Feel the love, Charlotte

It was bloody brilliant. Bloody, bloody brilliant. How, at 25, at her first Olympics, under the pressure of a gaining German team, did Charlotte Dujardin manage to keep her cool and break the world record to ensure Britain stayed ahead of their rivals following the first stage of the team competition? I've never seen that done. It's entirely unfeasible. I just can't get my head round it. She's supernatural, that girl.


I was questioning the sanity of whoever signed her up to go last. Surely give that pressure to mentor Carl? But no, good call. Maybe she's better for that kind of utterly ludicrous pressure. 



Joy unconfined.



The only sadness today was the look of a kicked puppy worn by Sweden's Patrik Kittel. He was papped over-flexing Scandic Watermill yesterday in training. For all of a second. I'm going to go out on a limb and piss-off the anti-rollkur brigade here, but seriously, that man is not cruel. He'd invite you all to watch him train and would be calm and friendly for hours however much vitriol you spat at him.  Sometimes, he has to gain control, and, without force, brings the horse back to him before carrying on soft and light as anything. Don't judge him on one picture. Go and watch him train, then make a sound judgement. And while you're at it, watch those kicking and yanking in anger, and tell me which you'd rather ride your horse.



That's me done. I'm going to go and celebrate. Please someone buy that Charlotte several bottles of champagne. And Carl, too, for giving her the perfect Blueberry to ride and the skills to do it.