The Happy Fox
Lady Francis ‘Daisy’ Brookes
Daisy Brookes defied polite society and took up foxhunting.
Daisy’s "sporting" husband traded her carnal services for a regular shoot on the Sandringham estate.
King Edward 7th, better known as 'Dirty Bertie,' bedded all his cronies beddable wives. If he couldn't have the wife he wouldn't have the crony. Lady Daisy Brookes persuaded him to start the Prince Of Wales Hospital Trust for London's poor. Daisy's "social work" became too much for Dirty Bertie. When she declared her support for the Suffragettes and 'Votes For Women.' She was booted out of bed. Her place was still warm when Camilla's great-granny, Alice, hopped into the royal four poster.
Mrs. Alice Kepple
"Alice had the sexual morals of an alley cat."
Victoria Glendinning. Royal Mistresses - Alice and Camilla. BBC2.
Growing old and ignobly belligerent King Edward 7th (Dirty Bertie) was a pain-in-the-neck to live with. His saintly Danish Queen, Alex, was grateful to Alice for keeping him occupied and out of her hair. When he died Alex gave Alice one of his diamond studded Cartier cigarette cases - as a keepsake. Alice also gets a mention (£50k) in the King's official will. His official will, of course, had nothing to do with the royals real fortune. The King inherited two centuries of clandestine profits from the Slave Trade, the Opium Trade and Crown controlled arm’s & ammo sales. How many millions (now billions) he left in Swiss, German & American banks is just a leaf on a tree in the endless forest of royal secrets...
Wallis & Edward by Tom Tierney.
King Edward 8th, the present Queen's petulant uncle. Edward could easily have kept his American girlfriend, Mrs. Wallis Simpson, as his mistress. Rather than live the royal lie the Grumpy Greek lives with Snotty Liz and the grotesque Charles lived with Diana. He gave-up Crown and Throne to marry the women he loved. Four days after he abdicated Edward stumped-up at Schloss Enzesfeld, near Vienna, one of the palatial homes of Baron Eugene de Rothschild the royals principle off-shore banker. Edward's first priority was sorting-out his personal maze of foreign bank accounts from the royal family’s mega-maze.
Like our own, dear, Diana, Wallis became a wrongly maligned woman. Had Wallis been the manipulating bitch Buckingham Palace would have you believe. She would have made sure Edward stayed on the Throne, hanging in the back-ground, like the broomstick-riding-Camilla, waiting for time and tide to change public perceptions. Would she not?
King Edward 8th gave-up the Civil List for love. His niece Princess Margaret gave up love for the Civil List. His grand nephew, the quintessential buffoon Prince Charles, has settled for a foxhunting fossil. Few would sanction a "Queen Cammy." Least of all Queen Lizzy
So. How Long Has The Monarchy Got?
The Happy Fox
Millie Campbell was just 19. Five-foot-five, slim, brunette, brown eyes. She wore a thick brown polo neck Shetland sweater, faded jeans, Timberland boots. She was driving her mum's Cherokee Jeep. As she turned off the dual-carriageway onto the old coast road odd spots of lazy rain started hitting the windscreen. Heavy clouds rolling in from the sea promised a nasty winter storm. She was listening to the 5 pm News.In an unlit alcove opposite the tigers head. Millie made-out the mounted head of a rhino. 'Good Jesus!' Are you safe living here?' She whispered to the pup.
'Buckingham Palace,' said the newsreader, 'has just issued a statement denying allegations by an Argentine polo team captain, Pablo Florrides, who claims half his team slept with Charles and the other half slept with Camilla in the 1980's...'
Millie turned the radio off. She had far better things to think of. Coming into view up the deserted road was the Sholtren Hotel. Originally a coastguard station built in the Napoleonic Wars. The granite turrets held the chilling air of a fortress. She parked in the empty cliff top car park opposite the hotel. A shiver ran down her spine as she locked the Jeep. In their kennels, somewhere behind the hotel, the Sholtren foxhounds were howling at the weather. Millie didn't mind the odd rumble of thunder. It was going behind enemy lines that was creeping her out.
The smell of the listless sea did nothing for her butterflies as she hurried across the road out of the cold. Entering the gloomy lobby she was greeted by a yapping Labrador pup. No one was manning the small reception desk.
The pup started chewing her boots. She picked him up. Snarling down from the wall was a huge tigers head. The brass trophy plate hadn't been polished for years. She squinted to read.
Indian Tiger. Nine Foot Six Inches.
Shot by The Sixth Earl. Simla 1912.
The Happy Fox page 1
London - November 2009
Professor Murphy was reading the Guardian.
EU To Ban Ban?
