By Elizabeth McQuillan
I only wanted to watch my daughter ride at the Pony Club show. In fact, I had showered and changed out of my smelly jodhpurs, put on some smarter summer apparel, and arrived in the vain hope of simply being able to stand and watch at the side of the arena with my shades on. No chance.
On the command of the Pony Club high heijins, a full hour is spent grafting and getting covered in shit. Myself, and the usual handful of Pony Club Mums, unload two huge trailers laden with heavy jump stands, poles and fillers.
Each piece of equipment ejected from the trailer lands in the profusion of surrounding wet cowpats and all the PCMs can do is pick up each piece of equipment, smearing cowshit across aforementioned summer clothing in the process, and lug it across the field to the appointed jump position.
When the show is about ready to start, there is a sudden surge of PCMs to the scene. All have skilfully avoided getting covered in stinking green slime. I’m never quite sure where they go, or how they know, but by God it’s the same people every time. Fuelled by coffee and gossip, shades on, and looking fresh and summery, they come to watch their little darlings perform. I wipe the remaining cow shit off my hands on to my green-stained jeans.
While I do love my daughter participating in the rallies and events that the Pony Club has to offer, it is impossible – for most – to shrink from their duties as a PCM.
It’s a bit like being in the military. There is a strict hierarchy, an equine Who’s Who of importance, and the role of a PCM is akin to that of an NCO.
The District Commissioner is in charge of the local branch, and is She Who Must Be Obeyed. While she will praise most of her talented and wonderful Pony Club children, she often finds PCMs an irritation, especially those who question the status quo.
Maintaining that status quo is vital should you want your child picked for "the team", hope to ever have a say on the committee or to prevent your child being thrown out on their ear for some misendeavour.
The District Commissioner will have around her a variety of deputies, often good-hearted souls who have gone through the PCM process, and – with their kids having flown the nest – are unsure how to fill their evenings, days and weekends in the absence of pony poo.
But it is the PCM who does all the real grunt and grind when it comes to any Pony Club event. Molehills have to be filled, ground checked, arenas marked and roped, schedules devised, sponsorship found and a million other jobs sorted. Which, given that it’s for the benefit of your own kid, is fair enough I suppose.
Trudging around in the peeing rain in wellies and waterproofs – never knowing it the event will be cancelled until the last minute – the good little PCM soldiers give up their time to work hard to prepare for any Pony Club event.
That is with the exception of the work-avoidance PCMs who rarely contribute unless it suits them. Recognisable by their willingness to sign up to help at fun things, but always unavailable for the dirty or mundane tasks, the shirkers-not-workers have a list of pressing work or family commitments.
Self-appointed officers, these PCMs tend to be the pushy variety who feel their kids might actually be quite good. Usually they are misguided. They have a knack of bullying the District Commissioner into submission, are the first to complain, the last to act, and somehow manage to get things altered to suit their own sprogs perfectly.
At the end of the event the whole process has to be repeated, with the equipment – by now covered with cow poo, sheep poo, wet grass and slippery as hell to handle – put back on the trailers. The same shit-covered PCMs remain behind, assisted by their tired kids, to get the job done so everyone can go home.
Others have a dinner engagement and must dash – they wave cheerily as they drive off home with their ponies, their happy kids and their very clean clothes. As for me, my G&T will have to wait a couple of hours…
– Any resemblance to persons – living, dead or in the Pony Club – should be plainly apparent to them and anyone who knows them, especially if the writer has been kind enough to have provided their real names and, in some cases, their email address. All diary events described herein actually happened, though on occasion the author has taken certain, very small, liberties.
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