Mother nature is terrible, and everything dies in anguish – protestors, FREDERICK FORSYTH, get over it.


Mother nature is terrible, and everything dies in anguish – protestors, FREDERICK FORSYTH, get over it.

THE GRUSE-SHOOTING SEASON BEGINNED ON THE 12TH OF AUGUST. Partridge season begins on September 1st, and pheasant season begins on October 1st. The typical protests from those who consider themselves to be environmentalists and eco-warriors will take place on the scheduled days.

These objectors take satisfaction in being sympathetic to the countryside and its inhabitants. Let me explain why these goodhearted folks do not know what they are talking about as someone who was born and nurtured in the highly rustic countryside of East Kent 70 years ago.

Man has long imagined the wild as a loving, matronly lady known as Mother Nature. Unfortunately, it’s pure nonsense.

Nature is red in tooth and claw, as the poet remarked. Nature has no mercy, but it does have a lot of suffering.

Almost everything that lives and dies in our magnificent landscape does so in terror.

The bulk of organisms are predators’ natural prey and diet.

They live in continual danger of being attacked, battling to find food, eat, mate, and reproduce. Peaceful moments are few and far between.

Almost everything in the natural world dies in agony. The majority of victims are bitten or torn to shreds in the teeth or claws of the meat-eater who captures them. Hunting, catching, killing, eating, and dying in misery is a never-ending cycle.

Is it therefore cruel to nurture game birds? Consider two lives that have been “humanized.”

You were destined to be a broiler chicken from the moment you were born. You’re descended from an incubator-hatched egg. Your mother’s silky feathers are never felt above you.

As a chick, you share a big shed with millions of others. There was no sun, no wind, no rain, and no grass pecking.

Dispensers every few feet deliver sawdust and chemicalized feed.

Your hormones urge you to gain weight quickly, causing your knees to collapse.

You are taken from the litter where you have spent your short life, decapitated, plucked, processed, and converted into nuggets to be eaten out of a cardboard bucket during Coronation Street when you are the human equivalent of your mid-teens.

Alternatively, you may be meant to be a game bird. The same process starts in an incubator, then moves to a shed where grain is supplied from feeders.

In human terms, you are let free to roam the wild when you are still a child. “Brinkwire News in Condensed Form.”


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