Prince Charles has refused to confirm or deny funding an appeal to the EU court's to overturn the foxhunting ban. Over the weekend police chiefs accused almost 200 illegal hunts of 'deliberately taking thousands of officers away from the war on terror.' Hampshire police spokesman Inspector Colin Mentworth-Jones accused Prince Charles of 'acting like a red rag to a bull.' Mentworth-Jones stated. 'The Countryside Alliance say foxhunters are law abiding people. When the truth is the opposite. Having to police illegal hunts now we have suicide squads in our midst is an insult to both police and public.'
In Hampshire yesterday, Mr Ernest Fanshaw QC the huntsman organizing the EU appeal, stated.
'I know of no royal involvement in our funding. However I can see why the "Fluffy Bunny Brigade" are up-set. Over two hundred hunts will defy the ban until the EU courts repeal the ban. No matter how long it takes.' On Question Time last Friday the Republican columnist Claire Reynor posed the question. 'Who better to appeal to a gang of foreign judges to overrule the British Parliament than a stupefyingly selfish German Prince?' On the same program London Mayor Boris Johnson said he saw 'nothing wrong with the tradition of foxhunting.'
Ex Labour Minister Claire Short stated. 'Hunting with dogs should have been banned in 1998 when 411 MP's voted to ban it and only 151 voted for it. Following that historic vote the taxpayer was made to pay £M12 for Parliamentary time wasted on spurious hunting debates. This time was wasted by the royals placemen in the Lords. The same placemen, who all went to school with Boris, are now openly encouraging illegal fox hunts when they know every police force is stretched to the limit. What we are seeing is the Establishment in their true colours. It is high time we stopped this nonsense by banning the "Mounted Loony Brigade" keeping packs of attack dogs.'
Writing in yesterday's Observer Tory MP Anne Widdecombe stated. 'Last week as it became clear six known terrorists had landed at Manston airport in Kent, fooled immigration and disappeared into the woodwork, we wasted two-thousand-hours policing illegal fox hunts. As one officer on hunt duty in Kent put it to me. "We are hardly likely to find any terrorists while we are stuck in the countryside playing nursemaid to gangs of Chas and Cammy wannabee’s, who complain they can't protect themselves from a handful of hunt saboteurs."
This dangerous waste of police time is part and parcel of Mr Blair's legacy of abominable lies. If Her Majesty's
Government wants to ban fox hunting they must first abolish the House of Lords as New Labour promised when they came to power in 1997.'
Last week's illegal foxhunts led to violence in most counties. Forty-two huntsmen were taken into custody. One of those arrested, Otis Ferry, an Eton drop-out presently on bail on a drugs charge, claims he was knocked into a cesspit by a police Range Rover. Monitor's from the League Against Cruel Sports videoed the vehicle suddenly reversing for no apparent reason. In an unusual alliance the League are backing Mr Ferry's claim. Next week Labour MP Paul Flynn will present his Private Members Bill to ban the keeping of packs of hounds.
Professor Murphy, a portly Dubliner, had always put foxhunters in the same box as those who hunt, molest and murder defenceless children. Above the clatter of the college cafeteria he could hear some of his cash-strapped students discussing the failing government. They were at the point where someone just has to say.
'And what about that promise to ban foxhunting?
'They knew all along the landowners would just carry on as normal.'
Murphy took his coffee over to join the noisy bunch. Quietly, as was his way, he suggested. 'Instead of complaining. We could use a little asymmetric hacking to liven up the hunting debate.' He smiled. 'If you guys are up for it?'
Murphy's up-and-at-um students were delighted with the idea.
That night. Julie Campbell, Maggie Richards, Emma Moore, Mike Fletcher, Simon Drover and Pete Shore, made their way to Murphy's local in Highgate. Over the Dublin Milkshakes, a drastic mix of Smirnoff & Baileys, Murphy recalled his 'much missed youth.' His first trip to London had been to enlist Spike Milligan's help to propose the Oxford Union motion.
This House Believes Foxhunters
Should Replace Lab Rats
Julie & Millie Campbell had reached a similar opinion aged eleven. Their mother, Kath, managed a riding school. Kath had come to disagree with the hunt. The twin's however usually got their way when dad was at sea. They talked her into taking them on the Boxing Day hunt. 'Just this once.' Kath couldn't hide her smile as she watched the blooding ritual. In perfect unison her identical daughters vomited sausage & eggs all-over the Master's new outfit. The sister's had stayed with the hounds. They witnessed the screaming fox being ripped apart at close quarters. Day's later they announced their decision to dump the Girl Guides and join the junior troop of Herefordshire hunt saboteurs. The Wye Not's. Julie recalled their schoolgirl adventures kitted-out as army commando's, creeping up moonlit lanes, gleefully super-gluing Land Rover door locks while the adults pinched the wheels off horseboxes. As dawn broke they practiced the fine art of laying chemical trails ending in the river. Mike Fletcher, a freckled faced Wiltshire lad, had similar tales to tell. Working his school holidays at a hunt stables had convinced Mike the hunt had to go. All agreed with Mike's opinion. 'Hooting-tooting-loonies belong in rooms with mattress wallpaper.'
