WARNING: Uncensored language. But all in fun.
Four-word horror stories: Horse edition
Cruising around the internet the other day, I came across a meme that said ‘four-word horror story – eliminated at fence one’. Hilarious. Except that it very nearly happened to me, two weeks ago at a show. It was sort of like ‘Ripley’s Believe It Or Not, show jumping version’, and was made all the more stupidly infuriating when the horse went on to jump clear in the next class… Anyway, it got me thinking. The scope for Eventing four-word horror stories is endless.
- ‘Help! Stuck in coffin’
- ‘Bolted in dressage test’
- ‘Brake failure. Send coastguard’
- ‘Knocked down every fence’
Eventing is a great leveller. Enjoy a bit of success, start thinking you’re a big deal and boom! Next thing, you find yourself face down in the shit. The odds are already stacked against you, three to one. The ratio works like this – everyone will do one phase well. The very fancy people will do two phases well. But getting three phases right on any day? Everyone knows that that’s sheer blind luck, and can only happen if the moon is in Uranus and the stars all align at exactly the right moment. When you add a total knob of a horse to the equation, you really stack the deck against yourself. I can use any excuse I like as to why I currently don’t event-I have a child (sometimes that can also be viewed as a four-word horror story), it costs too much (oh look, there’s another one), I don’t have the time anymore… I could go on. The reality is that if I can’t win, then I don’t want to play. I take the exact same approach to sports such as bowling and tennis. Early on in my eventing career, I did, in fact, manage to win and place quite a few times, but then it all went horribly wrong and now here we are. Show jumping. Or in the case of the episode two weeks ago, ‘show not-jumping’. I was heartily disappointed that the audience didn’t get more involved. I was flawlessly brilliant at not getting over the oxer, and when I finally lost patience and applied an artificial aid to the equation, I was rather good at managing to then get over the offending oxer and avoid the big ‘E’. That’s E for elimination. Not the E associated with the probably rather more pleasurable, less questionable recreational activity.
I’m beginning to think that perhaps I am the common denominator. Moron horses seem attracted to me like bees are to honey, and my show jumping career is only fractionally less publicly humiliating than my Eventing one was. I would have a go at pure dressage, but I couldn’t stand my horses wasting even more of my money to be arseholes in a square of sand. At least with any sort of jumping, there’s a little more to aim for.
My biggest problem so far this season has been my moon arse. I wrote a blog last year along the lines of ‘all the kit, still shit‘, where I had purchased one of those fancy show jumping jackets in an effort to fit in with the cool kids. I realised too late that said jacket was the most unflattering item of clothing I could have worn – not so much ‘Global Champions Tour’, rather more ‘fraudulent imposter’. I’m not willowy and posh like the show jumpers, you see. I’m rather more event built. And I have a terrible problem with chocolate… All of this reached a distressing crescendo last month when I saw my arse on video for the first time in 2017. I took drastic action (for the good of the public) and sold the stupid jacket, cut the chocolate out of my diet (mostly) and lost nearly half a stone. Of course, the life pendulum swung wildly in the other direction then. No moon arse on video (hooray), but now my big mare is swinging me around like a rag doll in the ring and I have no brakes. Yunno, for the occasions, when it actually does decide to jump the sodding fences. So my four-word horror story is ‘moon arse, no handbrake‘…
Who the fuck would have a horse…