Right To Reply: The Journalism Horse

Hello. I’m the Journalism Horse, and the telling of my encounter with Nelson Mandela's wife, whatever her name is, in Episode 291 enraged every hair in my flowing investigative mane. In addition, I blew heavily from my nostrils and mouth at the missed opportunity to rhyme “Truth Paddock” with “Ruth Madoc”. I am a huge fan of Ruth, and will take any opportunity to boost her profile, whatever the context. Whenever I am in Nottingham, and someone says “Ayup, me duck”, I look around theatrically, and squeal “Madoc? Ruth Madoc is here? What an evergreen entertainer she is, and a nice lady to boot.” 

For clarity, I only scream the first Madoc. Screaming the entire phrase would be alienating, and potentially make people think less of Ruth’s fanbase. (Screaming the entire phrase would be such a Su Pollard fanbase thing.  They're keen, but lack panache.)

Anyway, in this post-truth world, I was going to let the injustice of this tale go uncommented on, but as it turns out, Steve rashly promised you, the Patreons, my story as a reward for your financial support. I am a horse of my word, even when those words have been fingered invasively into my mouth. So, I have got a rash in my mouth at present. I would imagine this is where the well-known word-for-word phrase “don’t look a present horse in the mouth” comes from. Because you’ll see a rotten load of bad promise bollocks.

Anyway, so there I was, at Nelson Mandela’s get out of jail free party, and this woman came up to me and just started saying the most provocative horse noises. Now to be fair, I was off my equine fanny pipe on heroin, thanks to a pretty big misunderstanding. 

You see, ten minutes earlier, the waiter had asked me if I would like anything. I simply replied “horse” because that’s what I am. The waiter squinted suspiciously, so I said, “I like heroin”, because if Nelson Mandela was a woman, that's what he'd be to me, and I really like him. Ten minutes later I’m cantering around with a needle dangling off my flank, and I feel ten hands higher than I probably am. 

In the middle of it all, this woman comes up to me and starts chatting shit, and I’m not hearing a word of it, but I’ve got to say something back, so I say “hello I’m a horse, what's your name” and I'm not fucking kidding you she does this amazing whinny that,  word-perfect in horse, she says “Please unwrap my oaty boobs”, and I thought, oaty boobs? In terms of my interests, that’s the diagonally shaded fanny of a venn diagram. 

Now things are a bit sketchy after that. I remember spending two minutes trying to work out in all the letters of “vagina” are in Venn Diagram, but there’s a point where I snap back into the room, and people are shouting "you've got Nelson Mandela’s bird’s dress, whatever her name is, completely in your mouth". She’s taking it in good grace, to be fair to the lass, but I recognise that I’ve stepped over a line. So I turn around and leave, before things get undignified. I feel like this decision was the right one, and would appreciate it if that was taken into account by Regular Features during the telling of my tale.

And yes, I shat in the punch bowl. I’m a horse. That stuff tumbles out of me all day. Just because I have a human job doesn’t magically give me human sphincter control. If you don’t want shit everywhere stop inviting me into your house. Also ask my editor if I can have a computer keyboard with massive keys, because these hoof wands were only supposed to be a temporary solution.