Murphy outlined his idea for a couple of websites to expose foxhunters to a wider audience than ever before. Over the following week the lads did the leg-work, finding busy late-night Internet cafés where hacking go's unnoticed. The girls contacted hunt saboteurs from Cumbria down to Cornwall to explain Murphy's idea for a public shaming.
By Friday the websites 'sxolsout' and 'theden77' were ticking over nicely-nicely. Both sites offered off-the-wall contributions on hunting & hunting folk. Dates, times and locations of every illegal hunt in Britain. Names, addresses & vehicle numbers of "celeb" hunt supporters and news of the latest arrests.
Hacking from seven Wood Green Internet café's. The seven founder members of what became 'The Den' replaced the leading pages of seven popular websites with a one-minute video and fourteen full-screen photographs. For ten hours the following day. Everyone who screened-up British Airway's, American Airline's. BBC, ITV, Sainsbury's, M&S and Waitrose saw the Sholtren Hunt. Fourteen mounted hunters were shown on a glorious sunny morning punching the air and whooping delight as the Sholtren hounds ripped open a pregnant vixen and gobbled up her unborn cubs. The photographs carried the hunters names & addresses and a simple question.
Should This Continue A Moment Longer?
Over half-a-million people went straight to the Den website. Most were asking how they could help the hunt saboteurs. The synchronized hack into seven supposedly secure sites made global headlines. Speaking from a lectern in the White House a Homeland Security specialist condemned asymmetric hacks into airline computers and food suppliers as.
'Terrorist in nature. And therefore terrorist attacks.'
In Britain severe flood damage on the East coast could not stop purpose-starved bloody-mouthed-hounds remaining top story for five days. Pundits argued the values of righteous, or was it self-righteous hackers?
Police were called to control a crowd of Countryside Alliance supporters who arrived by the coach load at Channel 4's studios, where Richard & Judy were hosting an hour-long 'Special' on the increasingly violent antics of what Judy called 'posh yobs defying the fox-hunting-ban.'
Outside the studio an Alliance spokeswoman resembling a tweed-clad-tank complained to an ITN News reporter. 'The show has been loaded with Annie Widdecombe's bleedin, bleeding hearts.'
As the audience watched a video secretly made at a hunt kennels. Richard explained. 'These are the kind of people we can do without. As you can see, this is what happens when hounds slow down, this one, a perfectly healthy four-year-old is being shot in the head in front of the rest of the pack. This happens at least once a day somewhere in Britain. Dead dogs go to the knackers yard to be disassembled for the glue factory.'
The show ended with Judy giving the result of a phone-in, in which 98% voted for a law to ban the keeping of packs of hounds. All hell let loose as the jubilant audience joined the jeering crowd on the street.
ITV camera's were recording a ranting bewhiskered foxhunter swearing at the police-line when he suffered a heart attack. Built like a barrel he sank to his knee's clutching his chest. Slowly, ever so slowly like a Russian doll, he rolled forward and smashed his little head open on the pavement. As the camera's zoomed-in, he twitched a little, gurgled something like 'mummy,' gasped and died. Live on the Six O\clock.
The Happy Fox page 2
Next day the media focused on what the Mirror called. 'Inbred imbecile's who "hunt" the uneatable fox.'
Sir Paul McCartney started a radio appeal. Listeners to FM radio heard a ravenous pack of snapping, snarling hounds ripping at the kill. Followed by Macca, stating. 'If, like me, you have heard enough of hunting with dog's. You can help me to stop unscrupulous lawyers overturning the Ban. Ring this number or visit the Den website.' The number he gave out was the League Against Cruel Sports. The League were demanding the Sholtren be disbanded immediately. Everyone who tapped into the Den was invited to visit their local saboteurs website. New recruits were told.
'Action Day is next Saturday. Bring a placard and a Guy Fawkes dressed as a well known foxhunter. And buy the kids a plastic hunting horn or a trumpet.'
The local sites provided 'Enemy Reports' including print-out maps of hunting territory, particulars of violent hunt members and a brief history of the local hunt.
The Den: Norfolk Sabs\Enemy Report\001
The Sholtren 1907
'Port-Nosed Gentlemen Hoping Lady Spill's Head Over Heels.'
