Last Fan Standing
Come for the mystery. Stay for the wine, the laughter, and the stories only old friends dare to share.

In this midnight gathering of memories—over red wine, tiramisu, and the ghost of a galloping horse—three women trace the arc from Sherlock Holmes to snug denim and the kinds of adventures that don’t always make it into polite conversation. From clever dogs who don't bark to cowboys who most certainly do, this isn’t just a tale about horses.

It’s about trust, touch, timing—and knowing when to get off the saddle.

Click below to join the conversation, remember your own wild ride, or listen in as the night grows quiet and the innkeeper fumbles for his pyjamas.

Last Fan Standing
Three women. One bottle of red. A wooden horse, an operetta, a silent dog—and a riding lesson no one ever forgets.

It all starts after dessert, with laughter lingering from a delightfully absurd operetta featuring a lovesick soldier and a prancing wooden horse. But as the glasses refill and the night deepens, talk turns to Sherlock Holmes, a missing racehorse, and the quiet power of a dog who didn't bark.

From there, it's only a short trot to real horses, youthful crushes, and the saddle scene that stays with you, not for its elegance, but for where his hand landed.

Pull up a chair. The clock may be creeping past one, but the stories are improving. And no, the innkeeper is not a sexy cowboy.

“Riding Lesson

It began with a horse, hollow and wooden,
rolled into Troy on wheels and wishful thinking.
The city slept.
Desire always does its best work at night.

Centuries later, I climbed into the saddle
not of war, but of weekend leisure—
boots, reins,
and denim that fit like secrets.

The cowboy said I bounced too much.
He was charming in a banker's kind of way,
smelled like leather and long-term investment.
"Forward," he said.
"More."
His hand on the horn,
the other trailing down my back
like history repeating itself.

The pressure against my hips—
a slow, persuasive push
until denim and skin were
no longer sure who they belonged to.

I squirmed.
He grinned.
I made a joke about saddle balance.
He offered to test the theory.
His theory was unsound.
My exit, swift.

There are horses we ride,
and horses we dismount.
Some are made of wood,
some of muscle and bad timing.
Either way,
they leave a mark.”
Malmö May 2025

Last Fan Standing
It was a spring night in Malmö. Marissa had been to Nöjesteatern with two of her close friends, Lena and Marit—well-educated women with fine careers like hers. But unlike Marissa, they weren’t quite as deeply connected to the past. Then again, they weren’t Greek. They were from Landskrona. All three had ridden horses as girls and practically lived in the stable. Not anymore. Their professional lives didn’t allow it. But the memories remained, and that’s what they were talking about later that night as they shared a simple pizza dinner at Far i Hatten, just across from Nöjesteatern in Folkets Park, five minutes on foot. The pizza was topped with crème fraîche, fresh ramsons, parmesan, Brie de Meaux, chili oil, and toasted pine nuts. The pizza was topped with crème fraîche, fresh ramsons, parmesan, Brie de Meaux, chili oil, and toasted pine nuts. The wine was a Barbera d’Alba from Piemonte. No Greek wine—but it would do. In that moment, they all felt a deep sense of belonging, sharing their experiences and memories of the equestrian world.

Marit: The appearance of the Trojan Horse was quite a surprise, wasn't it?

Lena: Offenbach would’ve raised an eyebrow. Or loved it. Hard to tell with him.

Marissa (with a bright smile): He would’ve laughed, as he always did. But the music tonight? It felt like a fresh breeze. That overture, that barcarolle—it sparkled like chilled prosecco.

Marit: La Belle Hélène is such a treat. Witty, shameless, flirtatious. And now, with the Horse!

Lena: Didn’t see that one coming. Third act, and suddenly we’re in Homer instead of Horace.

Marissa: Yes—but don’t forget, La Belle Hélène is all prelude to the Trojan War. Paris steals Helen. Menelaus fumes. The gods bicker. It’s the amuse-bouche before the siege.

Marit: And Offenbach being Offenbach, everyone’s having affairs and singing about figs.

Marissa: He wrote it in 1864, you know. A burlesque on virtue and empire. Satire wrapped in silk.

Lena: But tell me—what did you feel when the horse rolled on stage?

Marissa (softly): Ancient recognition. Three thousand years, and it still pulls me in. That moment of deception. The quiet before the gates swing wide. It’s in my bones.

