Grouse Shooting with Peter Adam Smith

I was with young scud, Peter Adam Smith in Perthshire at the weekend, shooting by day and knocking the tops off bottles at night when I had an epiphany about this youthful pretender.  It was the Sunday morning and we'd been tramping up a hill looking for some game when we rested on top of some heather, settling down with our guns at the ready lest something fly our way.  While watching the birds evade our learner shots the day before I'd noticed that some of the grouse had a green hue about them, others a distinct red white and blue and I pointed this out to Peter which seemed to weigh on his mind a little, a worried look spreading over his face and I swear his neck looked jaundiced.  I soon found out why.

 

The first bird to fly our way was blue and Peter took an enthusiastic pot at it and hit it.  Feathers exploded in a mess of red white and blue gore.  'Beauty!' shouted Peter, a huge smile on his face and before I could congratulate him another bird flew past and he instinctively raised his rifle and let loose another shot sending the blue bird falling dead to the ground.

'How about that then, Spiers?  Put that in your pipe and smoke it!'  He did seem to enjoy this easy game.  He'd only just reloaded when a green bird flew past and he aimed, hesitantly then brought his rifle down.  'What's wrong?' I asked and he shook his head and said, 'The green ones, Spiers.  They're not for me, I've heard those bastards hit back.  If you miss them they'll attack and give you a nasty bite, if you hit them then they'll still give you a nip and I can't risk that.'  Then another blue bird flew past and he downed it with glee.

'The blue birds not worry you?' I asked nonchalantly.

'Nah, not at all, you can fire at those with impunity.  Watch this' and he let off two shots and hit two blue birds who went down like Stephen McGowan on a Tuesday night in the Polo Club. 

Later, having watched Peter Adam Smith safely shoot at the blue birds for an hour I thought I'd indulge myself in a little mischief and waited until he was slightly distracted before calling out to him that a blue bird was flapping out of the grasses and without thinking he raised his gun and fired.  The green bird took the full blow of the shot and disappeared into the trees in a bloody green white and yellow haze.  'Fuck!  What the fuck have I done?' he wailed.

'Crikey,' I said.  'That was a green bird, whatever is Lawwell going to say?'

'I know!  I'm totally fucked!'

Then he realised his mistake and his face flushed as I looked at him and smiled.

'Hold on Peter, what's Lawwell got to do with anything, we're shooting birds here; what, did you think they were a metaphor for something else?'

 

He harrumphed and marched back to the hotel with me bringing up the rear, chortling to myself and I didn't see him again until later after I'd got myself a drink and had a loaf around the balcony to take in the sunset and there he was, in the grounds shooting his gun into a barrel.  There'd be no green fish in there, I pondered, sitting down with my gin and tonic as the sun dipped behind the trees and the distant mountains twinkled in a purple haze.