silvershadow81
Well-Known Member
Sorry if you've read this beofe, was sent it today and made me smile!
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My kingdom for a horse hitman
If a newspaper columnist wants to live an easy life, then
it's sensible to steer clear of certain issues. Laying into
Jesus is right out. And it's probably not a good idea to say
the poor should have their shoes confiscated. But the
greatest taboo - the biggest landmine of the lot - is the
touchy subject of horses.
I once wrote a column suggesting that nobody should be allowed to keep a pet unless their garden is big enough to
exercise it. Under no circumstances, I argued, should you be
allowed to put your animal in a lorry and drive it on the
public road at 4mph.
This went down badly. It turned out that there are three million horsists in Britain and each one of them wrote to me, hoping that I would die soon. So I made a mental note to skirt round equine issues in future.
Sadly, though, there are now three million and one horsists
in Britain because my wife has just bought a brace of the
damn things. I don't know how much they cost but since they were imported from Iceland, I'm guessing it was quite a lot.
Not as much, however, as they're now costing the National Health Service. The first to fall off was my nine-year-old
son. He'd seen his sister trotting round the paddock and,
being a boy, figured he could do it, too.
Sadly I wasn't around to stop him so I've only heard from the ambulancemen what happened exactly.
The next casualty was our nanny, who disproved the theory that when you fall off a horse you should get straight back
on again. Because having done that she promptly fell off a
second time. We had to mash her food for a while but she's
better now.
So what about my wife? Well, as I write she's skiing in Davos.
Except she's not because 24 hours before she was due to go
she came off the nag, spraining her wrist and turning one of
her legs into something the size, shape and texture of a
baobab tree. So actually she's in Davos, drinking.
Apparently the accident was quite spectacular. On a quiet road, just outside David Cameron's house incidentally, she took the tumble with such force that she was incapable of moving. And had to ring the nanny who, as a result of her fall, could only limp to the scene of the accident.
Needless to say the horse, with its walnut-sized brain, had
been spooked by the incident and had run off. Neither of the girls was in a fit state to catch it, which meant a ton of(very expensive) muscle was galavanting around the road network, as deadly and as unpredictable as a leather-backed Scud missile.
After it was returned by a sympathetic neighbour, I offered to get a gun and put the bloody thing out of my misery. But no. The accident was not the horse's fault, apparently. And nor will my wife take the blame, because she's been riding since she was an embryo and hunting since foetus-hood.
What happened was that the horse skidded on the tarmac. I
see. An Icelandic horse, capable of maintaining significant
speed over lava fields and sheet ice, couldn't stay upright
on asphalt. Of course. Stands to reason.
So now all the female members of the Clarkson household are
busy joining internet campaigns to get every road in the
land resurfaced with special horse-grip tarmac.
This, it seems to me, is the problem with horse ownership.
You can't have one half-heartedly. Every morning you must go
and clear its crap from the stables, and then you must spend
the afternoon combing it and plaiting its tail and feeding
it tasty apples. And then each night, as you get into bed,
each bruise and aching joint serves as a painful reminder of
that day's accident. Horses take over your life as
completely as paralysis. You can think of nothing else.
And this gives the horse fraternity a sense that the whole
world revolves around their pets, too. That's why the
hunting crowd are so vociferous. Because for them it's not a
pastime. It's an all-consuming life. And it's why my wife
wants all roads resurfaced.
More than that, she comes back every day white with apoplexy
with something a "motorist" has just done. Not slowing down.
Not moving over enough. Not coming by. Not turning the radio
down. This from a woman who refuses to drive any car with
less than 350 brake horsepower.
Of course we're told often and loudly that roads were
originally intended for horses, and that's true..
In the same way that the royal family was originally
intended to govern. But times move on. The horse was
replaced by the car and became a toy. And now it should be
allowed on the roads, in the same way that the Queen is
allowed into parliament. Briefly, and by invitation only.
I've always said that if a boy comes to take my daughters
out on a motorbike I shall drop a match in the petrol tank.
And that if he buys another I shall do it again.. But in the
past month I've learnt that four legs are infinitely more
dangerous than two wheels. So if he turns up on a horse I
shall shoot him, and it.
In the meantime I have to content myself with the behaviour
of my donkeys. All they do, all day, is run up to their new,
bigger field-mates and kick them.
