Drayton: Bud
I love it here in the North East. It’s a great place to live. Folk are friendly, they’ll speak to you in oft-interpretable tones at bus-stops, swaying slightly, with an overpowering whiff of White Lightning. No, that’s not true, not all north easterners drink strong cider in the park, just the nut brown ones who actually spend their days there in all weathers.
Most north easterners are canny folk – yet there’s still a few of them who let the side down. I know, one bad apple don’t spoil a whole bunch girl, but when they do, blimey, they fuck it up good and proper.
I’m speaking of Bud the Horse. The police horse had, or had not, been to the local derby. That’s the special bi-annual occasion when civilians don’t go to town for fear of getting caught in a soccer-related hissy fit, which may include bottle throwing and burning bins. This week’s random turmoil wasn’t created by Happy Mackems returning home after a 3-0 win, but by Cross Geordies. What better way to vent your anger by smashing up your own city? Bravo! Good Work! Surely, they should’ve stayed in St James’ and smashed that up?
Bud the Horse met Barry the Bloke. Barry the Bloke may have had two bottles of beer, five pints of beer or whatever. Bud was feeling awful, a crushing sadness at a merciless drubbing by a team led by an alleged fascist must have inspired him to vent his frustration.
He chose to vent this anger, his vexation, by hitting a man’s fist with his face. Think about it. Horse vs Man. How selfish. I guess that’s why they put the policeman on horseback so they can attack innocent daft cunts after they get pissed up and attempt some half-arsed civil disobedience. I asked a horse-owning colleague if it was horsely possible to nose/fist a man down. She told me that a Shetland pony could probably lay a toddler out with a well-timed swing, but a man? Neigh.
What makes this even more disgraceful is that Barry was wearing a scarf over his face, not in an attempt to disguise himself, but because he was keeping the cold out of a broken tooth. The horse saw a weak man, a pathetic man and decided to take the law into its own hooves. Boom.
Finally, what really got me, what really boiled my piss about this sorry-ass affair is that Barry wasn’t some feckless youth from a sink estate. Barry is a grown man. Barry is 45. Fuck’s sake Bud the Horse, I quit trying to nose/fist blokes when I was a foal.
As I said, when it’s fucked up, it’s fucked up good and proper.
On the plus side, Barry has three dogs, some fish in a pond and he feeds the foxes ‘over the road’. He’s a regular Johnny Morris*.
*Ask your dad.