Marit: That’s your Greek blood talking.

Marissa: Diaspora, yes. But yes. At home, the myths were real. Homer wasn’t literature—he was family history.

Lena: We had Wallander.

(They all laugh.)

But really, horses. It struck me today how different their symbolism is now. Back then, only men rode. Horses meant war. This reflects how gender roles have evolved in the equestrian world, a shift worth contemplating.

Marissa: Exactly. Women had the cows and the sheep. Men had the horses and the swords. You didn’t take your mare into battle if you were a girl.

Lena: Fast forward to now: it’s mostly girls in the saddle.

Marit: Riding schools are full of them. Fewer boys every year.

The cultural claim shifted once the horse lost its role in transport, agriculture, and war. Boys drifted to engines. Girls stayed. And once trousers became standard wear for women, riding was no longer an acrobatic art on a sidesaddle. This shift in the horse-riding community reflects broader societal changes in gender roles and expectations.

Lena: Racing’s still male-dominated, though.

Marissa: Trotting, yes. Gallop is more balanced. Women are everywhere—trainers, jockeys, owners. Jessica Long winning the Danish Derby with Benny Andersson’s Ready Teddy wasn’t a fluke. It’s a movement.

Marit: And the shift started decades ago. Remember the 1956 Olympics in Stockholm? The British team brought female grooms. Swedish journalists nearly fainted. "Despite being so cute, they could handle the horses!" they wrote—all male journalists, of course.

Lena: And ex-military men started riding schools in Sweden post-war.

Marissa: By the ’60s, girls overran the stalls. I was eight in 1986 when I mounted my first pony. By then, it was already a girls’ kingdom, built on a military structure—hierarchies, mentors, discipline.

Marit: The clothes?

Marissa: Functional. Worn. Hand-me-downs. You went to the stables in what was too ruined for school. No one had matching breeches and jackets. We buried our feet in manure heaps in winter for warmth. Hygienic? No. Effective? Yes.

Lena: And strong.

Marissa: We learned to stack hay bales, pull water buckets, and wheel 130-litre barrows across the mud. We could drive trailers before we had licenses. We could balance a 15-kilo saddle above our heads. That training never leaves you.

Marit: That explains why we’re all bosses.

Lena: Yeah, not much fazes a woman who’s stared down a rogue gelding.

Marissa: Or backed a trailer uphill in the snow.

Marit: And the boys?

Marissa: They don’t know what to do with us. You can’t impress a girl who can punch a half-ton horse into line.

Lena: Or stare one down with a raised eyebrow.

Marit: In the stable, the girls took space. They learned leadership and commitment. If you promised the night shift, you didn’t bail. You biked in the snow, fed the horses, and mucked out. And all you got? Maybe an extra riding lesson.

But those girls? Many became CEOs like us. We lead because we learned. The leadership and commitment we developed in the stables have shaped us into the strong, capable women we are today.

Lena: Amen! Today’s stables are different, though.

Marissa: Much. Fewer riding schools, less volunteering, more paying, and less hanging out. Kids expect service. They want medals, not mucking.

Marit: And boys?

Marissa: Some feel awkward. Everything’s pink, and the gear’s designed for girls. Outside the stable, they get mocked. "Ballet for horse girls." That sort of thing. But inside? The stable is a sanctuary. Equal footing. Literally.

Lena: I’ve seen a grown man hide behind a twelve-year-old with a Shetland pony.

Marissa: So have I.

Marit: And those girls? The ones who held pitchforks at fifteen? They run things now. Not always visibly, but structurally. They’ve been trained in responsibility from the manure pile up.

Marissa: We should put "Head girl in the stable" on our CVs. But it only counts if the person reading it has manure memories too.

Marit: Today’s riding culture is changing. But the backbone remains.

Marissa: It’s the strongest soft power I know.

Lena: And the horse tonight?

Marissa (smiling): Not just a prop. A symbol. A memory. A friend. The horse was always with us. Inside the city. Waiting.

Marit: Like Helen?

Marissa: No. Like us. Carved out of the past. Painted new. Still rolling forward.

They sip their wine. The lights in the park glow. A gentle night hums around them. No buses tonight. Just the hush of memory.

