‘Fe-lix! Fe-lix!’ the crowd chanted as the next rider trotted on to the arena aboard a chestnut stallion. He raised his crash helmet and brandished it towards the enthralled spectators. Like his horse, the rider had an ample mane of well groomed (and well-dyed) hair that set off his golden (fake) tan. He nonchalantly trotted past the tables of (mostly B-grade) celebrities and lesser royalty sipping their Moet and Chardonnay. The great pop singer, Sir Jake Jonquil (more of a B+), raised his glass, alas he unwittingly (so other spectators assumed), had his middle-finger raised. Some of the more senior (and more inebriated) ladies had to be restrained from removing their underwear and flinging it in the rider’s direction.
The announcer’s voice crackled over the PA: ‘Our last competitor only needs a clear round to win the competition. He is a two-time Olympic gold medalist, a three-time Grand Prix winner, a truly brilliant rider in his day…’
The rider grinned, flashing dazzling white teeth, a first rate example of the cosmetic dentist’s art.
‘.…although he hasn’t won anything for a good number of years, he still defies the critics who would have him retire….’
The rider’s grin disappeared and he mouthed something inaudible. Had there been any skilled lip readers in the crowd viewing through binoculars, they would have perceived the rider emit the word ‘Go,’ followed by a crude term for fornication, and finally the word ‘yourself’; which was quite an unseemly phrase in the genteel surrounds of a Grand Prix equestrian competition.
‘…it is the one and only 59-year-old veteran, Felix Hackl, on his equally ancient mount, Mr. Klopp.’
‘Fe-lix! Fe-lix!’
Felix lapped up the applause. He cantered to the starting position and gazed over the whole of the course. Luckily he’d already committed the layout to memory – because he couldn’t make out the jumps on the far side. He wished he hadn’t left his contact lenses back in the hotel room. That and his Imodium. Felix longed to break wind but held back in case it turned wet as well as windy.
The bell sounded and Felix set off. With his customary (and slightly tedious) catch cry of ’Whoop!’ (repeated just as tediously by the crowd) Felix took the first jump cleanly. ‘Good lad’ he said, clapping Mr. Klopp on the shoulder. Human and horse moved as one, like the glory days. Mr. Klopp was never a speedster but that didn’t matter as long as they didn’t knock over any of the rails.
Near the fence where they turned for home Felix cheekily waved to the crowd, many who raised their glasses of bubbly to him (although those who notice such things would have observed a certain pop singer sitting there with folded arms.) Now Felix bore down on the triple oxer, the obstacle that had tripped up most of the riders.
‘Let’s go, old thing. Clear this and you’ll get a lifetime supply of honey-dipped carrots,’ Felix whispered in Mr. Klopp’s ear.
The crowd clapped in unison with each of the horse’s strides. They effortlessly cleared the first jump of the three. Another two more strides and this part-equestrian, part-human machine hurtled through the air, clearing the second hurdle.
As Mr. Klopp took the final jump, Felix, knowing the cameras would show him in close up, beamed in delight. That is until he heard a click, like a peg-legged sailor stepping onto a wharf. The crowd groaned and Felix heard the death-rattle of one of the rails clunking onto the ground. His grin changed into an ugly snarl.
Felix gripped the reins tight and leant forward in his saddle. He almost spat into Mr. Klopp’s ear: ‘You ponderous pegasus, you dim-witted donkey, if you don’t get your arse into gear I’m going to have you gelded.’
In the marshalling area the results flashed up on the scoreboard. The announcers voice came over the PA: ‘At the end of the regular competition we have a two-way tie for first place between Felix Hackl on Mr. Klopp and Whitney Jonquil on Daddy’s Girl. These competitors will now proceed to a jump-off on a shortened course. It will be a case of experience (cough) against youth. Stay around folks. It will all unfold after a short break.’
Felix Hackl had never struck Mr. Klopp in his entire career. But a line had been crossed, a twig had been snapped, indeed a rail had been knocked down. He was positively fuming. Gone were Mr. Klopp’s pinged back ears and the familiar flash in his eyes. Felix took out his riding crop and raised it above his head.
’Surely, you’re not going to strike me?’
Felix stayed his arm and looked about him. There was nobody within earshot, just a few competitors on the other side of the mounting yard walking and grooming their horses.
Having cooled down a little Felix lowered his arm and spoke to his horse.
‘You’re a disgrace. What happened to that fire in your belly? What happened to your prodigious leap. After all these years how can you do this to me. I regret not trading you in for that new colt.’
‘That’s a cruel thing to say.’
Again Felix looked about him. Was he being pranked? He turned 360-degrees trying to see who made the comment. No one was paying him the slightest attention.
‘Aren’t you going to apologise?’
Felix blinked. Mr. Klopp snorted. Felix looked closely into Mr Klopp’s eye.
‘Did you…talk?’
‘Why, yes I did.’ Mr. Klopp’s lips moved ever so slightly as he said this.
Felix stuffed his hand into an inside pocket of his riding jacket and tugged out a silver flask. He shook it to make sure that it was still full. It was quite full, although to make certain, he opened it, and for good measure took a long swig. He closed the lid and stared into one of Mr. Klopp’s brown eyes.
‘How long have you been able to…talk?’
‘For as long as I remember. I’ve just never felt inclined to. Now, are you going to apologise?’
Felix blinked and shook his head like a dog after a swim. He again reached for his flask and took a swallow. ‘So why start talking now?’
‘You’ve always treated me well until these last few weeks. You were a kind master, but now there’s insults, grumbling and now this.. threat…’ Mr Klopp’s eyes flicked down to Felix’s hand that was still holding the riding crop. ‘Today was the last straw. I felt I had to say something at last.’
