Black Beauty Read online

  This edition first published in Great Britain in 1997 by

  Virgin Books

  an imprint of Virgin Publishing Ltd

  332 Ladbroke Grove

  London W10 5AH

  First published in 1996 by Virgin Publishing Ltd

  Copyright © Spike Milligan Productions Ltd 1996

  The right of Spike Milligan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed upon the subsequent purchaser.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 0 7535 01023

  Typeset by TW Typesetting, Plymouth, Devon.

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by

  Mackays of Chatham, Lordswood, Chatham, Kent.

  PART ONE

  EARLY HOME

  There once was a horse called Black Beauty

  He was well bred and always did his duty

  He came from very good stock

  He had a lovely body with a huge cock

  His mother was lovely with a wonderful tail

  Which dragged behind her like the Holy Grail

  His father died, a handsome dude

  And he ended up as dog food

  Black Beauty would lead a long life

  A mixture of Peace, Tranquillity and Strife.

  MY EARLY HOME

  I will always remember my early stable

  We think of it when we are able

  My mother was a horse

  And, so was I, of course

  I always stayed close to my mother

  Because of horses, there were no other

  I drank my mother’s milk I recall

  Otherwise I would have got bugger all

  Oh yes, I remember when I was young

  Grassy meadows, flowers and dung.

  The first place that I can well remember was a large pleasant meadow with a pond of clear water full of frog spawn in which I nearly drowned. It would have been the first case of a horse drowned in frogs’ spawn. Over the hedge on one side we looked on to a ploughed field where a woman was pulling a plough with a man steering it, occasionally striking the woman with a whip. It was a typical rural scene mixed with wife-beating. On the other side, we looked over a gate at my master’s house. If you stood the other side, you could see us looking at our master’s house. At the bottom, a steep bank overhung a running brook. Girls with babies born out of wedlock used to throw the babies in there to drown them.

  Whilst I was young I lived on my mother’s milk because I could not eat grass. In the daytime I ran by her side, and at night I lay down close by her side. When it was hot, we used to stand by the pond in the shade, watching the children fall in and drown. When it was cold, we had a nice warm shed.

  As soon as I was old enough to eat grass, my mother used to stuff it down my throat until it kept coming out the back. I went six times that day. She was a police horse and used to go to riots and her master would bash people over their heads. I was so proud, I couldn’t wait for the day when I had a rider who would bash people over the head.

  I used to run with the young colts. We would frequently bite and kick.

  One day there was a great deal of kicking, one or two horses were kicked unconscious. My mother whinnied to me and, as I had just been kicked unconscious as well, she ran toward me.

  ‘Pay attention to what I am going to say’; so I paid attention. ‘The colts who live here are cart-horses, and of course they have no manners. You have been well bred and well born; your father had a great name in these parts. I hope you will grow up gentle and good, lift your feet up when you trot, and never bite or kick.’

  I have never forgotten my mother’s advice; I knew she was a wise old horse, and our master thought a great deal of her. He thought of her when he was in the garden, he thought of her when he was in bed, and he thought of her when he was in the kitchen. He never thought of her when he was in the loo. Strange that. Her name was Duchess.

  Our master was a good man, sometimes he was a good woman. Strange that. He went to church every Sunday and lit candles. Not much happened, except the church burnt down. When she saw him at the gate, she would neigh with joy, and trot up to him. He would pat and stroke her and say, ‘How is your little Darkie?’ I was a dull black. He would give me a piece of dry bread, the mean bugger, and sometimes he brought a carrot for my mother. Why did she do this grovelling for a bloody carrot? My mother always took him to the town on market day in a little gig.

  There was a ploughboy called Dick who sometimes came into our field to pluck blackberries. When he had eaten all he wanted, he would have ‘fun’ with the colts, throwing stones, bricks and sticks to make them gallop. We did not much mind him, for we could gallop off; but sometimes a stone would hit and hurt us.

  One day, he had just thrown a brick at my head; the master was in the next field watching, and catching Dick by the arm and his private parts, he gave him such a box on the ear and a kick up the arse. We never saw Dick any more but we heard that he joined the French Foreign Legion and was killed by an Arab who threw a brick at him. Old Daniel, who looked after the horses, was just as gentle as our master, so we were well-off.

  THE HUNT

  One day a hunt galloped thru

  That is a thing they used to do

  As the hunt galloped by

  ‘Get the bastard,’ was their cry

  Who the bastard was they did not say

  And we never found out to this very day

  In fact they were chasing a hare

  The trouble was, it wasn’t there

  Frustrated, they chased a rat

  But they didn’t even catch that.

  Before I was two years old, something happened which I have never forgot. It was early in the spring; there must have been a little frost in the night and a light mist still hung over the plantation and meadows and hung over the house. We were feeding in the part of the field where the mist hung overhead. In the distance we heard what sounded like a cry of dogs. The oldest colt raised his head. He said, ‘There are the hounds!’ With the mist hanging over them we could only see their legs. We cantered off to the upper part of the field, where we could look over the hedge and see the other side. My mother and a very old riding horse in a wheel chair were standing near.

