Spuds tells me that in football there is a long and proud tradition that the hard men of the game, those who if they can't get the ball then go for the man who's got it, are nicknamed Clogger. For a brief period this was also my stable name, and this is how it arose. Last summer, just a few weeks after I had allowed Spuds to take over responsibility for my household expenses, we went for a ride out in a group. Along with us were Jamie, ridden by Eric, and Roulette ridden by Phillipa. The plan was for a two-hour ride, but the day was sunny, the company was good, and nothing urgent beckoned in the afternoon. The humans decided to hack on to a country pub and enjoy a snack and a drink.

At the pub Spuds and his friends sat on a low wall holding our reins, at the same time trying to eat their food and swish away the aggressive wasps. I was just stretching forward to steal the salad garnish off Spuds plate when that Jamie launched an unprovoked two-hoof attack on me. I was slightly injured, and Jamie was led away to a safe distance.

We walked back from the pub down a long and lonely country lane. I was walking side-by-side with Roulette, our riders deep in conversation. Eric was lagging behind, then decided to trot alongside to join in the talk. I saw Jamie coming up beside me, and thought "Damn. This big beggar's coming to have another go at me. I'd better get in a pre-emptive strike." Without breaking pace I stuck out by rear offside leg and connected with my enemy.

Spuds heard a noise which he described as the sound of a dead-bell being struck. "Oh no", he thought. "Branston's kicked out and hit Eric's stirrup". Wrong. The sound of a dead-bell being struck is the noise made by a person's shin bone when it is snapped cleanly into two pieces. Spuds only realised this a few seconds later when Eric circled in front of us, hanging around Jamie's neck and repeating "It's broken. It's broken".

To get Eric off his horse was tricky. Phillipa had to hold all three of us horses, our reins looped around one arm. With the other arm she had to raise Eric's broken leg over the top of Jamie's saddle, and he's 16.2hh. Spuds stood on the other side to take Eric's weight and lift him down to the ground. Eric was then lain on the grass verge and made as comfortable as possible. Phillipa rode off to the nearest village to call an ambulance, and Spuds looked after the horses and the injured man. Phillipa returned after twenty minutes, accompanied by a kind lady who brought refreshments. The ambulance arrived ten minutes later, which was quite impressive considering how remote we were.

The Paramedics discussed the injury with Eric, and the senior man made his decision. "We've got to get this boot off Sir. I'll just get my toolkit". He reached into his box of instruments, brought out a pair of shears and prepared to cut the boot.

"No, Stop, you bloody fool" yelled Eric. "Save the boot. Save the boot". The sun was beating down mercilessly out of the blue sky; Eric's face was sheet-white, sweat was pouring off him as he started to root around in his bum-bag to get out the sharp knife that he always carried.

"But the boot's ruined Sir" said the long-suffering Paramedic. "The horse's hoof has sliced clean through it".

"Never mind that. It can be repaired. Use this knife". Eric's will prevailed, and the stitches of the boot were cut all down the back and all around the foot. The leg was then strapped up, and Eric was loaded into the ambulance.

"Now Spuds, could you arrange to drop my car down at the hospital please. I'll just get this set in plaster, and then I can drive home. Its an automatic, so I only need one leg. Then I can get home just an hour or so late, and my wife won't be so worried".

"Slow down a bit Sir", said the Paramedic. "With this injury you wont be going anywhere for at least a week, and then you won't be driving. If you take it steady you may be able to ride again before Christmas".

"What, and miss the hunting season. I've got to be in the saddle again within 8 weeks".

"Trust me Sir. I've seen these injuries before".

Jamie was led back to the yard by Phillipa; he seemed to be quite confused by the change in circumstances. Eric's riding hat was attached to the side of the saddle. A farmer over whose land we passed drove up to us in his car. "I saw you from my house up there on the hill" he said. "With that hat stuck on the side, it looked like something from the Wild West. You know, bringing your dead back home slung over the saddle".

Back at the yard, people gave me quite a wide berth for a while, and Spuds still makes me wear a green ribbon when I'm out in company. Eric accepted the blame for the incident; he knew that there was some equine antagonism between Jamie and me, and that he shouldn't have ridden up from behind in the way that he did. Spuds admits that maybe he should have paid less attention to his companion and more attention to my ears being flattened back rather than flopping around like a donkey's; he may then have been able to prevent the incident altogether. You riders need to have your wits about you when in the company of young horses or horses that are strangers.

Eric now has two steel pins and a selection of nuts and bolts holding his leg together. He also has a certificate that allows him to pass unchallenged through the metal detectors at airports. He escaped from hospital after five days, and was back in the saddle after two months, although this was premature and he set himself back. After a full and frank discussion in the field one night, Jamie and I now share adjoining stables and tolerate each other's company.