Everything’s a culture war these days, isn’t it? Immigration, abortion, gay marriage, multiculturism, gender roles, even vaccines – it feels like there is nothing that people can’t work themselves up into a frothing rage about when faced with an opposing viewpoint.
But the one that bores me most of all, the one that if we all get our own private version of Hell I’ll be made to watch for eternity while sitting between Piers Morgan and Nadine Dorries drinking Australian lager, is the ferocious online battle between farmers and vegans.
To some in our industry, it is as if the biggest threat to our livelihoods isn’t our half-wit politicians, the rapidly heating climate, or Mad-Vlad Putin, but the less than 2% of the UK population who choose to follow a plant-based diet.
See also: Anti-dairy activists pour milk on floor at Harrods
Unlike some others, however, I admire them. Not because I care one way or the other about their dietary choice, but because I’m willing to give my respect to anyone who decides to make their own life several degrees more difficult.
A few years back, a local journalist rang me to comment as a farmer on the fact that a vegan restaurant had opened in my hometown.
When I’d finished laughing, I breathlessly said something along the lines of “well fair play to them”, which I don’t think was what he wanted to hear.
But as far as I am concerned, anyone brave enough to do that in a town where there was once an actual riot when KFC ran out of chicken deserves all the luck they can get with their new venture.
I do occasionally encounter vegans, however. There is one who works in the café at my daughter’s climbing centre.
The dreadlocks, facial piercings, and the fact that he has “vegan” tattooed on his forearm do rather give him away.
But then I’m usually wearing a checked shirt, jeans, and dealer boots, and smelling vaguely of cattle shit – so aren’t we both walking stereotypes?
Every week, we go through the same Western-style stand-off. I slowly walk to the counter, him warily watching me approach. Our eyes narrow as we size one another up, daring the other to make the first move.
“Latté please,” I say.
“Which milk would you like?” he replies, pointing to the various options on the wall menu. “Milk. Real milk. From a cow,” I respond.
His mouth twitches, a bead of sweat runs down his forehead, and he turns away to make the drink, defeated.
And after that we tend to have a nice chat about the weather, what we’ve been up to that week, our children’s progress at climbing, and all the other pleasantries that people generally share together.
Because, even in what can feel like a very divided society, most individuals are still decent and friendly, whatever their beliefs.
There are a few noisy extremists of course, but that’s the same everywhere – even in farming.
But ultimately, we really don’t need to be so fragile and unconfident in our own world-leading products that we feel threatened by such a small percentage of the population’s dietary choices.
That vegan restaurant by the way – long gone. But you can’t get a table in the new steak house on the high street for love nor money. There’s a lesson there somewhere.
