Читать книгу A Fucked Up Life in Books - Литагент HarperCollins USD, J. F. C. Harrison, Professor J. D. Scoffbowl - Страница 10

I used to be one of those cunts that went to Pony Club. Where I lived there were loads of fields and loads of people with money to spare, and loads of fucking awful children, so it made sense that there was a branch of Pony Club that met a few miles down the road.

If you’ve never seen a bunch of Pony Club bastards trotting around, then let me tell you it is pretty much exactly as you’d imagine: mums standing around smoking and looking confused as tiny children bomb about on fat ponies that are too big from them, just like the drawings in the Thelwell books.

The problem that I had with Pony Club is that I didn’t fit in. I was an incredibly awkward child (and I have managed to grow up to be a pretty awkward adult), and by awkward I mean that I didn’t really like talking to other children, and if they did talk to me then I would make my excuses and go and stand next to my Dad/Mum/brother/pony. Somewhere safe that would hopefully make them fuck off and leave me alone.

The worst bit about Pony Club is that you are expected to have a right old fucking knees up with the other kids. You’re supposed to all talk to each other, and the mums are supposed to all smoke and drink gin together. It was fucking horrible.

One particular Pony Club camp my Mum made friends with some awful bitch and pushed me towards her daughter so that she and I could get chummy. This girl was something else. I can’t remember her name for the life of me, but I remember that her fucking fat little pony was called Lupin. She said things like, ‘Oh, Lupin and [my pony] will be the best of friends, I just know it!’ And that shit made me feel a little bit sick and want to be as far away from her as possible.

So one day I was with my pony and my Mum, getting the pony ready to go out as part of a massive group hack to somewhere picturesque and lovely. You have to do a lot to a pony to get it ready to go out, the time spent is much longer than that of your most appearance-conscious friend preceding a massive night out. You have to brush it all over, wipe its nose and eyes and arse, pick out its hooves and put oil on them so they don’t crack, and then you have to put all the gear on it so you can actually ride the fucking creature.

I was at the head end of my pony, Mum was at the arse end. I do not know exactly what she was doing to my pony, but she said to me, ‘Hold her head’. So I did. And the next thing I knew, the cunt bit me.

It didn’t hurt, as far as I can remember, and it just looked like a graze. Mum saw half a drop of blood and went mental and dragged me to the ‘medical tent’.

The medical tent wasn’t a tent, it was a caravan. And the nurses were chain smoking and gossiping when we arrived. Mum chucked me at them and I wondered whether they actually had any medical training at all as they got on with cleaning and bandaging my arm. Not a fucking plaster, a fucking massive bandage that made me look like a comedy extra in a play about people that don’t actually have anything wrong with them.

The bite scarred, and these days very few people ask me about it, even though it is quite prominent. I think that they worry that it is the result of some kind of self-harm. When someone does ask they are always ever-so careful. ‘What’s that … mark … on your … arm …?’

When I tell them that a horse bit me it’s 50/50 whether they laugh, or nod ‘knowingly’.