F********

Some of these people are my children. Well, at least one is. She will not thank me.

We lived in London for a few years in the 1980s. At the time, I didn’t speak good enough English to get a job, so I used to help out at the local Riding for the Disabled in the Royal Mews.

My co-helpers were mostly women of a certain age and of a certain milieu, wearing Barbours and with Hermès headscarves tied under their chins. All very proper.

The horses were massive Windsor Greys with hooves like dinner plates. Once trodden on, never forgotten.

Many of those who came to ride were kids, but we had a few adults too. One in particular was a big, burly young man who was quite unsteady on horseback and required two ladies to hold him either side and a third to lead the horse. He loved riding with a passion but could only communicate it by cursing in the foulest language…. 

F*CK YOU, YOU F*CKING F*CKFACED C*NTS!

he would roar with a beatific smile on his face.

F*CK OFF YOU C*NTING F*CKS!

 He wasn’t hugely imaginative, but one got the gist.

C*NT, C*NT, C*NTS!

I don’t think many of the ladies were used to this sort of language, but they skipped gamely on, their faces just a little pinker as they dodged those mighty hooves, a jolly smile firmly in place. I have very fond memories of my time there.