  ‘They have found a hare,’ said my mother, ‘and if they come this way, we shall see the hunt.’

  And soon we could only see the legs of the dogs in the mist. They were tearing down the field of young wheat next to ours. They did not bark nor howl nor whine, but kept on a ‘yo! yo, o, o! yo! yo, o, o!’ at the tops of their voices. Dogs who say ‘yo! yo, o, o! yo! yo, o, o!’ are very hard to find. Then came a number of men in green coats on horseback, all galloping as fast as they could. Some were doing 100 miles per hour and soon they were away into the fields lower down; then they seemed to lose the scent and the dogs left off yo-yoing and ran about in every direction, mostly away.

  ‘They have lost the scent,’ said the old horse, ‘perhaps the hare will get off.’

  ‘What hare?’ I said.

  ‘How do I know what bloody hare? Likely enough it may be one of our own hares; any hare will do for the dogs and men.’

  And before long the dogs began their ‘yo! yo, o, o!’ again, and back they came, all together at full speed, making straight for the wrong way, to the part where the high bank and hedge overhung the brook.


  ‘Now we shall see the hare,’ said my mother, and just then, a hare, wild with fright, rushed by. Six or eight men leaped their horses clean over the hedge, close to the dogs. The hare tried to get through the hedge; it was too thick, and she turned sharp round to make for the road, but it was too late; the dogs were upon her with their wild cries: we heard one shriek and that was the end of her. ‘Heel!’ said die master of hounds, and blew his horn. The hounds did not heel, seemed not to hear, and went on tearing the hare to pieces. ‘Heel!’ he shouted again, but they did not hear. He whipped-off the dogs, who turned on him and tore him to pieces. These were called ‘sportsmen’ and they were all upper class; the Prince of Wales was one of them.

  Then there was a sad sight — two fine horses were down. One was struggling in the stream, and the other was groaning on the grass. One of the riders was getting out of the water covered with frog spawn and mud, the other lay quite still.

  ‘His neck is broken,’ said my mother.

  ‘And serve him right too,’ said one of the colts.

  I thought the same, but my mother did not join with us.

  ‘Well! No,’ she said, ‘you must not say that. Although, I never could make out why men are so fond of this sport; they often hurt themselves, they get covered in mud, they fall off and break their necks, often spoil good horses and tear up the fields, and all for a hare or a fox or a stag or an elephant, when they could get one more easily, pre-prepared and oven ready, from the butcher’s.’

  Whilst my mother was saying this, we stood and looked on. Many of the riders had gone to the young man, but my master, who had been watching, was the first to raise him. His head fell back and his arms hung down, his legs shot up and everyone looked very serious, especially the one with his head hanging down. There was no noise now; even the dogs were quiet, and seemed to know that something was wrong. They carried him to our master’s house. It was young George Gordon, the Squire’s only son, a fine, tall young man, a cruel bastard, and the pride of his family, with his head hanging down.

  They were now riding off in all directions, in fact two riders rode off in the opposite directions, to the doctor’s, to the farrier’s, to the butcher’s, to the baker’s, and no doubt to Squire Gordon’s to let him know his son had snuffed it. When Mr Bond, the farrier, came to look at the black horse that lay groaning on the grass, he felt him all over, and shook his head; one of his legs was broken. Then someone ran to our master’s house and came back with a gun. Presently, there was a loud bang and a dreadful shriek; Mr Bond had shot himself. And then a humanitarian put the horse down, and then all was still; the black horse moved no more.

  My mother seemed much troubled. She said she had known that horse for many years. His name was Big Dick Rasputin. He was a good, bold horse, and there was no vice in him; he occasionally screwed a brood mare, that was all. She never would go to that part of the field afterwards.

  Not many days after, we heard the church bell tolling for a long time. Looking over the gate, we saw a long, strange black coach that was covered with black cloth and was drawn by black horses; this was for the stiff. It was carrying young Gordon to the churchyard, to bury him. That’s what happens when you die, you never ride again. What they did with Big Dick Rasputin I never knew; he was sold as dog food.

  Oh terrible ending as dog food in a tin

  It doesn’t encourage a racehorse to win

  Fancy the Derby winner

  Ending up as a dog’s dinner.

  MY BREAKING IN

  Oh! terrible breaking in!

  It should be considered a sin

  I had to gallop, walk and trot

  I thought that was the lot

  I was taught to go fast or slow

  To stop, start and then go

  A man would sit on your back

  I’d take him there and bring him back

  The man was Squire Gordon by name

  I kicked him in the balls whenever he came

  They each swole up like a marrow

  He had to wheel them round on a barrow.