King George 2 was Britain's second German born king. Earl Sholtren
He spent most of his time at home in Germany. To keep his British subjects subjugated he used the Riot Act. Which gave his army license to shoot-to-kill any meeting of over 12 people his government deemed unlawful!
1744. George 2 was hunting in Royal Windsor Great Park when urgent news arrived from his spy's in Paris. King Louis 15th had agreed to arm the Stewart 'Pretender' Bonnie Prince Charlie, with 20 warships carrying 10,000 men. The French invasion fleet planned to seize the Thames Estuary to coincide with Charlie's Highland Army marching into London. The King had every reason to fear his brutalized subjects would join Charlie's Army the moment Charlie came in sight. George ordered an armed yacht to stand-by at the Tower of London - ready to speed the royal family into the English Channel where a Hanoverian warship was waiting to take them home. George's German Queen, Caroline, had the old masters taken off the walls of Kensington Palace, catalogued, packed and sealed ready for shipping.
During the year-long invasion scare, while the King's ships guarded the Thames, Dutch gin smugglers had a clear run to the Norfolk coast. Smuggling gangs (Owlers) quadrupled their earnings. The London Gazette reported. ' Norfolk landed Best Hollands is the cause of lewd and drunken mobs stopping every kind of proper business in London.'
In Parliament the King's inadequate coastguard was blamed for lost profits. Shipping merchant Walter von Sholtren, a cousin of Queen Caroline, convinced the King he could stop the Norfolk landings if he had a base in the area. Sholtren offered a generous price for 20,000 acres of Crown Land - providing it came with a title. He was created Earl Sholtren. Norfolk Town Crier's and Church Notice Boards proclaimed.
Has The King's Warrant
To Burn Boats, Abodes and Chattels
Of All In The Owling Trade
Felons Caught In The Act
To be Gibbeted On The Foreshore
And Left Hanging For Seven Tides
Barracks for a troop of infantry were built on the shore side of the new Sholtren Estate. The King's hated German officers started a hunt stable which would evolve into the Sholtren Foxhounds.
The Sholtren's became favoured Crown Shipping Agents. Crown leased Sholtren ships, African slave ships and Indian merchantmen, filled the royals coffers for the next 150 years. Until 1940 the Sholtren stabled two dozen royal hunters for German cousins who, unbeknown to the British public, visited the Sholtren estate in private planes to attend illegal gambling party's and to "hunt" the uneatable fox throughout the 1930's. This was the decade of Mr Hitler's Gathering Storm when the royals and their landed pals were telling Winston Churchill to shut-the-fuck-up.
Norfolk Sabs\Enemy Report\002
Foxhunters: Who Are These People?
The pastime of hunting the uneatable fox began in Georgian Times when one-hundred-horse deer hunts led by the like's of Charles, Wills & Harry charged about the landscape until there were no deer left to hunt!
Idle rich imbecile's were left with nothing to do all day. One such imbecile, allegedly the Duke of Richmond, started the disgusting practice of breeding foxes for mindless destruction. From Georgian Times those born with a void between their ears have made hunting the uneatable fox the centerpiece of their "lives."
The Real Hunt
If foxhounds slow down for any reason. They do not go to good homes - as do our police & blind dogs. Slow hounds are shot in full view of the rest of the pack, dumped at the knackers yard, and boiled down for glue. Or thrown into a handy incinerator as caught on camera left. As you can see this perfectly healthy three-year- old was told to "sit." Shot in the head and bungled into the fire. Nothing unusual for "people" involved with foxhunting.
The Happy Fox page 3
The 8th Earl Sholtren, a balding jolly little man, lived in New York. Sholtren had been asked to leave Eton a few years early. His 'common behaviour' was said to be a consequence of losing his parents in a shipwreck - just before his eleventh birthday. He was 19 when the Great Train Robbery stole the headlines the morning he was arrested in Rye harbour landing an oil drum full of Moroccan cannabis. Family QC's used the usual brown envelopes to avoid unpleasantness. The police evidence disappeared. His case never went to court. Aged 20 he took a tour round the family's US shipping offices. Wild horses couldn't drag him out of the Big Apple. His elder sister, Lady Thelma, a short, busy, redhead, ran the Norfolk estate. Sholtren's ancestors had financed and raced the first China tea clippers. Strangely, entering his Manhattan penthouse you could see his first love was steam trains. Battle Of Britain Class engines chugged along his walls. The artist had made the coal smoke so real you could almost smell it. In his teens Sholtren had stuffed five-pound notes into the oily hands of railway engineers, in exchange for highly illegal driving lessons. Becoming a Dollar billionaire hadn't given him half the satisfaction of racing through a winter night on the footplate of the Kings Lynn Flyer. The youngest on the family board of Sholtren Shipping, he argued against 'bigger and blander bum boats.' Slowly, he persuaded his American cousins to build smaller, faster 'first class only' liners. Over the years his idea's had made him Vice President. Life had been a breeze until cancer robbed him of his girlfriend, Joan. When the Sholtren hounds made front page news, he was genuinely unavailable to comment. He had been at Joan's funeral. He should have married her twenty years ago. Her job with the International Red Cross always got in the way. Now she was no more. Probably, the doctors said, because of her annual trips taking medical aid to the victims of Chernobyl. Now there was no-one to smile and tell him he was 'a waste of space.' Making her tease uncomfortably true.