Felix looked around the mounting yard. Nobody was paying the slightest attention. Al the other riders were talking kindly to their horses. Of course none of their horses were talking to them – at least he didn’t think so. He took another swig from the flask and said, ‘Look, sorry old thing. I wasn’t really going to strike you. I’ve been under a lot of stress lately.’
He heard a woman clearing her throat. ‘Were you really going to strike that horse? Hold on a minute while I get my camera so the world can see what kind of person the great Felix Hackl really is.’
Felix turned to see the svelte form of Whitney Jonquil in a royal blue designer jacket and thigh-hugging jodhpurs, leading her pretty white mare around the mounting yard. She took off her riding helmet and shook out her shiny golden hair as though she were being filmed for a shampoo commercial.
‘I really was just kidding. Me and Mr. Klopp go back a long way.’
‘You can say that again. When was it you last won a title – 25 years ago? That’s before I was born.’ Whitney laughed a smarmy cackle.
‘At least I didn’t have my pop star daddy pay off the organisers to get on the tour like you did.’
‘Very droll, Felix. It’s called sponsorship old man. I wonder which of those grandmas you’ve slept with to keep you in the competition. I saw you out there, you can barely sit astride a horse these days. Frankly, you’re a has-been. You should be charged with animal cruelty for forcing your horse to carry such an unhealthy weight.’
‘And yet it appears we finished equal scores and I have a chance to beat you in the jump-off.’
‘You seriously think you can beat me? You’re a pathetic shadow of your former self and Mr. Klopp is nothing but a hunk of unprocessed dog meat.’
Whitney Jonquil mounted her horse and cantered off, the tail of the mare flicking the tip of Mr. Klopp’s nose.
The announcer’s voice came over the PA:
‘The jump-off will begin in five minutes. Felix Hackl on Mr. Klopp will ride first…’
Felix clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. Mr. Klopp stomped and snorted.
‘Did you hear that old boy? Doesn’t it make you want to go out and beat that shallow, lily-livered…’
‘Dog meat? Did she really say dog meat? That’s nasty. Oh, I want to beat her alright – and that stuck up little mare,’ Mr. Klopp said.
‘Steady, old thing,’ said Felix, stroking Mr. Klopp’s mane while offering him some sugar cubes, ‘Unfortunately, I think she’s right. You and me are not as sprightly as we once were. I’m not sure we can match her, no matter how hard we try.’
Felix looked into Mr. Klopp’s kindly but sharp eyes and shrugged his shoulders.
‘Listen up,’ said Mr. Klopp, ‘I have an idea that might just work.’ Mr. Klopp put his mouth to Felix’s ear and whispered the plan he had in store.
‘Bravo, Kloppy. Let’s give it a shot. If this works you can retire to stud,’ said Felix, stroking the horse’s neck. He took off his helmet and scampered towards the food marquee.
‘Two minutes to the jump-off…’
Felix came back with two steaming helpings of Chilli con carne.
‘Did you get the extra helping of sour cream?’ said Mr Klopp.
‘Yes, and the extra serving of hot beans.’
Mr. Klopp slurped down the Chilli con carne, the sour cream and the extra serve of beans.
‘One minute to the jump-off…’
‘Done?’ asked Felix
‘I’m good,’ said Mr. Klopp. ‘Now let’s show them a thing or two.’
Felix hopped up on the saddle and entered the arena to warm applause. Felix noticed Mr. Klopp was almost unwieldy as he worked him through the jumps. He bumped a number of rails but miraculously none of them fell. Felix turned for the final obstacle – the water jump.
One step, two steps, three steps, Mr. Klopp crouched to spring over the jump. As he uncoiled his muscular hind legs, he let out a thunderous fart followed by a steaming explosion of chilli con carne infused horse-shit. It had the effect of propelling Mr. Klopp through the air like a ballistic missile.
Hoots and hollers told them they had cleared the jump, although overall they were a bit slow getting around the course.
‘Felix Hackl on Mr. Klopp has incurred three penalty points for going over the time limit. Whitney Jonquil on Daddy’s Girl will win if she jumps clear but one failure will see her finish runner-up. What an exciting finale.’
Felix removed his helmet and waved to the crowd. His tanned face filled the big screen until it was replaced by the smiling doll-like complexion of Whitney Jonquil. She blew kisses straight at the camera and held up a finger indicating that she would be number one very soon.
Felix dismounted and watched with Mr. Klopp from behind the rail. Whitney cleared the jumps with ease, her mare speeding between each one. Felix’s heart sank as Whitney prepared for the water jump. She was well ahead of the clock and just had to clear it to win.
Whitney set Daddy’s Girl at the final jump, eating up the space with her elegant strides. One step, two steps, three steps, and on the fourth the mare’s left foreleg landed in the pile of Mr. Klopp’s dung, splattering horse-shit everywhere. Daddy’s Girl instinctively pulled up and Whitney was sent flying gracefully through the air like a cannon-ball Barbie. She landed with a splash into the water.
Whitney Jonquil was last seen berating Daddy’s Girl in the mounting yard.
Felix Hackl flashed his trademark grin while holding the trophy aloft. He promised the gathered press that he and Mr. Klopp would go on to compete in the next Olympics.
But in the stable afterwards Mr. Klopp was having none of it. ‘Sorry boss,’ he said, ‘my jumping days are up. I’m going to take up your offer.’
Felix gave him a sharp look. ‘What offer?’
‘That I can retire to stud. Mr. Klopp’s best days are ahead of him.’
