When a member of hunt staff drops round with a couple of hound puppies for a walk, you experience something that real ale drinkers are familiar with. Initially you are struck by the beautiful colour and endearing looks. You note a zesty tang and earthy aroma. Admiringly, you stand back to take in this aesthetic of classical Britishness. A warm fuzzy glow envelopes you.

However after a dozen pints, or weeks in the case of hound puppies, you realise your house and everything in it is either destroyed or smeared in reeking matter. Unlikely trophy objects litter the place. When you hand back your puppies, like the felt-mouthed ale drinker the morning after, you vow “never again”. You know, of course, this is a lie. You will happily repeat the whole destructive process until death or eviction ends your beery,