Mrs Gnomepants v2.0 introduced me to a thing where whenever you see an animal in an old film, say older than 20 years, you point out to whoever is listening that the animal is dead now.
“But wait!” you say, “2008 is less than 20 years ago, ipso facto, you may be wrong if you’re about to say the horse in this picture is now the glue on the back of a stamp”. Ah but no. I know more than you….
Along the opposite side of the Lane with No Name to the houses were lovely undeveloped fields. Legend has it that this was the site of the former Brierley Colliery hence why no houses were ever built on it. Other tales and theories include a wealthy farmer buying the land for tuppence hapenny from the mine owners, an ancient covenant linked to Moses and aliens using it as a base to extract liver fat from rotund Yorkshire folk.
Regardless, in the field lived a couple of randy horses. Randy because one of them would be constantly trying to hump the other and would often make the most frightful noises. Today’s picture shows one of the horses.
Sadly, about a year after this photo was taken, some awful types poisoned the horse for some reason (Apparently this is a common thing to occur to horses according to a couple of horse owners I’ve spoken to since). But still, I was fond of the horse as it would often poke its head through the hedge to say hello when I was parking my car.
So after a long hard day attempting to motivate myself into doing some of the tonnes of work I have to do before April 16th I return from Uni and put the car into the garage.
While I am closing the garage door I hear a strange harrumphing noise coming from behind me. Worried that it might be G the Human Dog in distress I look round to see, in the field behind the field behind the lane with no name, the horses.
Now you may recall recent events where the people who own the field behind the lane with no name went and bought a rather beautiful chestnut mare much to the delight of the white and black patchy horsy in the field behind the field behind the lane with no name. Since then, the black and white patchy horse (who shares a field with an off white horse and a donkey), has been putting on a fine display of horse widginess. I tell you, you’ve never seen a knob so big in all your life! It even rivals mine! So theres the patchy horse wopping it on display like some weird Long John Holmes of the horse world driven to heights of lust and desire by the chestnut mare, separated by a barbed wire fence.
So I’m there, I’ve looked round, and my eyes beheld a sight which I’ve only ever seen in websites frequented by Uncle Monty and Girlzy. The two (male) horses in the field behind the field behind the lane with no name…..were…..bumming!
Of course I’m insanely jealous of this. But I tried to take a picture of the act for billzy you to wank gasp in awe over but the sun was in the wrong position and my camera phone is a bit slow now it’s over a year old. Still I’ve shoved it below the cut to protect the more sensitive readers. Even if it’s a crap picture.
As a happy ending, the people who own the field behind the “lane with no name” took a trip to an equine fair this weekend and purchased this lovely chestnut mare
A Horse Called Man
Behind the field behind the lane with no name is another field (separated by a patchy hedge and some skilfully placed barbed wire). In the field behind the field behind the lane with no name there are two other horses and a donkey, together with a collection of tatty farm machinery.
One of the horses in the field behind the field behind the lane with no name is a white and black patchy horsey. The white and black patchy horsey and his friends the donkey and the white horsey all came to say hello to the chestnut mare.
The white and black patchy horsey what has a big cock
I think the white and black patchy horsey was pleased to see the chestnut horsey (judged by the size of it’s dripping widgy). They all stood round looking at each other over the barbed wire fence. I suspect they have a lot to discuss.
The horse in the field behind Gnomepants Manor died last week. It was quite sudden.
G the Human Dog told me that he suspects foul play. No. He was sure it was foul play. In that some third party, notably a shifty chap that holds a grudge against the people that now live in the house at the end of “The lane with no name” who own the field, had on numerous occasions left the gate open and, in one final act of revenge, fed the horse poison. The motive, is as yet, unclear. But G is adamant that this unscrupulous character had committed the act.
Of course G has no proof to support these claims. It could just be that the horse has eaten something that didn’t agree with it. But village gossip being what it is, such a scandal as a equine poisoner at large, will no doubt keep tongues wagging for some time.