He fell for Joan watching her making an appeal for funds at a Waldorf Charity Bash. He asked her to advertise his cruise liners. She refused. Her opinion of billionaires, especially those who pander to wannabee billionaires with 'first class only liners' made him blush. Sholtren found himself donating to the Red Cross and several other good causes - just to see her.
It took a year to break her ice. Getting to know each-other they discovered Sholtren ships had delivered Joan's ancestors to Georgetown, South Carolina - in chains. Joan had often said. 'Men pay for the sins of their fathers.' This last four weeks, without her, seemed like a down payment. Sixty floors high on Park Row, he gazed down on the 16 acre, 70-foot-deep, hole someone had named Ground Zero. Glowing in the early dusk. New York had lost all its charm. He closed the blinds.
Flicking through the channels he found BBC 24 showing an aerial view of Norfolk. The camera zoomed in on yet another, fatal, rail-crash. A cheap signal system installed by the diabolical Railtrack asset stripping outfit had apparently failed. Sholtren felt a surge of rage. The sell-off of British Rail had often made him swear, but now he felt like kicking someone. Why was he so mad?
A voice in his head asked. 'That's your railway isn't it?' He zapped the TV off. Joan was right.
It was his railway. And the bastards who dismembered it should be hanging from a tree. He poured himself a large scotch. 'You don't need that.' Said the voice in his head. 'You need a change of air.' Sholtren suddenly began to feel better than he had done for months.
At the same moment in time, in a draughty bed-sit near Marylebone Station, Julie Campbell was closing her books on computer programming. She turned-on her 12 inch unlicensed TV for the end of the 10 pm News. BBC 1 was covering the rail-crash. A government minister was giving the usual 'we shall learn lessons' speech. Julie changed channels. ITV was showing the same talking-head-minister-of-the-crown. Yawning, she was just about to switch-off when a litter of sleeping fox cubs filled the screen. 'And finally.' Said Sir Trevor. 'In Dover today. Customs officials using the new heartbeat detectors found fourteen young foxes under a false floor in a French furniture van. The van driver has refused to make a statement. French police tell us the van owner, Charles Rochelle, a millionaire antique furniture dealer is touring America on business. Last month you may remember the Royal Beaufort Hunt, denied illegally importing foxes to satisfy their customers.' Using his cheeky watch-this-space-smile. Sir Trevor ended by saying. 'We'll be keeping you up to date with Britain's fox shortage in tomorrow night's News At Ten. Goodnight.'
Julie laughed out loud. 'Well played Trevor. Brilliant.' She told him. She forgot she was about to go to bed. She changed channels, set her new Woolworth's video machine for Newsnight, then tex'd her sister.
'wsl 4 it.' Campbell Code for Good News.
Millie Campbell was at college in Norwich. The girls had a laugh over the phone as Newsnight gave the young foxes five minutes. Speaking on the videophone from Trouville in Normandy, where the furniture van was based, a local reporter told Jeremy Paxman. 'Our woods are full of foxes. They are easily caught in nets.'
'I thought the fox was too cunning to be trapped. Don't you need dog's to catch foxes?' Paxman inquired.
The Frenchman laughed. 'That's just a myth, my friend. A myth invented by inbred buffoons who dress like your, how you say? Toby Jugs. The fox is no match for a real man.'
Chuckling, Paxman asked. 'Do we know how these real men sedate foxes for the ferry crossing?'
'The pressure gun a veterinary surgeon uses is all you really need. These are easily obtained from anyone in farming or, how you say? The pet trade.'
Speaking from an animal sanctuary in Kent, nursing one of the young foxes, a matronly RSPCA officer told viewers. 'They've all come round now. They're looking a bit groggy. We've seen similar cases. I'm sure they'll be O.K. It's in the smugglers interests to look after them.'
Paxman asked. 'So there's no danger of any diseases. Rabies for instance?' 'That's most unlikely. We are dealing with professionals here. Not just the French end. The hunts have vets too.'