Marit: Horses are such wise animals. I miss them. Haven’t ridden in fifteen years.

Lena: Same here. And apart from tonight, I haven’t even talked about horses in years. Strange. They used to be everything. Back then, it felt like they were everywhere.

Marissa: Funny you mention it—I saw a horse the other week. The star of one of Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories. It was on TV, on Channel Five.

Marit: He is clever.

Lena: And handsome. Sherlock. I love him.

Marit: Benedict Cumberbatch’s version has become iconic. His intelligence, charisma, and unique looks have made him a favourite with many female viewers, not just me.

Lena: Agree.

Marissa: No, this was an older series, one of those rerun-of-a-rerun things. The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes, early ’90s. Jeremy Brett played Sherlock. His portrayal is considered one of the most faithful and acclaimed versions. And he didn’t look half bad either.

Marit: I don’t remember that one. And no Sherlock story with a horse.

Lena: No horse rings a bell for me either. Just that dreadful Hound of the Baskervilles. That thing was creepy.

Marit: Tell us about it—maybe it’ll jog our memory.

Marissa: The episode I saw was called The Adventure of Silver Blaze—one of the 56 original Sherlock Holmes stories. The murderer wasn’t the butler, as the joke usually goes—it was the horse. “The butler did it.” A cliché, yes, but one with a kernel of truth. Because it was really the horse.

Lena: “The butler did it.” One of the most overused lines in crime fiction is a running joke among readers and writers. A wink to a time when country house murders, British titles, and afternoon tea were standard backdrops for homicide. In its most parodic form, the butler stands there with a bloody candlestick and a vacant expression—until Poirot, Miss Marple, or some other clever soul points dramatically and says: Mais oui! But behind the cliché lies something real.

Marissa: Most crimes—especially murders—are insider jobs. They’re not committed by strangers climbing in through the window, but by people already inside. Someone with a key. Someone who knows where the poison is kept. Someone who raises no suspicions.

Marit: I have read that criminology, court records, and statistics all tell the same story: the killer is usually someone the victim knew—a spouse, a friend, a coworker. The same goes for financial crime. The one stealing from the company isn’t usually some hacker in Ukraine—it’s the accountant down the hall—the one with the passwords.

Marissa: So, when the butler stands there—polite, reserved, seemingly neutral—it’s not so strange that fiction (and sometimes reality) ends up pointing the finger at him. Or her. Or whoever was “just doing their job.”

We laugh at the phrase. But we also know: most crimes come from the inside. Always someone who was already there. Just like with the horse, Silver Blaze, who went missing

Lena: Thrilling! You can't just dangle it in front of us like that. Come on—tell us everything!

Marissa (smiling, raising her glass): All right then. Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Silent Dog.

It all begins with a train ride, as so many things do. Holmes and Watson are headed to Dartmoor—bleak, windswept, horse- breath- chilled Dartmoor—to investigate two pressing equestrian matters: the disappearance of the famous racehorse Silver Blaze and the death of his trainer, poor John Straker. The tension is palpable as they delve into this mysterious case.

Marit (half a laugh): “Horse- breath- chilled.” You do have a way with words.

Marissa: It was atmospheric. They arrive at King's Pyland, the racing stables, where the horse vanished into the moor, leaving behind a corpse, a tangle of hoofprints, and many befuddled police officers. Suspicion quickly falls on Fitzroy Simpson—a bookmaker suspiciously fond of late-night visits to other people's horses.

He had crept under the cover of darkness, bothering the maid, pestering the stable boy, and snooping around the yard. And then—Straker dead, Silver Blaze missing. Simpson's arrest—an easy conclusion. Too easy. But there's more to Simpson than meets the eye. A bookmaker with a shady past, he was known for his suspiciously fond late-night visits to other people's horses.

Lena (narrowing her eyes, reaching for the wine bottle): But not for Holmes.

Marissa: Never for Holmes. He finds the whole thing preposterous. Why would Simpson lure a famous, irreplaceable horse onto the moor to harm it? That's like trying to mug the Queen in full daylight. He couldn't sell or hide it—every bootboy from Devon to Yorkshire knew that horse by sight. The sheer disbelief in the room is palpable.

