Do Not Bite The Horses
By Jonathan Sellars
Sweden, mid-summer. The sprawling gardens of the Palace of Igelstad bathe in the late evening sun. Swans float leisurely on the calm waters of the Grand Canal, enjoying the cooling breeze that sweeps away the lingering heat of the day. Yet, under this tranquil surface, trouble brews.
Tomorrow Igelstad will host the Dressage Individual World Championship. Set over two days, involving three rounds of increasing technical difficulty, the event examines the control and mastery of both horse and rider, requiring a performance of specified movements in specified parts of an arena under the watchful eyes of seven judges. To some it is the highest expression of horse training, to others it is horses dancing like a drunk uncle, yet, whatever your personal view, all you need to know is this - despite a proud history of triumph the British Dressage team finds itself on the edge of the unthinkable, returning medal-less. These are desperate times, and desperate times have called for desperate ideas.
“I’m not saying bite ‘em hard,” explained Tom Tickelsworth, Head Horse Trainer of the British team, picking up a stone and throwing it just over the heads of some passing swans. “More of a love bite really.”
“No,” replied Sebastian Wimford-Putty, recently appointed Director of British Dressage, furiously shaking his head. “You will not bite a horse, no matter how loving the bite may be. That is an order.”
The two men were on a lap of the cross-shaped lake at the heart of the Palace’s grounds, far from the Athletes’ Village and unwanted eavesdroppers.
“Fine,” said Tickelsworth, crossing his arms. “But on your head be it. ‘Cos there’ll be consequences. Brenda Balding will be bleedin’ furious. She’s always the first to give non-medal winners a piece of her mind after major championships. Might be the darlin’ of sports broadcasting in the eyes of the British public, but to the underperforming team she’s the devil with an ’ot poker.” He paused. “And our fundin’ will get cut.”
“You don’t need to tell me about consequences,” said Wimford-Putty, running his hand through his wavy blonde hair. “I’m the one who came to you for ideas, remember. And as for Balding, you should have seen the look she gave me when I was Director of British Artistic Swimming and we returned from Tokyo empty handed. She came round to my house just to glare. For over an hour she stood scowling in the garden as me and the family ate dinner. It was terrifying. My son still makes me check under his bed for her each night.”
“I’ve heard she does that,” nodded Tickelsworth, throwing another stone and again only just missing the swans. “And I heard she were gobsmacked they chose you to replace your predecessor Hyacinth. Understandably mind, you know, given yer’ lack of horse knowledge. And success.”
Wimford-Putty stopped and turned towards Tickelsworth, narrowing his eyes as he examined the small grey-haired man with pointed, rat-like teeth. “There are many who would say that being available at short notice is just as valuable an asset as both knowledge and success.” He adjusted his tie and straightened the dancing horse pinned to his lapel. “Anyway, back to the matter at hand. The team event went terribly, the individual event is our final chance. How do we turn Penelope from sixth ranked rider to a medal winner?”
“I’ve already told you,” said Tickelsworth, hurling two more stones towards the swans. “We bite the other horses. Not all of ‘em. Just the best ones. It don’t hurt. Skins too thick. It just knocks them off their game. Not like using a whip or nothin’, more like putting itching powder down someone’s neck. No lasting damage, just a temporary inconvenience. I can slip into the stables and do it tonight. Best to do it in the dark. Horses are clever you see, in daylight they’ll spot what you’re planning and strike first. Take yer’ finger clean off if you’re not careful.”
“For the last time, no biting! Come on man, you must have other ideas.”
Tickelsworth spat on the floor and grinned menacingly. “You know what, I’ve just had an excellent one right this second.” He rubbed his hands together. “A very excellent one indeed.”
But, before he could reveal it, several swans swooped down in an orchestrated attack, pecking and flapping at the two men all the way back to their rooms.