Thinking out loud Paxman went on. 'Considering the so-called ban and the fact that the hunt was stood down for the foot and mouth epidemic, shouldn't Britain have a surplus of foxes by now?'
'Oh No. No. I'm afraid That's a popular misconception. The hunt have always bred their own foxes. With the countryside under stricter control they are having problems doing that. Unfortunately they can always turn to their fellow sadists in France.'
Showing footage of Wills & Harry hooting & tooting with their new mummy. Paxman nearly said. 'Good God. Diana must be cork-screwing in her grave.' Instead, he said. 'Recently the Hunt Masters Association denied foxes are imported. Earlier today our researchers contacted the Badminton estate where the Royal Beaufort kennels one hundred and twenty hounds and stables as many horses. Newsnight asked for a spokesperson to discuss this latest development. We were told none was available. Those who dress-up like Toby Jugs and climb on big horses to butcher little foxes with purpose-starved-hounds, can of course leave their comments on our website. As they usually do. So far, police have been unable to locate Charles Rochelle, the owner of the van carrying fourteen foxes to an as yet unknown destination. Newsnight researchers tell me the Normandy based Rochelle furniture company gets several mentions in Queen Victoria's purchase ledger at Windsor Castle. Newsnight has also learned Rochelle furniture vans call on many stately homes. So. No surprise there then.'
The Happy Fox page 4
The Isle of Nurua
Bronzed from a hectic year traveling around palm- fringed tax-havens, Brigadier Marcus Tandy looked more like an ex-sumo than an old soldier. Gonged and semi-retired in 1996, he listed his pastimes in Who's Who as 'Chess and chess.' Tandy was born on the Sholtren estate. His family had managed the Sholtren's Norfolk farms since 1850. Tandy's size prevented him having much enthusiasm for the hunt. Even his parents had called him Fat Owl. His awkward bulk and his love of math's led to double derision at Harrow. Aged 12 he was cast as a Roman Centurion in the Easter play. Wearing a cardboard-eagle-helmet and a girls skirt, he felt a fool. To get himself sacked from Hadrian's silly bloody Wall, as he saw it, he decided to deliver his speeches in the voice and style of the doddering old Prime Minister, and old Harrovian, Winston Churchill. Fat Owl would offend, or bore the bloody audience to death, he didn't care. To his amazement he brought the house down. No more was he teased. But admired and introduced as 'Bunty our finest actor.' Churchill's gruff manner became his own. His talents had taken him sailing through Oxford into army intelligence. From 1984 he held an unlisted security post with his own office in Buck House.
His present location was a tiny dot in the Pacific Ocean. From the air, you would expect Nurua to have one or two banks. Over the previous month Tandy had found 562 banks hosting over 19,000 nominee corporations. Many of which were involved in the energy scam. After the Enron director, Kenneth Lay, conveniently kicked- the-bucket Tandy was ordered to pipe-clean the system for any sordid investments connected to the royal portfolio. Which meant following dirty money through the laundry-cycle. Monaco (load) Belize (wash) the Caymans (spin) the Dutch Antilles (dry). The isle of Nurua (distribute) gave him all the evidence he needed. The first leg of his journey home, a seven-hour-hop to Sydney, was grounded by an offshore hurricane refusing to blow itself out. Tandy hated flying. Hanging around sweaty little airports didn't help. He ambled into the busy café-bar. One wall was taken up by a blue and gray mural of PT 109, the American patrol boat sliced in half by a Japanese destroyer during WW2. The skipper of PT 109 had swam to Nurua. He survived to become President of USA. Tandy wondered what Jack Kennedy would think of the dirty billions now swilling around the island. A young, leggy, black waitress in a micro-skirt was standing on a bar stool tuning the bar-room TV into Sky News. Tandy was the only man in the room with his eyes on the TV. He was amused to see fox hunters across England and Wales had also been grounded. An aging Sky reporter shivering in his Barbour stood at the head of a crowded country lane as he told viewers.
'Despite the freezing cold this is the biggest turnout ever against the hunt. Police tell us access roads to hunters stables and kennels have been blocked with bumper-to-bumper vehicles in every hunting county. Police report up to 20,000 hunt protesters have surrounded ex prime minister Tony Blair's local hunt in South Durham. Here in Surrey around one thousand hunt protesters have stopped the hunt. The lane behind me leading to Blakemoor Hunt kennels is completely blocked with empty school buses. Which I'm told arrived full of excited children just as the dawn was breaking. The children and their teachers are now enjoying breakfast in the barn of a local farmer. This particular farmer withdrew his permission for the hunt to breed foxes on his land before the ban was announced. The labour MP Paul Flynn used this farmers evidence in the House of Commons to destroy the myth that foxes were a pest that had to be controlled. As you can probably tell by the amount of cheerful protesters behind me, supporters of this particular hunt seem to be outnumbered by a hundred to one.'
