Ever since I was twenty-eight I had wanted nothing more than to own a pony. The reasons are not important, other than the fact that I was in a dark place after the death of Darren Dean and the dissolution of the Lanyard Fuckers.

I wasn’t an unreasonable man, but I did want a pony and I would stop at nothing until I got one.

Some complained that it dominated conversations and became the unwarranted focus of social events. At my sister’s wedding – where she was to wed a small-minded man named Kerb – my speech revolved around asking guests one-by-one if they happened to know of a good and reliable pony. You don’t ask, you don’t get.

My sister was distraught and Kerb threw a Kirby Thumb (a tantrum), as well as a lamb steak at my face. That was the wedding ruined but I didn’t like Kerb and Kerb didn’t like me and I wanted a pony. I sat there drinking red wine, pondering life. Pondering ponies. My teeth were red and I was absolutely châteaued, but I didn’t care. I told The Sis she shouldn’t have married him, but did she listen? Did she fuck.

Whichever way you sliced it the reality was pungent – I didn’t have a fucking pony to parade down the street on Battle of the Boyne Day. It had been in my calendar for weeks. I don’t know why it was there, but I figured if they’re going to make something of it then I’d better make something of it. What better way than a Pony Parade? No better way.

Last Tuesday, I bought my first house. Photos, drawings, and statues of ponies everywhere. I call it Pony Mansion. Mother calls me weird. I say this:

“Do you have a solution to my pony problem? If the answer is ‘no’, then shut the fuck up.”

This usually gets to the heart of things. I’m a reasonable man, but I won’t rest until I get to ride a pony down the M4 while holding a shotgun. If you don’t like it, fuck off, cunt. I don’t apologise for who I am. I get my way. And if I don’t, then just picture this:

You are a soldier in a muddy field during the Battle of the Boyne. A deranged, blood-thirsty warrior is bearing down on you and you fear this is the moment that all your grand plans and dreams are about to be put to bed. It was a mistake to fight, especially without a sword. You are knee-deep in mud. The rain is beating viciously at your face. This is no way to go. Then, suddenly, emerging from your left with all the charm and elegance of Gene Kelly, you notice a pony. It trots to your side. They call this the ‘classic pony-sidle’. You hop on. You smile proudly at a dying solider who is looking up at you from within the mud. Wouldn’t you like this pony, fella? Tough. It’s my pony and I’m about to ride it out of this hell hole to find a good shower and a fresh change of clothes motherfucker.