It has been brought my attentions by a tweeter from the dark ages and his monkey that in my column yesterday, I referred to the so-called race mare Better Reflection as a bloke.
It is true. I did.
The inference of the tweet of course was that Archie couldn’t tell a G-Spot from a couple gonads, and stuffed up it all up.
Well punters, I’m here to tell you that’s bullshit.
I’ve been working with G-Spots since I was sixteen, and I’ve had a pair of balls my whole life. I know a bandit from a bush better than I know my own wife’s Something’s name. It’s not me who’s wrong, its the monkey and the twit. With a name like Oliver, I suppose what else could you expect?
Here’s a tip for free monkey and Ollie. In the 21st century, horses – just like humans – are at liberty to choose their own pronouns, and by law all Australians are obliged to respect their choice. If your daughter tells you that They want to be called They, then They is what have to call them. The Government had declared it be so.
Trust me, I know.
The Captain pulled it on me about 2 years before she became The (school) Captain, after some curriculum loving clown with a low OP and a lust for long holidays told her They and their private school classmates that the old He and She had been fucked off well and truly, and that transexuality was the norm, although you don’t call it that anymore either.
The Rocky Horror Show was 40 years ahead of its time, and the doctrine of Muhammed Ali had won the war. We were now free. None of us had to be what anyone else wanted us to be. We could choose for themselves. And rooting your same-sex classmate was cool.
Why didn’t they teach the girls at Clayfield College and St Margaret’s that back when I was a kid? Imagine the possibilities at the tail end of party after a couple of sheilas had downed a dozen West Coast Coolers, and one of them was the host and their parents were away?
I was an instant convert to the whole same-sex sex thing – as long of course as my daughter didn’t do it: with the benefit of hindsight I should never have told her that – and if calling a bloke She and a sheila Him and a sheila who wanted to be a bloke Them was the price I had to pay for my new-found beliefs, well so be it.
When I gave trainer John Wiggington a call during the week to see how Better Reflection was going, by sheer fluke He (the horse) just happened to answer the phone.
“G’day luv” I greeted her, “How are your tits hanginh? Reckon being just a little sheila you can beat those bloody blokes in the QTIS 3YO on Saturday?”
Well bugger me, that was the wrong thing to say wasn’t it? Better Reflection went off His heads, and started ranting and raving about pronouns and PC, and how He wanted to be called He, and how I was a fucking idiot and I could go and stick my tip-seeking sexism up my arse, and then the bastard hung up on me.
No balls you see.
If I was thinking straight I would have written Him off there and then as a no nuts bloody flea. But I’d made my commitment to freedom of pronouns, and even if He was a rude prick I was bound to accept Better Reflection’s choices regardless.
And that’s how He became to be known as a He.
It wasn’t error, it was respect.
What an idiot I was.
If you don’t have testicles then you’ve got no balls. It’s as simple as that, so I don’t care whether Better Reflection wants to call Himself Arthur or Martha or somewhere in between, the little half-black handbag carrier will always be a poofter to me.