...and
it is both amazing and disturbing how many pictures of a doorknob a simple web
search will find.MADERSON BLUE - MY BLOG
April 2008: So it was building up to race number two and then Roger said that whether we got a run or not depended on the ballot. The idea that voting was involved had completely passed me by first time around. Who were the electorate and what did I need to say to impress them? After spending some time writing a particularly rousing speech, which will have to be saved for another occasion, it suddenly became clear that I had won the ballot. And that without coming into contact with a single voter. I certainly feel like a splendid combination of Robert Mugabe and Silvio Berlusconi * all rolled into one. Having won, there was no chance for a victory speech, and I recall from my days at home in Ireland watching people listen to Bertie Ahern's and always end up laughing fit to burst.
So we set off for Exeter, where there is a racecourse hidden on a piece of exposed moorland. When we got there, Roger walked the course and came back somewhat displeased. As I understood it, there was no beach, some grassy bits and some roady bits, which are grassy bits without grass. And the roady bits, due to the drying effect of the wind and sun, were not really suitable for racing on. I wondered if some sort of mat may be in order, but it seemed to be too late for that to be organised. In the end we went home, with not a cream tea in sight (Devon without a cream tea? Madness). As this promised to be a less flat and sandy racing experience, it was disappointing to miss out, although I am assured that if we go to Towcester, I will see more than enough slopes for the time being.
As usual, my travels were a learning experience. I had been led to believe, and the phrase is used advisedly as I am finding the information provided by the other horses is getting ever more unreliable, that the entire population of Devon spends the day wasted on home made cider and persecuting otters. Now that I have been there, it is clear that in some cases nothing could be further from the truth (although no otters were actually seen on the day). With my understanding increasing, I am writing entries for the Lonely Planet guides, as actually visiting the places does give me a huge advantage over the other contributors.
* I was going to use my new found PhotoShop skills to merge pictures of Berlusconi and Mugabe here, but Coppermalt, who considers himself to be politically aware, said that I could save time by just getting a picture of a great big knob. So here it is, but I don't get it...
...and
it is both amazing and disturbing how many pictures of a doorknob a simple web
search will find.
Easter 2008: I had a race! A real one. And it was brilliant, brilliant fun. I told Ti Amore that it was great and she should try it, but she just said she had no time until she had the crew assembled for the big bank job, and may try it later. We went to Lingfield for a race on the beach. They must have an amazing tide at Lingfield, as I did not spot the sea all the time that I was there. To make me feel at home, Roger got a chap called Seamus to ride. He seemed like a nice bloke, but has the unusual hobby of breaking his leg. These humans are crazy. We were in the first race, which was good, because it meant we could be home in time for tea, and as we were walking round the paddock Dawn said that I could stop halfway round and build a sand castle. When we really were halfway round (and neither up nor down), I found that Seamus had not been told of this part of the day, and having charged round the first part really fast, he wanted me to do the rest even faster. I have to admit that a combination of sand construction deprivation and raw unadulterated panic caused me to briefly forget how to gallop and I didn't win. This does leave you feeling a bit sheepish, but most people were too polite to make a big deal of it. When I got back, I told the others what had happened, and Alderbrook Girl said that when under pressure I reminded her of Patrick from Spongebob Squarepants.
By coincidence, the race was won by Ti Amore's half-brother, which made me reflect on what an incestuous industry we operate in. Being near a religious festival, that in turn reminded me of the tale of Sodom and Gomorrah, but like everyone else, cannot recall exactly what the Gomorrahites are supposed to have done. Did it involve chickens? Anyway, let's be careful out there...
March 2008: Ain't Lambourn brilliant? Fantastic. There are millions of horses there, of all different colours, shapes and sizes. It is very scenic up on the Downs (chortle) and on a clear day you can see for miles and I often watch most of the other horses running around like lunatics in the distance. On a still morning you can also hear the trainers shouting instructions at them, but even when they are comprehensible, very little notice seems to be taken. Roy Keane would have a fit. Some days we have to go up there when the weather is not so good, but it is easy to get out of doing too much. Whoever is riding, just throw them to the ground and dash off and loiter around somebody else's yard until they send someone out to catch you. By the time the people left in the yard have worked out who you are (and often there are not many around, as they have had to go and retrieve their own horses) and somebody comes to collect you, it is time to knock things on the head for the morning. Obviously, you have to hang around the right yard to be caught, because having a long walk back with a p***** off trainer and/or rider can lead to a rather frosty atmosphere... I have noticed that the human being can be a temperamental animal and some days they are inexplicably unwilling to discuss the political situation in Somalia at 6.30 in the morning.
