Tartan Jockeys
When I look back it seems strange now, but in amongst the outskirts of the city streets my Grandfather had a large house, behind which lay horse stables and a den of eniquity called the Rangers Club. The Rangers was a fantastic place to find the local characters who would drink anything from the babies bottle to a puddle of horse piss and I've seen many of them face down in the latter. This was my first introduction to the horse and I knew then I was never going to be the next Lone Ranger. To be honest though I do like horses, god only knows how many I've bought a wee drink when I've had one over the odds on a night out with the lads. During the crazy season in Belfast,"this is what I call the July period, when some certain god fearing denominations swap their head for an empty dustbin, or some may say the 11th and 12th of July", my Grandfather would invite some of those heavy drinking, fight over anything like minded people, all scottish I might add, to his home to stay for a week or so to watch the parades. What a recipe for disaster. The Irish, the Jocks, enough alcohol to fill the Clyde the 11th & 12th of July and the unsuspecting horse. Now anyone that has ever taken a wee dram knows that one too many and all fear and reasoning are a thing of the past. This is where the drunken Jock and the horse comes in. After a heavy session on the BlackBush (that's Whisky for anyone who is in ambiguity), my Grandfather decided to let a couple of the Scottish fellas have a go on the horse. My Granda gives him a lift up onto its back while one of the other Lads are looking at its arse for the slot to put the money in. Im sitting in total amusement now with this guy on the the horses back, no saddle, no bridle and no clue to what was coming next. Grandfather being himself, rough and ready, gave the horse an almighty slap in the arse. The horse bolted about 20 yards across the cobbles towards the kitchen door. This horse was just small enough to get through the door, sadly though, not with the jockey on his back. He stopped dead at the door frame. It was like something you would see on a carry-on movie. His knees were badly bent and bruised and his pride was dented but it didn't stop him from seeing the parades.
Just for clarification purposes, there where no injuries sustained by the Irish or Equine contingency of the above Blog. Thankyou.
When I look back it seems strange now, but in amongst the outskirts of the city streets my Grandfather had a large house, behind which lay horse stables and a den of eniquity called the Rangers Club. The Rangers was a fantastic place to find the local characters who would drink anything from the babies bottle to a puddle of horse piss and I've seen many of them face down in the latter. This was my first introduction to the horse and I knew then I was never going to be the next Lone Ranger. To be honest though I do like horses, god only knows how many I've bought a wee drink when I've had one over the odds on a night out with the lads. During the crazy season in Belfast,"this is what I call the July period, when some certain god fearing denominations swap their head for an empty dustbin, or some may say the 11th and 12th of July", my Grandfather would invite some of those heavy drinking, fight over anything like minded people, all scottish I might add, to his home to stay for a week or so to watch the parades. What a recipe for disaster. The Irish, the Jocks, enough alcohol to fill the Clyde the 11th & 12th of July and the unsuspecting horse. Now anyone that has ever taken a wee dram knows that one too many and all fear and reasoning are a thing of the past. This is where the drunken Jock and the horse comes in. After a heavy session on the BlackBush (that's Whisky for anyone who is in ambiguity), my Grandfather decided to let a couple of the Scottish fellas have a go on the horse. My Granda gives him a lift up onto its back while one of the other Lads are looking at its arse for the slot to put the money in. Im sitting in total amusement now with this guy on the the horses back, no saddle, no bridle and no clue to what was coming next. Grandfather being himself, rough and ready, gave the horse an almighty slap in the arse. The horse bolted about 20 yards across the cobbles towards the kitchen door. This horse was just small enough to get through the door, sadly though, not with the jockey on his back. He stopped dead at the door frame. It was like something you would see on a carry-on movie. His knees were badly bent and bruised and his pride was dented but it didn't stop him from seeing the parades.
Just for clarification purposes, there where no injuries sustained by the Irish or Equine contingency of the above Blog. Thankyou.
posted by Steel Sharks at 8:57 pm
1 Comments:
Your Granda was a star of the first order. I'd've been the idiot on the horse.
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