The next day, under cloudy skies, the individual dressage competition began. Penelope Snothome, the British medal hope, along with her horse, Doctor Sausages, put in a strong performance that saw them finish second and qualify comfortably for the next round. However, Penelope’s better than expected display was not the main talking point. Instead the dressage world was rocked by the failure of four of the top five riders in the world to qualify. Sven Loo from Sweden, Ronda Freedom from America, Ruud Groot from the Netherlands, and Mads Asmus from Denmark had all looked uncharacteristically uncomfortable during their routines and finished bottom of the leaderboard. The competition was now wide open with reigning world champion, Germany’s Gertrude Gerstenburg, the only medal favourite making it through.
That evening, hidden deep within the trees of the palace’s gardens, away from prying eyes and prowling swans, Tom Tickelsworth and Sebastian Wimford-Putty once again convened.
“Everyone’s blaming bed bugs,” Tickelsworth laughed as he picked his pointed nose. “I nearly fell off me seat when that Swede took both hands off the reigns to scratch his balls. Right in front of the Swedish king too.”
“And was it bed bugs?”
“Course it weren’t. Put itching powder in their costumes, didn’t I.” He beamed with pride. “Weren’t hard, just hung around the changing rooms until an opportunity presented itself.”
“Itching powder? That was your excellent idea?” Wimford-Putty threw his hands skywards. “We’re not savages for god’s sake. Don’t get me wrong, I want to win this thing as much as anyone, but there’s a right way of doing things.”
“In the time I had sabotage was the only option,” protested Tickelsworth. “And it worked, didn’t it?”
“I suppose,” sighed Wimford-Putty. “But I’m not happy.” He glanced nervously around, bringing his voice down to a hush. “Although why didn’t you do the German? She’s the best of the lot.”
“Course I did. Used two whole packs on her outfit.” Tickelsworth shook his head. “She’s somethin’ else she is. Must have felt like there were an army of fire ants chompin’ on her armpits yet smiled the whole way through.” He sighed. “Gold’s out the question with her around. ‘Specially with that horse of ‘ers, Autobahn. Never seen anything like it. A true colossus.” He plucked a particularly large piece of mucus from his nose before patting Wimford-Putty on the back. “Still, Penelope’s a shoe in for a medal now, probably a silver the way she’s riding. Not too shabby.”
Wimford-Putty swiped Tickelsworth’s hand away. “No. It has to be gold.”
“Come on, don’t get greedy. A medal’s a medal.”
“It’s not me,” he said, clenching his fist so hard the blood vessels in his neck bulged. “It’s Balding. She called straight after the event earlier. Said not to bother coming home unless we win. Turns out she’s particularly fond of dressage and following the World Championship’s closely.”
“Damn her,” muttered Tickelsworth, baring his teeth. “Go on, let me bite Autobahn, that’s all it would take.”
“Absolutely not,” said Wimford-Putty defiantly. “Not even the wrath of Brenda Balding could make me sink that low.”
Early the following morning 25 riders took to the dressage arena knowing only 12 would progress to the final later that day. The Palace of Igelstad shone in radiant glory under a clear blue sky as each and every spectator marvelled at the splendour of the setting. What they did not marvel at however, was the quality of the dressage on show. With the exception of Gertrude Gerstenburg who performed with breathtaking levels of skill and delicacy, the performances of the other 24 riders, Penelope Snothome included, were met with groans and in many cases boos. Nearly every competitor failed to complete the specified routine, all of them showing ragged ill-discipline and none of the grace and poise expected at such a prestigious event. Yet, despite all that, the British rider still managed to scrape through to the final, pipping Bruce Aberdeen of Australia by the finest of margins.
Immediately afterwards Tom Tickelsworth and Sebastian Wimford-Putty took a walk along the Grand Canal, keeping a close eye out for swans.
“While I don’t condone the use of itching powder,” raged Wimford-Putty, his eyes bulging. “Gluing someone to a horse is completely different. It’s just not cricket. And it’s certainly not dressage. What if Penelope had fallen?”
