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“They live on the backs of ponies.” That is what I said to The Treasurer on that fateful day at the races, who deemed it necessary to kick me hard for holding such foolish ideas for truths. Although I am a strong fellow when I want to, he had surprised me with his first batch of well-aimed kicks - and I secretly commend him for it although it hurts to this day.


The day had started off very well, with acceptable levels of rainfall. Mud was to be slung later that day, but for now, a good dozen bottles of ale were within graspable distance, the Racing Post at hand and the Havisocks at bay. “Horses, not ponies”, both The Intern and The Treasurer kept shouting at me. “We’re not at a fecking polo-match, you dimwitted foreigner!” These environments are not only hard on the spine, but also rather brutal on the wallet. A Belgian frank is now a worthless currency, it seemed. The bookies were not too impressed. I took my watch off and gave it to the nearest one. “Put it on number eleven, on the nose.” I backed Royal Applord at eight to one and then headed off to the slashers to relieve myself. When I had emptied myself to my satisfaction I was delighted to find that the horse had won. I was now the owner of six Casios.

I immediately set them to CET +1 and contemplated returning to the scene of my greatest triumph and victory: the slashers. Unfortunately my way was blocked by what can only be described as a Cossac/Kosack. He was wearing a shiny blue and yellow stripped get up and holding a riding crop, bizarrely he was barely 4′ (4 ft.(4 feet(four feet))) tall. My only line of defence in such senarii was to reduce myself to the feral status of my foe. In this case we are talking about a man who rides female horses so that he never be far from a source of milk. I unhesitatingly unzipped myself and covered my enemy with streams of worryingly indigo urine. Needless to say his was to be both upset and terrified.