________________________________________________
My kingdom for a horse hitman
If a newspaper columnist wants to live an easy life, then
it's sensible to steer clear of certain issues. Laying into
Jesus is right out. And it's probably not a good idea to say
the poor should have their shoes confiscated. But the
greatest taboo - the biggest landmine of the lot - is the
touchy subject of horses.
I once wrote a column suggesting that nobody should be allowed to keep a pet unless their garden is big enough to
exercise it. Under no circumstances, I argued, should you be
allowed to put your animal in a lorry and drive it on the
public road at 4mph.
This went down badly. It turned out that there are three million horsists in Britain and each one of them wrote to me, hoping that I would die soon. So I made a mental note to skirt round equine issues in future.
Sadly, though, there are now three million and one horsists
in Britain because my wife has just bought a brace of the
damn things. I don't know how much they cost but since they were imported from Iceland, I'm guessing it was quite a lot.
Not as much, however, as they're now costing the National Health Service. The first to fall off was my nine-year-old
son. He'd seen his sister trotting round the paddock and,
being a boy, figured he could do it, too.
Sadly I wasn't around to stop him so I've only heard from the ambulancemen what happened exactly.
The next casualty was our nanny, who disproved the theory that when you fall off a horse you should get straight back
on again. Because having done that she promptly fell off a
second time. We had to mash her food for a while but she's
better now.
So what about my wife? Well, as I write she's skiing in Davos.
Except she's not because 24 hours before she was due to go
she came off the nag, spraining her wrist and turning one of
her legs into something the size, shape and texture of a
baobab tree. So actually she's in Davos, drinking.
Apparently the accident was quite spectacular. On a quiet road, just outside David Cameron's house incidentally, she took the tumble with such force that she was incapable of moving. And had to ring the nanny who, as a result of her fall, could only limp to the scene of the accident.
Needless to say the horse, with its walnut-sized brain, had
been spooked by the incident and had run off. Neither of the girls was in a fit state to catch it, which meant a ton of(very expensive) muscle was galavanting around the road network, as deadly and as unpredictable as a leather-backed Scud missile.
After it was returned by a sympathetic neighbour, I offered to get a gun and put the bloody thing out of my misery. But no. The accident was not the horse's fault, apparently. And nor will my wife take the blame, because she's been riding since she was an embryo and hunting since foetus-hood.
What happened was that the horse skidded on the tarmac. I
see. An Icelandic horse, capable of maintaining significant
speed over lava fields and sheet ice, couldn't stay upright
on asphalt. Of course. Stands to reason.
So now all the female members of the Clarkson household are
busy joining internet campaigns to get every road in the
land resurfaced with special horse-grip tarmac.
This, it seems to me, is the problem with horse ownership.
You can't have one half-heartedly. Every morning you must go
and clear its crap from the stables, and then you must spend
the afternoon combing it and plaiting its tail and feeding
it tasty apples. And then each night, as you get into bed,
each bruise and aching joint serves as a painful reminder of
that day's accident. Horses take over your life as
completely as paralysis. You can think of nothing else.
And this gives the horse fraternity a sense that the whole
world revolves around their pets, too. That's why the
hunting crowd are so vociferous. Because for them it's not a
pastime. It's an all-consuming life. And it's why my wife
wants all roads resurfaced.
More than that, she comes back every day white with apoplexy
with something a "motorist" has just done. Not slowing down.
Not moving over enough. Not coming by. Not turning the radio
down. This from a woman who refuses to drive any car with
less than 350 brake horsepower.
Of course we're told often and loudly that roads were
originally intended for horses, and that's true..
In the same way that the royal family was originally
intended to govern. But times move on. The horse was
replaced by the car and became a toy. And now it should be
allowed on the roads, in the same way that the Queen is
allowed into parliament. Briefly, and by invitation only.
I've always said that if a boy comes to take my daughters
out on a motorbike I shall drop a match in the petrol tank.
And that if he buys another I shall do it again.. But in the
past month I've learnt that four legs are infinitely more
dangerous than two wheels. So if he turns up on a horse I
shall shoot him, and it.
In the meantime I have to content myself with the behaviour
of my donkeys. All they do, all day, is run up to their new,
bigger field-mates and kick them.
