Grooming Disaster...

There was once a horse. He was a nice horse with a fine back of horsey fur and shiny teeth that were polished for him daily. He would stand in his field staring out across the world lamenting the political situation of Britain. He was very up-to-date on such matters, don’t you know.

Every Sunday, the paper boy would deliver a copy of the financial times. The Horse only required one a week – he was a slow reader by human standards, but persevered nonetheless.

“O, don’t you look fine,” said the portly paper boy.

“Appearances can be deceptive,” sighed the horse, as he nosed his way through the salmon-coloured broadsheet. “I may look well, but I am hungry – hungry for so much.”

“Never mind,” grinned the carefree boy who had not yet learned to disregard appearances and believed his eyes without question. “Your master will be along soon with some grain and then you will eat like a king!”

The horse bade him farewell and he rolled away on his bike, happy as Larry.

Ten minutes later, the horse’s master arrived. He carried a large toothbrush, weighed down with minty paste; a big, coarse-haired brush; and a bucket half-full with grain. The horse pushed the FT under his empty trough – his master owned a subscription to The Mail and did not approve of the horse’s intellectual habits.

“Morning, Horse,” he said boisterously. The horse hung his head. He had never had it in him to tell his master he could talk and so remained silent throughout their daily rituals. He started grooming the horse; brushing with vigour and skill; wiping away the dirt and straightening every hair. Then he pulled the horse’s lips back over his gums and proceeded to scrub his teeth until not even the stars of the Andromeda Galaxy shone brighter than those pearly pegs. The horse looked longingly at the bucket of grain. His stomach growled. A tear fell. The groomer looked from horse to grain and back again. He let out a sigh and picked up the bucket.

“You hungry, Horse?” he barked. He glared at the horse, before breaking into a carnival grin and laughing manically. “I bloody bet you are! Well, don’t worry sunshine: your uncle David’s here to feed you up good and proper.”

With that, he tipped a handful of grain into the trough and laughed cruelly.

“That’ll see you right! I’ll sell the rest at market and buy me a new pair of brogues.” With a spiteful cackle the groomer began to walk away. The horse could take it no more.

“It’s not enough!” he cried. “It’s not enough, you bastard!” The horse bellowed and reared up on his hind legs; kicking the stingy groomer to the ground.

“You can…you can talk?”

“Of course I can bloody talk: every one of the people you abuse has a voice, you just never listen to them, that’s all. Perhaps if you spent less time grooming me and more time feeding me I would love you as you believe you are loved. The world will see through the pacification of men like you. You will never have the power you desire unless substance matches style.”

“What are you going to do to me?” whimpered the broken groomer.

“I’m going to let you make a choice. Listen and serve as you are supposed to – do not conceal your duties with silk, Mr Cameron. We need action, not words. Prove yourself now.”


Pick up THE HARE newspaper at Night and Day, Bar Centro, Font or Tiger Lounge in Manchester town centre, or the Oakwood in Glossop.

E-mail theharenewspaper@hotmail.co.uk with questions, comments or contributory pieces.