So, Holmes follows a trail—hoofprints and footprints, faint but present. He finds the horse. Alive. Hidden in a neighbouring barn. Dyed to disguise him, but unmistakably Silver Blaze. This unexpected twist in the investigation leaves everyone, including Holmes, in awe.

Marit (with mock horror): They dyed the horse?

Marissa (grinning): Silas Brown. A twitchy fellow with more fear than sense. He found the horse wandering and panicked, thinking he would be blamed. So, he covered up the white blaze with dye and hid him.

But the murder- that’s the true tangle. Straker had been found with his skull smashed in. Simpson’s cane was blamed, and his cravat, ripped, was found in Straker’s clenched hand. But Holmes noticed other details: a carefully folded coat and a surgical knife- not a weapon, but a cataract knife for eye operations. And Straker himself had a wound on his thigh: self-inflicted.

Lena: What on earth was he doing out there?

Marissa: Sabotage. That’s the twist. Straker was moonlighting as “William Derbyshire,” buying extravagant dresses for a mistress. He needed cash, so he injured Silver Blaze just enough to lose the race—and then bet against him.

He had been practising on sheep, explaining why the shepherd’s flock had turned lame. But Silver Blaze panicked and kicked back when he tried to nick the horse’s tendon with that delicate knife. One blow. Killed him instantly.

Marit: So the horse was the killer?

Marissa (nodding): Technically, yes. Though without intent. He defended himself. Holmes even lets the race go ahead without telling the owner. Silver Blaze wins the Wessex Cup in disguise, and only afterwards does Holmes reveal that the champion was never missing.

Lena (shaking her head, delighted): That’s a brilliant twist. The horse wins the race and solves the case.

Marissa (raising her glass): To the real hero—Silver Blaze. Unwitting avenger. Silent witness. Champion with a kick to kill.

Marit (laughing): And to the dog. The dog that didn’t bark.

Lena: Yes! The silent dog, the sheep, the curry, the mistress with expensive taste. It’s like a gothic opera. But with mutton.

Marissa: And with Holmes, tying it all together from a curious silence. That, my friends, is why we still read him.

Marita: Did I ever tell you why I stopped riding?

Marissa: Not that I can remember.

Lena: Then now’s your moment. Don’t hold out on us.

Marita (takes a sip of wine, half-smiling): There was this guy at the stables. I flirted with him because he was cute—a real cowboy. It was my last year in Lund. I must’ve been twenty-five, and he was a few years older; an experienced rider for once. He worked in banking and claimed he would get rich.

We had to wear boots and jeans for riding, and that morning, I wore these thin denim jeans—really snug. We started on the trail, and after a while, the cowboy pulled my horse to the side and told me I was bouncing too much in the saddle. He had me lean forward and stand slightly in the stirrups.

Then he returned, placing one hand around the horn of the western saddle and the other on the small of my back. He instructed me to move forward as far as I could. I could.
And then... he slid his hand down my back, pressed against my ass, and pushed me forward—hard—into his other hand on the saddle horn.

The denim was so thin I felt everything. His palm cupped my mound. And then he pushed again—his fingers slid right along my outer lips.

Lena (soft gasp): Whoa.

Marita: I was kind of... agog. I started squirming against his hand, not knowing what I was doing. And he said, “You won’t stay in the saddle if you keep moving like that.”

And I shot back, “Would you be able to stay in the saddle if I kept moving like that?”

Marissa (wide-eyed, half-laughing): Oh my God!

Marita: He just smiled—this adorable, mischievous smile—and said he’d be willing to try.

Lena (leaning in): Did he get hard?

Marita (with a little grin): Yeah. He did.

Marissa: So then what?

Marita: Nothing. I stopped riding—cold turkey. I didn’t want to risk seeing him again. Something might’ve happened. And sure, he was sexy—but honestly, he wasn't my type. I had a lot of opinions about the finance world. Still do, as you know.

Lena: Oh, we know. Thank God you didn’t end up with some startup cowboy in tight jeans and a pension plan.

Marissa (raising her glass): Knowing when to get off the horse.

Marita (laughing): Exactly.

Lena (glancing at her phone): Next time I’ll tell you about my little adventure—but it’s past one already, and any minute now the innkeeper’s going to walk in wearing pyjamas.

They all laughed—harsh, unfiltered—because the innkeeper was no sexy cowboy.