BY LIZZIE DANBURY
A guide to becoming a pound shop terrorist and getting a criminal record for life
Are you bored of having too much free time and not enough ways to embarrass yourself in public? Do you dream of spending your weekends dressed in black, lurking in bushes, and shouting at people who actually have jobs? Do you want to save on utility bills by having less showers? Then congratulations, you’re prime material for becoming a hunt saboteur—otherwise known as “nature’s most confused activists.”
Hunt sabs are the self-appointed guardians of the countryside, a group of people who believe their mission is to save foxes by annoying everyone else. Forget the fact that all the dead foxes they pose with in photos—or plant on the routes of legal trail hunts—were killed by cars or natural causes. To be a successful hunt sab, you must have a knack for turning roadkill into a Go Fraud Me scam and a conspiracy theory.
Is it time to break the law, Mel the Fire-bomber?
Be prepared to mix with fire-bombers and other lifelong criminals (including thugs who have done time for assaulting pensioners and teenage girls). Be ready to scoop up a flattened fox from the roadside, drape it over a hedge, and claim it’s evidence of “brutal hunting.” Never mind that the poor creature looks like it lost a fight with a steamroller and reeks like Ruth Tingay’s (pet) badger.
If you’re ready to join this elite squad of wannabe eco-terrorists, here’s what you’ll need:
- A Flimsy Moral Compass: Hunt sabs operate on a unique logic system. They’ll happily trespass on private land, disrupt legal activities, and harass innocent children and hardworking farmers—all in the name of “animal rights.” Never mind that their antics invariably cause more harm than good, like scaring livestock or starting fights with people who just want to enjoy a day out riding, innocently chasing a laid scent.
- A Love of Scams: As mentioned earlier, roadside foxes are your new best friend. A bit of creative staging, some dramatic photos, and a tearful Facebook post about “the horrors of hunting,” and you’ve got yourself a viral campaign. Bonus points if you can blame the local hunt for the death of a fox that you scraped off the A1.
- A Complete Lack of Self-Awareness: Hunt sabs are the kings and queens of hypocrisy. They’ll scream about animal cruelty while wearing leather hobnailed boots and munching Big Macs. They’ll claim to love wildlife but leave litter everywhere they go. And they’ll lecture farmers about the countryside while living in a city flat with a pot plant named Kevin.
- A Talent for Misplaced Anger: Nothing says “hunt sab” like screaming incoherently at a group of people on horseback. It doesn’t matter if the hunt is following the law or just out for a leisurely ride—your job is to make as much noise as possible. Bring a vuvuzela, a megaphone, or just your own piercing screech. Call hounds to roads with horns and gizmos without a care for their animal welfare. The goal is to annoy everyone within a five-mile radius, especially the police. Menopausal? On disability benefit and scared to be caught exercising in public? Just balaclava up! Sabbing could be right up your street!
- A Willingness to Look Like a Total Loser: Let’s face it, hunt sabs aren’t exactly the cool kids. You’ll spend your days hiding in ditches, getting chased by dogs (trampled by horses if you’re lucky), and being laughed at by everyone from farmers to ramblers. But hey, at least you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing you’ve achieved absolutely nothing.
- If You’re Female, Be Ready to Get Groped: Let’s be honest, hunt sabs don’t win beauty contests. The “men” involved look like Worzel Gummidge and wear balaclavas to hide the fact that God gave them the looks of a Mr. Potato Head assembled by a blind granny with Parkinson’s. Be prepared to be asked regularly if you need a pee or a dump out in the open air, as the pervs always make sure they bring a few sheets of Lidl Velvet for a “comradely wipe.” If you enjoy getting sniffed, birds, then your Hunt Sab “President” is known to enjoy a sneaky snuffle …
7. A Penchant For Free Car Repairs: If you own an old banger, take it with you to the meet and pass off old nicks and prangs as damage caused by hunters. Deflate a tyre and claim a puncture. Play the victim. Set up a Go Fraud Me and publicise it on Facebook groups. You might con enough wonga off gullible pensioners to buy yourself a better sab banger. And don’t you worry your whiffy socks if you get in trouble as Chris the Commie ‘Skeletor’ has your corner … you’re in safe hands!
Chris ‘Viva Israel’ Williamson
So, if you’re ready to trade your dignity for a post-ban cause that nobody outside your echo chamber cares about, and you’re up for a grope from a vegan-sausage-breathed, lycra-chafing, crusty old sex fiend, grab your balaclava and join the hunt sabs.
Feel for grouse that much that you want to sab a shoot instead? Join up with a convicted criminal with a history of intimidation who was given a prison sentence of 18 months, you’ll REALLY piss off your parents!
Just remember: while you’re out there “saving foxes,” the rest of us will be laughing at you when your case hits the magistrates’ courts.
And if you’ve got dodgy knees or get around on a wheelchair, fear not! Sab from your own home! Join the army of Hunt Slaboteur trolls out there! And what a bunch of sound individuals they are! There’s that really normal troll called Chris Roberts who goes around pretending to be a female witch who got the police to waste a hundred grand of taxpayers’ cash digging up a cafe because he was sure Fred West left a corpse there. There’s Christine Hoxworthy who sends poisonous email after poisonous email from her Wrexham hovel when not organising LGBTQ+friendly sewing afternoons at her local boozer. Or you can take tips from Andrew Munro, once of Envisia Learning, who will happily teach you how to handle WOA (words of advice) from the boys in blue, when he’s not ranting on X about the ‘plump buttocks’ of this magazine’s Editor.
Happy sabotaging! (Or not.)
P.S. If you no longer fancy becoming a hunt sab and agree with the author that dead foxes and pervy old saboteurs are a tad too pongy, why not scoop up a dead raptor instead? You can get good money for raptor corpses these days—the “raptor persecution” propaganda business is sloshing with wedge from the shamefaced wind industry and all you need to smear the Barbour brigade with raptor deaths is to dump raptor corpses on grouse moors. Ka-Ching. And not a lycra lothario in sight … oh …
Stale Mince