“She couldn’t have,” shrugged Tickelsworth. “They had to cut her out the saddle to get her down.”
Wimford-Putty convulsed with fury. “Everyone knows it was the Germans. Clearly they didn’t believe the bed bugs explanation yesterday and wanted revenge. We must complain.”
Tickelsworth shook his head. “Organisers are sayin’ it were just tree sap and to get on with it. Last thing they want is a scandal, Lord knows the sport’s had enough of them recently. Anyway, just be grateful the Germans didn’t know the itchin’ powder were us. If they’d only put glue on Penelope’s reigns and saddle and not everyone’s she’d be packin’ her bags.”
There was a hissing noise as a bevy of swans appeared on the water nearby.
“What do you wanna do?” asked Tickelsworth glancing nervously at the approaching birds.
“Leave it to me,” growled Wimford-Putty. “An angry Brenda Balding is one thing, an angry Sebastian Wimford-Putty is something else altogether.”
With such a short turnaround before the final there was only just enough time to find Penelope Snothome a new saddle and reigns. As the worst performing rider from the previous round she was first out and, much to delight of the crowd, put on a performance of subtle brilliance that drew a standing ovation from all present. Tom Tickelsworth roared in delight from his seat in the stands although Sebastian Wimford-Putty was nowhere to be seen. Nor was there any sign of him as the competition progressed and rider after rider tried, and failed, to dislodge Penelope and Doctor Sausages from the top of the leaderboard. Even by the time the final performers, Gertrude Gerstenburg and Autobahn, took to the arena he had failed to appear.
“Bet he’s too nervous to watch,” said Tom Tickelsworth to the rest of the British team as they sat watching.
In hushed silence the German rider began. Looking calm and relaxed she quickly found her rhythm, drawing rapturous applause for a delightful ‘leg yield’ and ‘traverse’.
“She’ll stuff up the next move,” announced Tickelsworth loudly. “Just you wait. The gold’s as good as ours.”
But she didn’t stuff it up. Gertrude’s ‘piaffe’ was perfect.
“I meant the next one,” he corrected himself.
But again he was wrong, her ‘canter pirouette’ was nothing short of magical.
In fact every prediction of doom made by Tom Tickelsworth throughout the performance, and there were many, turned out to be incorrect. And, when Gertrude completed her routine with a quite glorious ‘canter half circle with quarters in’, he found himself reluctantly rising to his feet to join in with the rapturous applause.
“Do you still think the gold’s ours?” asked Penelope Snothome, doing her best to sound hopeful.
Tickelsworth slowly shook his head. “Not unless you believe in miracles,” he muttered through gritted teeth.
Suddenly there came a noise from the centre of the arena. Everyone, including the judges who were in the process of finalising their scores, looked out to where Autobahn was reared up on his hind legs, throwing his neck from side-to-side as he bucked wildly. Gertude clung onto the creature with all her might, seemingly unable to control him. The calmness and tranquillity that had ordained the German rider’s face throughout her performance had now turned to sheer horror.
Then, without warning, the great horse opened his mouth and proceeded to cough up a human finger, severed cleanly below the knuckle. There was a collective gasp followed by what felt like eternal silence.
“Do you lose points for that?” One of the British contingent asked eventually.
Tom Tickelsworth didn’t reply. Instead he pointed down towards the judges where two of them were vomiting on their scorecards. He grinned, a particularly ratty grin indeed.
To this day Sebastian Wimford-Putty holds no grudge against Autobahn for biting off his finger. It was, he says, worth it for the handshake and beaming smile Brenda Balding gave him when she visited his house to congratulate him on the gold medal. And besides, he’s very aware that it was partly his fault. After all, he did try to bite the horse first.
Jonathan Sellars writes for all people of all ages. He looks for the ridiculous in the world, the humorous events that usually don't happen, rather than the tragic events that usually do. He rode a horse once, it did not go well.