Working with the Den website Friends Of The Earth volunteers were co-coordinating the protest with coded text messages. 'Smile Troops' were directed in strength wherever they were needed. Regiments of cheeky kids hooted and tooted plastic hunting horns as they waved colourful placards for the TV crews. Big Coward: Leave The Little Fox Alone
Blood Sports: Idiots Wanted
Dickhead: See A Doctor
Spineless Twit: Try Chasing Me
A fine cold day and roadblock picnics turned the protest into a carnival. Radio 5 Live began playing Samba requests for 'Reynard's Frontline.' All over England & Wales effigies of foxhunters were being burnt by the roadside on makeshift stakes. Charles and Camilla repeatedly went up in smoke wearing dunces caps, labelled. No Brain: No Shame. Queen Po Face? No Thanks. Wills and Harry were incinerated as,
Camilla's Toy Boys A Disgrace To Our Diana.
Worthless-Willy-Wanker & Half-Brain-Harry.
Television News editor's concentrated on pro-hunting politicians. Doris Cameron, Kate Hoey, John Redwood, Ollie Letwin, Lembit Opik and John Gummer made enjoyable television being barbecued in hunting pink and Born To Kill bandanna's.
The best ever turn-out against the hunt was eclipsed by a topless Asian babe. Her story broke just in time to ensure Sunday's front pages had the Venus shaped teenager, topless, on a Caribbean beach. Where as a child, she stated, she met 'the Archer's the Aitken's and most of Johnny Major's perfidious gang.' Her late father, she claimed, 'was the Parliamentary Tory Party's principle nominee on Grand Cayman 1982 to 1997.' She also claimed her father had told her of 'a multi-billion heist from the British Treasury.'
Sunday's headlines read.
North Sea Oil
Billions Diverted, Fragrant Laundry Woman,
Lizzy's 40 Thieves, Crown Licensed Looters., ect. ect..
Monday's media totally ignored the largest foxhunting protest in history to revisit the Thatcher-Major years.
Under the headline, Cayman's Connection, the Guardian claimed. '£200 bn north sea oil profits disappeared in Her Majesty's
Government's Enron accounting.'
The Sun screamed. Lizzy: Where's Our Money?
Squeezed round an alcove table in the Birkbeck cafeteria reading Monday's papers the Den were visibly hacked-off. Julie Campbell put their collective mood into words. 'We've been blanked. Blanked by dirty-money and a nice pair of tits.'
Nodding agreement Murphy commented.
'I wouldn't mind if the girl was saying anything new.
Al Fayed said as much years ago. It's just a sexy spin on old allegations.'
Simon Drover, a blonde lanky Sussex lad, was idly stirring his tea, while studying the Sun's full page photo of Moona Patel's perfect tits, when the obvious struck him. Without averting his eyes he asked.
'What do the media like more than violence?'
Nobody had to say it. But everybody did.
'Dam straight.' He said. 'So that's what we'll have to give them.'
Brows furrowed at him. Emma Moore, a well-stacked Cornish girl with long jet-black hair, broke the silence.
'Explain dear boy. Explain.'
Glancing at six puzzled faces round the table he asked. 'Don't you see? Scandal. Bimbo's, toy-boys, au pairs, whatever. The blood sport set invented infidelity.
It's what they do with their evening's. Wife swapping. Roasting the hapless servants. What else have they got to do?'
'You got that right.' Julie agreed.
Simon continued. 'The local sabs have all the names, addresses, vehicle numbers. All it needs is a little judicious spying.'
All heads turned to Murphy, aged 44, the venerable elder. Murphy shrugged. 'The question remains the same. Do perverts deserve privacy?'
The answer was a witch's chorus of 'Yes!'
The Den met that evening at an Internet Café on the Tottenham Court Road where they tapped into the hunt saboteurs network to pass on Simon's idea. Local sabs who routinely video the hunt had no trouble filming foxhunters leaving the pub, their homes, someone else's home, their stables, their stable maids - wherever. The sabs turned sleuths e-mailed images and saucy details to what became The Den's Z List Celebs. The lads made A4 Not Wanted poster's of particularly nasty looking mounted loonies, for anyone to print-out and pin-up wherever they saw fit. Posters revealing the secret life of.
The Master's Married Boyfriend,
Horsebox Hillary, Two's-Up Tack Room Trish, ect. ect., appeared at bus stops, outside village halls, churches and police stations. Furious foxhunters complaining to the media about 'harassment' only encouraged more people to visit the Den website.
