Boar
I sometimes go and visit some very good friends in the south of France. They live in a converted barn in a tiny village up in the hills in the Languedoc-Minervois region.

I really love going there as it's such an isolated place - being about 70km in either direction from the next major town and a half-hour drive down into the valley just to buy groceries, there is absolutely no noise in the village, no light pollution, and in summer you get baking hot days and nights that are clear as anything. Not to mention some of the most terrific storms you'll ever see.

The surrounding forests are also home to a lot of wildlife, including wild boar. This means that during the hunting season, people come from far and wide to sit on the hillside and shoot things.

Anyway, one evening I'd shared a traditional apéritif of Pastis, a large fondue, and a couple of bottles of wine with my friends, and decided to go for a wander around the village. Off I trotted, spliff in hand, enjoying the beautiful moonlight and the stillness of the air apart from the sound of crickets chirping.

Suddenly, I heard a rustling. I stopped. The wild boars sometimes rustle around in the hedgerow, but they usually scarper pretty quickly when they see humans as they're fairly timid creatures. This was getting closer, and it was huge.

Then this enormous 'body' appeared from the shrubbery above the side of the road, fell down the 8ft drop, hit the ground and rolled a few feet before coming to a rest.

I shat myself.

Then I had a closer look and realised it was a dead boar with multiple gunshot wounds.

Twat.
(Half of Stephen Fry's right buttock pissed on your dog on, Tue 4 Mar 2008, 15:44, Reply)