“Start as you mean to finish.” A British expression. Translation: apply the same high standards of performance and care at the beginning of a task that you plan on maintaining throughout, ensuring consistency of effort and, hopefully, excellence.
Applying that philosophy in The Land of Hope and Glory? As the Brits say, pull the other one, it’s got bells on it. There isn’t a hope in Hell that the average British worker gives a flying fuck about the end result of his labor.
Anyone who remembers the British automobiles wired by Lord Lucas (a.k.a., The Prince of Darkness) is aware of the island nation’s storied history of manufacturing malfeasance.
A deficiency only partially rectified by the introduction of robot workers. Is it any wonder 65 percent of UK consumer goods are imported from places where workers give a shit (compared to 35 percent of US products)? It is not.
Mustn’t Grumble!
After living in England for 13 years, I reckon the British class system is to blame.
The British lower class believe they’re helpless against upper class exploitation. The middle class believe one mustn’t grumble, period. The upper class aspires to indolence.
America not be like that. Our underclass either suckles [more-or-less] contentedly on the government tit, shows up for work ready to do what Jesus would do, or plots their escape from ignorance, abuse and poverty. And, sometimes, does just that.
Our middle class can’t wait to bitch online, knowing that their kvetching has power in a country where government regulation and the good old boy network doesn’t strangle competition in the cradle. And our upper class wants more, more, more!
Horatio Alger R.I.P.
Now that I’ve got that off my proverbial chest, an admission…
While my Hungarian and South African-born parents instilled a Puritan work ethic in their children, I have a different take on the British admonition to “start as you mean to finish.”
I take it to mean “start at the top.” In other words, skip the “work your way up” strategy mythologized by Harvard-educated author Horatio Alger in his 1868 best-seller Ragged Dick (notwithstanding the fact that the main character marries the boss’ daughter).
I adhere to the late-80’s advice that replaced the Horatio Alger approach: fake it ‘til you make it. When applying for jobs, I always claimed more competence than I possessed. And then went about possessing it.
In my defense, how hard is it to do most things? And even if a job is difficult, the primary difference between a true craftsman and, ahem, myself is a willingness to learn. And time to learn. Not intellect.
Africa
So when Jon Wayne Taylor (above) invited me on an African hunt, I said sure! Why not? Never mind that I’ve never shot an animal in my life. How hard can it be?
Decades of firing firearms have taught me the basics. Bullets face forward. When hunting, don’t point the gun at anything you don’t want to eat. More generally, do what the guy who knows what he’s doing tells you to do.
And when I fuck up – as one does with every new endeavor – I’ll be that much closer to not fucking up next time. Assuming I’ll be alive enough for there to be a next time.
Which is why my hunt was predicated on Jon’s presence. Aided and abetted by a professional guide providing predator awareness and ballistic backup, should a wounded animal “take the hump.”
Jon’s an ex-Army combat medic and great white hunter. The kind of guy who can kill you dead (if need be), save your life (if you’re on the right team) and murder just about any animal you can name (and several you can’t).
I’ve told Jon that I don’t want to hunt anything with flesh-rendering teeth or, like contract-writing lawyers, killer claws. Jon warned me I may change my mind. Jaques is know to say something like “Look! There’s a Cape Buffalo. Shoot it!” Adding thousands of dollars to my bill.
One More Thing
More than a few members of my social circle are appalled at my South African sojourn. They consider my hunting adventure a self-indulgent, barbaric, imperialist venture reflecting major masculinity issues.
Needless to say, none of these critics is a vegetarian. And unlike me, none of them can trace their ancestry to the Dark Continent. Sorry, Alkebulan. (Either “The Mother of Mankind” or “Garden of Eden” depending on which PC AI you ask.)
Anyway, at the tender age of double-sizes, I’ve run out of fucks to give about what just about anyone thinks about just about anything. I’m less bothered about shooting a zebra – or whatever – than waiting half an hour for a scoop of Kilwin’s toasted coconut ice cream.
But I do want to do this African hunting thing well. Keeping in mind half-American British Prime Minister Winston Churchill’s quote, “success is not final and failure is not fatal.”
Unless it is. Which it won’t be if I have anything to say about it. That I’ll say here as when. Stay tuned.
Sounds like an adventure. Please add some detail regading guns, calibers, and optics.
South Africa looks beautiful from the pictures, but I’d be more afraid of the government animals, who seem to hate the Boer, then I’d be afraid of the wild animals.