You know you want it. (Hey, fella; these jungle- bunnies? All for sale, know what I mean? Right.)
This one isn’t having it, but he won’t take no for an answer.
Probably wouldn’t take yes for an answer either; you know the type: Club Class salaryman in a lightweight suit, eight hours from home and family and itching for commercial sex, preferably on expenses. Recognise him, anyone? Fifty-ish, grey hair, looks a bit like Leslie Nielsen? In Harare, second week of last month? Your husband, maybe? Well now: there he was, down in the Archipelago Nite Club, putting the bite on the sort of girl who would make you feel old and, my dear, ugly, no matter how young and svelte and gorgeous you may be. Divorce him, that’s my advice; soak the sod for everything he’s got.
White trash Yuck We didn’t like it, at the Archipelago. Captain Gould and I had popped down after a hard day at the airport, trying to find something nice to fly. Exhausting enough in itself, never mind the white trash, the other kind, the home-grown sort, sclerotic white supremacists, snarling about the blecks.