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It’s been a while. It’s been a busy month. I won’t bore everyone with why it was so damn busy, but suffice it to say, I’ve not found time to update Moosehunter. Anyway, here I am now for the moment.

There are so many Methodist chapels in the UK that you pass wherever you go that one would assume half the country ought to be Methodists. When you add the Jehovah’s witnesses that I know a number of and seem to call on you selling salvation with alarming regularity, and the large population of Muslims in Britain, how the hell are we such a nation of drinkers? It would seem that a fair portion of our population isn’t allowed to drink! Party on dude! Party like a Methodist!

The curious incident of the dog in the country: Mrs Moosehunter and I are trying to find a castle. Following signs we close in on it, the roads decreasing in width and quality, the closer we get. We see a sign. Hallelujah, praise the lord. It points left. There is no road off the left. There follows a thorough getting lost sessions in which we appear to be circling the castle, with occasional glimpses of it (or possibly spiralling in towards it.) Another left turn leads us onto a road barely wide enough for a hatchback, with grass growing down the centre. Hmmm. We reach a farm by the roadside and a small demon-dog runs out from under the fence. Mrs Moosehunter, needless to say, screeches to a halt (being dog-lovers; if it’d been a cat we may not have stopped) and the rat-dog-pyscho begins to eat the front wheel of the car! We’re now stuck. We can’t set off because we will flatten Spot. We can’t stay here until it’s eaten a tyre. After much revving and shouting, we end up throwing a jelly baby out of the driver’s window to distract it. Damn the thing, what kind of life form prefers the rubber of a pneumatic tyre to the rubber of a small sweet? The dog-rat makes a fresh attack on the tyre and ignores the sweet. I begin to throw out more and the animal is finally torn, craning its head this way and that trying to decide between forms of rubbery goodness. At last, it makes a run for the sweet and we accelerate like a space shuttle with a booster rocket. It realises its mistake and chases us up the road. In the end, we discover that the sign we saw earlier actually pointed to a style over a wall and the WALK to the castle. At the castle, what can we hear, but the same damn creature barking (probably at us!) We’d met it circling this very castle.

And the old folk say that on a cold winter’s night, the ghostly yapping of the infernal beast still sends shivers down the spine of visitors!

Horse riding is another joy. I’ve ridden a horse precisely twice in my life. I am not good at it. I ride a horse slightly less well than another horse does. The beast I was recently given to ride seemed very placid as we started out on a TWO hour ride. It walked. In fact it walked whether I liked it or not. I couldn’t get the animal to speed up whatever I did. Resolutely slow. As we get further into the ride, however, and Mrs Moosehunter gallops away with some of the better riders, my horse decides it wants to move faster. This is when I learn that he has only two speeds: plod or trot. It can’t walk fast. The last time I rode, we just walked and I was unprepared for the trot. I’m told that you can reach a mutual rhythm with the horse. This I do not believe. What I DO believe is that a scrotum is not designed to be pounded repeatedly against a leather saddle. Fortunately, after the first hour I was numb enough not to shed a tear every time trousers met saddle. For three days I walked as though someone had tried to force a grand piano up my rectum. Horse riding is an image-killer. You may look cool and countrified while riding for two hours, but does that really make up for the following three days of bow-legged, groaning, bruised-testicled embarrassment? I WILL ride again, but I’m borrowing one of those huge padded fake sumo suits before I do.

Chicken boy has an interesting story to tell. After being extraordinarily drunk on Wednesday night on a works night out, he fell blessedly unconscious. In the morning, we all arrive for work. Not Chicken Boy. He’s given until 9:15, and then the Shiny One gives him a call only to discover that the poor little drunkard has lost his keys and his housemates have all left and locked him in the house. On top of this, he has no credit on his phone and can’t call for help. Plus he’d left his roof light open during the night and had been rained on for several hours. This is the sort of thing that happens to Chicken Boy. Be grateful. If it wasn’t happening to him, it’d be happening to you.

Once upon a time there was a company pay rise. I didn’t get it and was left feeling bitter and twisted (so what’s new? I am Freddy Krueger in the Grimm Brothers’ fairy tale of my company.) Chicken Boy got invited into his appraisal and was told he was getting nothing. When he queried why, he was told ‘because you don’t do anything!’ His answer? ‘Fair enough’. If nothing else Chicken Boy ever does makes me appreciate him, that will.

The Hobbit is still impressed with the initial write-up I gave him. Hmmm. To belay some of this posturing, I looked up his real name with inverted commas on Google image search to see if I could enclose a picture of him. Hmmm. I only bothered with 2 pages due to my crap dial-up speed at home. The results on 2 pages of Google revealed no sign of him (I was expecting maybe Satan) but DID produce surprising results. I got (in reverse order skipping the boring crap) a diesel locomotive, a baby and a sunflower.

Frodo, you have a lot of weird shit goes on.

Music for tonight is Smash by Offspring.

Adios Muchachos.

Moosehunter.

Written by SJAT

August 20, 2009 at 12:32 pm

2 Responses

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  1. Next time you ride, take a few Advil and/or have a drink an hour before. Then, when you DO get in the saddle, settle in, and (really, this works) TAKE A DEEEEP BREATH – exhale slowly. This should help you relax and move with the horse. Pushing your heels down will help “the boys” find more room. When you become uncofortable, push heels down and stand up for short periods. It’s OK to grab the mane for balance, they don’t feel it. Continue drinking. Hope this helps. Jules

    Like

    Red Sonja

    March 10, 2010 at 2:25 am

    • On a ride in Spain we got to combine drinking with horse riding. That was an interesting few hours, I can tell you.

      Like

      SJAT

      March 10, 2010 at 10:08 am


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