Another instalment for the ‘How dumb are people?’ file.
Mrs PFC and Daughter PFC are ‘Horsey Girls’. They are in a club where they get together and do horsey stuff every now and again. On Sunday they were having a ‘Have a go day’ where you and your kids come along and have a go at different horsey things, like show jumping, barrel racing etc. They play horsey games which the kids love, dress up their horses, which they love even more and generally have a good time. It is a wholesome day out and everyone seems to love it.
I did my part by delivering the gas bottle for the BBQ and spending two hours mowing the arena (then went and did an oil change on the new car!)
While I was back over at the arena dropping off something else that the daughter had left behind, one of the club members showed up, as she had been asked to do some judging.
The first thing she says is, “Do we have less than 50 people?” (Some had been stressing about this in the week prior as my daughter, who happens to be the Pres, refuses to discriminate and do the PoxPass thing.)
I find I am no longer interested in pandering to these people anymore so replied with “Who gives a (insert bad word here)?”.
“But we might get a fine,” says Catastrophising Karen.
“From who?” says I, “No one gives a (bad word).”
“It will only take one Karen to make a complaint though,” says Karen (ironically).
“Well (bad word) the Karens,” I opine, “and (bad word) Jacinda while we’re at it, and that goes for her masks too.”
“Well we had better be careful if Omicron takes off, we might need them then,” she simpers pathetically.
“Oh my God, Omicron is a snotty nose for two days, don’t worry about it. You need to stop watching the TV news and live your life,” I constructively add.
“Oh I am living my life,” says Karen, completely missing my point that she was doing the opposite of that!
At this point, I can’t stand it anymore and go and grab a sausage in bread, (slathered in Watties best Train Smash) to ease the pain of dealing with the terminally terrified.
I also spy wee cups of Russian fudge that this particular Karen had so kindly donated for the bake sale, so I figure the diet can go on hold for a day and liberate a pottle for future consumption (it was awesome by the way).
So I go about my day, playing with the Grand PFC and chatting to the horsey mums before heading home to finish the oil change (and remove the ‘sound tube’ – why do car manufacturers insist on piping intake noises into your car, just cut the exhaust off already).
After a successful day was had by all (with zero fines issued and zero Covid deaths), the girls get home and I get regaled with another story about dear Karen of the Perpetually Concerned.
Seems she was judging something they call “Tip-n-out”. This is where the riders do a single jump and if you fault then you are out, if you clear it you get to go onto the next round where the rail is set a little higher (much like weightlifting in the Olympics but with fewer ‘women’ with penises). The last one to go clear wins a ribbon or somesuch, increased self-esteem and eternal fame amongst your fellow equestrian and equestrienne pals.
Now of course, the result of all this attempting to go higher than you ever have before, means that you will at some point fail. Sometimes that simply means your nag will kick a rail off. Sometimes said steed may refuse and you will have to hang on tight as it comes to a screeching halt or decides that the preferred action is a 90 degree left turn at Mach 9.
Sometimes, if you are not Mark Todd, you might even get biffed unceremoniously onto the soft welcoming grass where your helmet and back protector may be called upon to do what you paid all that money for it to do, namely try and protect you. (Actually, even Mark Todd fell off at one of our events a while ago!)
Naturally, some of this stuff was happening, and the mums and dads were cheering the kids on, encouraging them to bigger and better heights or offering the profoundly sage advice, “Run it off darling”. This sort of thing is, of course, how you get better at stuff: trial, error, scraped knuckles and the odd purple leg.
Unfortunately, it seemed that all this was too much for our Kowering Karen. She just couldn’t hold her fears in any longer and it all came oozing out. She simply couldn’t stand by and watch these kids risking their lives having fun and left the building (leaving no one to judge the games later on), but not before letting everyone know just how terrified of life she had become.
Now this particular Karen is a nice lady. We have had a bit to do with her over the years, and she sure as hell makes a nice fudge so she should be forgiven. She is not a bad person.
What this all goes to show is that fear is disabling. Fear of The Führer’s Rules is ruining people’s days and causing untold stress.
Fear of getting ‘A Fine’ overrules the fear of getting a dose of the flu.
None of this is about health.
Should I have been nicer to Karen? Maybe listened to her argument and soaked up her concerns? Offered condolences and empathy? Maybe made myself a little more worried, to the point that I too could be too scared to watch a kid fail while trying something new?
Nah, screw them, I’m over it. If it is non-PC to not pander to people’s fears then so be it, (bad word) them all!
Oh and a quick message to Tarquin and Sebastian of the P.I.G, we only had 46 people there so you can (bad word) off too!
P.S.
In case, you haven’t figured it out, the bad word was Fuck!
