Hmmm? Isn't it? Banana?

The reason I am walking funny

I went back to my old stomping ground this weekend to see some mates, one of whom had a birthday. It was really good fun. We all had lots of laughs, more Chinese food than we deserved to eat being as there is starving in the world, and rather more drink than was strictly necessary.

Marvelous.

After the mammoth night of stupidness on Friday (see the post below) it was rather good to carry on and not have it all go flat by going home and doing nought on my own. It all ended (for me at least) by me falling asleep on the sofa, rather relaxed, between 2 lovely ladies, as a third lovely lady was trying to ply me with more vodka... I could get used to that! But the point of all this, and the main reason for me writing this, and indeed wincing all day is a seemingly innocuous question posed at one point of the evening:

"Oooh. We're going horse riding tomorrow. Do you want to come?"

Well, I thought in my ultimate and slightly befuddled wisdom, how hard can it be? I have ridden a horse when I was a nipper, so I'm sure it'll be ok.

The bruises on my arse, and the groin strain that I am feeling tells me that 20 years is too long between horse rides for it to all go swimmingly... It all started off well, despite the massive hangover (although I was by no means the one suffering the most; I shall mention no names). I managed to get on the horse and not immediately fall off, even when it moved, much to my surprise. And that of my friends, I might add. We started off sedately walking around, and I only felt a little bit stupid, so that was good, eh?

We then went outside to the paddocky/runny-around bit, as I believe it is termed, and did some runny-aroundy stuff. This started off with trotting or, as I like to call it: "Brock bouncing up and down on a bit of leather trying desperately to get in time with the damn snorty thing so it doesn't hurt his arse". I have to concede that the official title is a touch snappier, but fuck 'em, mine is more accurate. I was really trying to hold on, as instructed, with the lower half of my legs and just raise my arse a little at the right time, but I reckon my horse was broken. It never seemed quite right. Whenever I tried to raise my self up on the stirrups they seemed to move away from me until I gripped with my knees, and I kept being told that it was wrong. Ho hum.

I did cause some amusement to the woman that was training us, as she did ask me at one stage why I looked like I was concentrating so hard. I was forced to explain to her that I was a little concerned that all this banging up and down, some of my more (how shall I put this) dangly bits may become dislodged by all the shaking about, swing backwards and end up between the saddle and my rapidly approaching nether regions. This would, I don't doubt, result in my coughing, going green - perhaps even puce - and feeling that horrible empty stomach feeling that all men who have damaged their Betty Swallocks will be familiar. This would explain my reluctance to allow this scenario's prevention to be left to chance. But as I tried to to explain this all to her whilst careering around an oval track without falling off or squashing one of my nuts was apparently funny.

Ha.

They needn't have worried, my groin hurts enough as it is, today. I am going to bed in a minute to rest and attempt to recover.

Bloody horses.

Still. I did enjoy the day, and we followed it up with a lovely roast dinner at the pub, and I slept like a log that night, I can tell you. A log that woke with a sore groin and arse, but a log nonetheless.

posted by Brock @ Monday, October 11, 2004