I have pretty much decided that being a racehorse is the job for me, so at some stage I really ought to try going in a race. This is not something to dive head first into without serious planning, and I have not yet told Roger what days are convenient for me. He did mention something about a bumper, which sounds like a lot of fun, just the sort of thing that ends in a food fight. As well as a convenient day, I also need to pick the right track, which is difficult as I do not know any of them, and rely on advice from the other horses - but who can I trust? Romney Marsh reckons Toaster is one to give a miss - funny name for a race course but the food fight could be well provisioned. So I only really have the name to judge them by and I notice that many contain some sort of culinary reference - Plumpton and Musselburgh, Banger and Market Rasin. Are they naming these to taunt the jockeys? As there is not one called Carrotsthenanap, in the end I have settled for Haydock. I expect it is on vast, unspoilt agricultural plain that ends at the coast, with waves gently lapping the beach as the sun beats down, so we can have a picnic and then get in a bit of sailing for a post-race wind down.
February 2008: I set off for Lambourn from Ireland. I packed everything, including some water wings. The other horses took the mickey, but the weather has been a bit volatile lately, and you cannot be too careful on boats. I also took 'The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner' to read on the voyage, which was shorter than I expected (the voyage, that is. The infernal poem goes on for half a lifetime). It may be set long ago, but there is some worthy advice to be gleaned - if you are approached by a mad, staring eyed lunatic of no previous acquaintance, the time efficient response is to run quickly away or set the dogs on him. And talking of mad, staring eyed lunatics, ever since I arrived at Lambourn, the Taipan mare has been acting a bit funny...
Anyway, back to the journey, as nothing broadens the mind like travel. We drove through South Wales in the dark, I presumed it was night time, but apparently South Wales is often like that, all the way along the Emmfour (whatever that is) to Membury Services. Lambourn is sort of round the back of them. The plan was to entertain the horses in the yard and make friends by pretending to be Mexican, but I cannot do the accent very well, and there were a few stern looking German horses around, who might not have seen the funny side of it. That meant I had to put a few impersonations on hold as well, as I had copied them from Freddie Starr and they would certainly have gone down like a lead balloon - but I did sell the wellies for £5 (or 7 Euros). I bought some ear plugs with it, to get some peace and quiet from the Germans wandering around humming brass band music all the time. Overall, being in a yard in Lambourn is what I expected. Soon after I was settled, the vet came, looked at all the horses, shook his head and gave us all an injection. This took me by surprise, but I will get him next time.
A few people have asked where my name comes from. It is, I am told, after the eminent Irish painter Arthur Maderson, of whom Tricia Burke is an admirer. So if anyone dares say about me, 'Well he's no oil painting,' they can expect a rapid fiery retort. Hopefully he does not work in watercolour or elephant dung, or my point sort of dissipates feebly. Until next time, adios, gringos.
December 2007: One recent evening, when I was sitting in the pub, Gerry came rushing in and shouts to me, 'Lamb born' so suddenly that I dropped my crisps, and choked on my Guinness. As the fake coughing plan had been deduced, no-one dashed forward to apply the Heimlich maneouvre. And someone nicked the crisps. Another hard lesson learned. As for Gerry's proclamation, this was odd. Lambs are born all the time, it isn't really big news to anyone, and as a) a horse and b) a gelding, I don't think the birth of a lamb can be anything to do with me - unless that dodgy South Korean fellah has been up to more no good than we imagined. After another pint, it became clear that Gerry had said Lambourn, which is apparently a place in England, where it also rains, but slightly less often, and that was where I was going. As my uncle had lived there as well, I am looking forward to it as they apparently in his day they had hay bales the size of mountains, so many carrots that they could afford to even let people eat them, and red kites the size of, well, red kites, which you can't eat. As even nostalgia is not what it used to be, and in light of earlier experiences, I am treating his anecdotes with caution.
Why are all blogs in plain, unfussy fonts? Hopefully, I will have an answer by the next update, when I will also have taken up my new residence in Lambourn. Where will my adventures take me? Perhaps I may end up as Lord Mayor of London and own a smug, irritating cat. Or some newts.
November 2007: I live in Ireland, which is extremely pleasant, if a bit rainy. But as long as it is not acid rain, what harm is there in getting your feet wet every now and then? [After watching the news lately, Pacific Islanders need not dignify this question with a response]. Inspired by stories of what my uncle, Marlborough, had done, I was seriously considering a career in jump racing, but there is no point in rushing into these things, is there? So, just to see what it may be like, I went along for some work experience in a racing stable. I heard that it was run by John and Kylie, but it turned out to be John Kiely, whose posterior view is someway short of the delights that I was anticipating. It appears that the world outside could be more challenging than I expected.
For the most part training is tremendous fun, although you do have to get up early in the morning (I keep missing Jeremy Kyle on TV), and run quite fast. At the moment, that is a bit of a culture shock, I can tell you, but if you cough a bit in the morning, you get the day off. This is a pretty reliable tactic, but if I overdo it, someone is bound to rumble my cunning plan. Every so often, people come and look at me trot up and down, do my daily routine, and stroke my legs - what the blazes is that all about? As some of them had travelled all the way from England, they deserved a bit more fun than that, so I did offer to learn to juggle chainsaws or sing 'This Town Ain't Big Enough For The Both Of Us' by Sparks. Apparently the best thing I can do is keep quiet and do what I am told. A shame, as I feel I have so much more to offer.