Pet shop owners printed-out
Not Wanted posters of foxhunting fornicators for their shop windows. The more mounted loonies complained, the more posters appeared. Members of Herts Sabs secretly filmed a pint-sized titled lady chasing foxes on her big grey in the morning. Then taking to her big red Mercedes to seek out Serbian squeegee merchants in the evening. Two of her human quarry, baby-face-muscle-boys at least half her age, appeared on the film, telling the sabs. 'She pay a twenty a pop,' and 'could get not enough.' The Serbs were working the lights on Edgeware Road when they met the perma-tanned blonde flashing her Union Jack knickers. They doubted her word, when she said she was Geri Haliwell. Her £20's they took as the real thing.
Murphy and the lads edited the film Herts Sabs had titled Foxy Lady. Pete Shore, a stocky built Londoner, had a Saturday job at William Hill's. He remembered seeing Foxy Lady scantily clad at race meetings. Tapping into Channel 4's racing site he found footage of her attending Royal Ascot. The girls trawled on-line society columns for further insight into the lady's form. Posing as a parent Murphy downloaded the promotional video from the lady's old school. Footage of the 17th Century school, set in it's own parkland, provided the opening shots for the five minute film. Maggie Richards did a word-perfect Anna Ford on the voice-over.
'In 1986. Lady Victoria Mottram was employed as a companion to the late Princess Margaret. In April of that year Lady Victoria was arrested with Big Daddy, a West Indian drug dealer, in McDonald's hamburger joint at London's Marble Arch. In what became known as the M'lady Case, Big Daddy claimed he had supplied heroin to the royal family since 1979 and Lady Victoria was no more than Princess Margaret's runner. "M'lady Victoria." He claimed. "Was a royal pawn and innocent of all charges."
The Old Bailey jury disagreed. M'lady was fined £1,000 for possession and given a six-month suspended sentence. Big Daddy served five years.'
The film took viewers on a tour of English and Scots hunting estates as the voiceover recalled. 'For almost a decade
m'lady Victoria, accompanied the Princess of piss-up's around the country-house-party-circuit where the Champagne never stops flowing and thick lines of coke come on solid silver breakfast trays.'
The fake Anna Ford then gave m'lady's birth-place and date, the fee's at her old school, the fee's at the Priory detox clinic's where she often freaked-out, her husband's noble pedigree and the names of two of her teenage-sex-toys. Swarthy lads who appeared at the end of the film to recommend Britain to asylum-seekers everywhere.
The Den met at Murphy's for Sunday lunch. The girls cut the cards to determine who should warn the Lady. Emma won the cut. She put the phone on speaker.
'Good afternoon m'lady. I'm just calling to tell you. You are about to star in a film on the internet.'
'I'm sorry. Say again?'
'It's an internet film m'lady. Entitled Foxy Lady. And it's all about you. It's going out on You Tube and the Den website.'
Mention of the Den triggered a torrent of unsporting comments on the value of computer hackers. Laced with the kind of expletives ladies should try to suppress. M'lady slammed the phone down.
'Temper, temper,' said Emma, as the others fell about laughing, 'wait till she sees the film.'
Foxy Lady 'premiered' at 3 pm. At the same time the girls began ringing press and TV news-desks to ask.
'Is this really a titled lady? Or someone taking the micky?' Two hours later titled foxhunters were calling Downing Street. Demanding Mr Brown closedown the Den website. By 9 pm the BBC made Foxy Lady top story.
'The Foxhunting Nymphomaniac' made a welcome change from constant and bloody mayhem in Iraq. Foxy Lady shot to the top of European and US newscasts.
Eight hours later Foxy Lady, wrapped in furs, was heading towards a friendly Jamaican Jumbo, politely asking Heathrow's resident photographers. 'Will you kindly piss-orf?'
The snappers relayed her flight number to the Caribbean press. Hearing of her departure on the 9 am News, Professor Murphy sent the film to every Internet café in Montego Bay.
Foxy Lady landed to the sound of a steel band playing 'Too Sexy For My Shirt' and the cheers of every randy male in town. Complimentary Bolly for breakfast had put the lady in top form. Wearing a slinky red Gucci and matching shades she cat-walked through the airport, impervious of the media scrum.
Before stepping into a waiting Rolls she struck a hands-on-hips pose. Smiling, left, right and centre for the press and TV camera's, she told the hack-pack.
'Yes. Yes. It's all true. All true. Let's just say I've been banished to the nunnery. Sorry I can't stop to chat. Vows of silence and all that.' As the chauffeur closed the door she was grinning like a fox.
Next: Sexier Stories