  I was now beginning to grow handsome; some people grew up, but I grew handsome. My coat was coal black; at night people used to walk into me. Mind you, I still looked like a horse. When I was four years old, Squire Gordon came to look at me. He examined my eyes, mouth and legs. He felt them all the way down, because that’s where they were. Then I had to walk and trot and gallop before him. He seemed to like me and said, ‘I seem to like you. When he is broken in he will do well.’ My master said he would break me in himself, to save the expense of hiring a groom, the mean bastard! The next day he began.

  Everyone may not know what breaking in is. It means you have a bloody awful time. You have to wear a saddle and carry on your back a man, woman, child, or a hundredweight sack of potatoes; or, in times of war, you have to carry a cannon. You have to learn to wear a collar. You have to be able to have a cart or a chaise fixed behind you, so that you can hardly walk without dragging it after you. It’s hell I tell you. Many horses have gotten a hernia trying to pull them. You must go fast or slow, start or stop, as the driver wishes; you have no bloody choice at all. You must not speak to other horses nor bite nor kick nor crap nor have any will of your own. You might as well be bloody dead. You must do your master’s will even though you may be very tired or hungry, but you can report him to the RSPCA. When the harness is once on, you may neither jump for joy nor lie down for weariness. It’s a complete loss of freedom.

  I had, of course, long been used to a halter and a headstall — that’s a stall I sleep in with my head — and was then led about in the field and lanes, even if I didn’t want to go. For those who have never had a bit in their mouths (most men have had a bit on the side), it is held fast by straps over your head, under your throat, round your nose, and under your chin, everywhere except behind your arse; so that no way in the world can you get rid of the nasty hard thing; it is very bad! Yes, very bad! But with the nice oats, and what with my master’s pats, kind words, and gentle ways, I got used to wearing my bit and bridle, but it was still bloody terrible.

  Next came the saddle, but that was not half so bad; they put it on my back, very gently, and my master got on. I immediately bolted and threw him. It certainly felt queer, but I felt rather proud to have thrown my master. However, he continued to ride me a little every day, and I would throw him every day. I soon became accustomed to it, and so did he.

  Next was putting on iron shoes. The blacksmith took my feet in his hands, one after the other, and cut away some of the hoof. I stood still on three legs, sometimes two, or even one, till he had done them all. Then he clapped on a piece of iron the shape of my foot and drove some nails through the shoe into my hoof, so that the shoe was firmly on. My feet felt very stiff and heavy, but in time I got used to it.

  Next was to break me to harness. First, a stiff heavy collar just on my neck. (The things they were putting on me made me weigh twelve stone more than I really was.) It was a bridle with great side-pieces against my eyes called blinkers. I could not see on either side, but only straight ahead; I kept crashing into things each side of me, one was an old lady. Next there was a small saddle strap that went under my tail; that was the crapper. I hated it; it stopped me having a crap. I never felt more like kicking, so I kicked him in the goolies and they swelled up like water melons. He had to put the harness on me while balancing his balls with one hand, and he could only move very slowly. In time I got used to everything — and he got used to swollen balls — and I could do my work as well as my mother. I used to wash up after dinner. Yes, I was a very good horse.

  I must not forget to mention one part of my training. My master sent me for a fortnight to a neighbouring farm with a meadow which was skirted by railway lines. Here were some sheep and cows, and I was turned in amongst them. I couldn’t help treading in it.

  I shall never forget the first train. I was feeding quietly near the pales, which separated the meadow from the railway, when I heard a strange sound at a d
istance, and before I knew whence it came — with a rush and a clatter, and a puffing out of smoke, a long black train of something1 flew by, and was gone almost before I could draw my breath. I turned, and galloped like fuck to the further side of the meadow as fast as I could go, and stood there snorting with astonishment and fear. In the course of the day many other trains went by, some more slowly; these drew up at the station close by, and sometimes made an awful shriek and groan before they stopped. They had run over a passenger.

  For a few days I could not feed in peace, as passenger after passenger was run over. I began to disregard it, and very soon I got used to the sound of the train stopping and the passengers being thrown off. Now, no railway stations frighten me — not Cannon Street, Paddington or Euston.

  ‘But,’ said my mother, ‘there are many kinds of men; there are good, thoughtful men like our master, who, thanks to you, has swollen balls.’ She said there are many foolish men who are ignorant, who couldn’t spell influenza even though they had got it. Some men were awful and they spoiled horses; in fact, strewn all round where we lived there were spoiled horses lying in the fields. Some men used to deliver coal and some would fall down the coal hole and were never seen again. ‘Now don’t forget son,’ said my mother, ‘do your best wherever it is, and keep up your good name.’ I did, but when I felt like it I kicked them in the balls. The only respect I ever got was from men I had kicked in the balls.

  BIRTWICK PARK

  I was to work for a new master

  To me, it was a disaster

  In new stables I had to pass

  A horse with an enormous fat arse

  Ginger was his name

  Alas, that’s what he eventually became.