I grew up around horses.

One of my earlier memories is of my dad being very proud of me for being brave and not letting a frightened horse buck me off as it tried to gallop away, jumping drains and kicking it’s legs wildly in the air.

It wasn’t bravery. I was too fucking scared to let go, so I just held on to its mane until it grew sleepy.

Dad used to train farm horses.

An uncle had a heart attack and died while out for one final ride with his favourite horse. What a nice way to go.

My family has a long history with horses.
Not all of it is sexual.

But now the newspapers inform me that someone in my extended family “may have” been responsible for “accidentally” killing what in this neck of the woods is considered to be a very famous race horse.

The horse died of internal bleeding in the United States in 1932, and at the time was the third highest stake-winner in the world.

There have been conspiracy theories ever since, the most popular being that American gangsters poisoned the horse.

But the latest theory is that the horse’s own trainers probably killed it with an accidental overdose of a tonic stimulant (arsenic).

My relative was the stand-in trainer who would have administered the supposed fatal overdose.

Uh-oh spaghetti-os!

But it’s not all bad news for the D-family.

My brother just won a burn-out competition and several thousand dollars in cash.

Orsome.