Dear diary,

So the purgatory of walking continues. Mother has been at work all week so Herman the German needle man has not made an appearance to ascertain if I’m fit to start trotting yet. She-who-must-be-obeyed says that we’ve waited that long that a few more days won’t matter one way or another. That said, she also views having a hairstyle like an electrocuted poodle as being acceptable and harbours the ridiculous idea she’s a passable rider so I really have to question why anyone takes her opinion seriously…

Anyway, I’m hopeful that next week Herman will come fresh from his high-powered position at the recent big party and trot me up. Admittedly I’m not sure that doing vet inspecting on trotted up wussy thoroughbreds or poncy warmbloods is in any way preparation training for watching the mighty Destroyer power down the drive or indeed for mother’s fun bags to bounce so violently that one fears for her knocking herself unconscious or at best, self-inflicting a black eye…

Anyway, on the subject of the big party, my personal congratulations to Mr Village-end. Admittedly he has never responded to my suggestion of taking ME around Burghley (and I can assure you it would be a day no one would ever forget) and once kissed my mother (on the cheek people, on the cheek), but still he was clearly very emotional and proud of his horse. The only time I’ve seen mother get emotional was when I’ve stood on her foot. And boy did she get emotional. Although to be fair last year when I entered the ring at Your Horse is Alive for the first time she did do a lot of snivelling — maybe that was due to my mate Geoff’s aftershave?

There were some amazing rides from the British contingent this year but I still maintain that for true, long lasting global dominance of the sport a secret weapon was needed. A big powerful, manly, ginger-ish-in-the-wrong-light, slightly hairy weapon. Like Andy Murray, I’m a bit off my game at the minute, but with the right motivation I could arise once more to take my rightful place at the pinnacle of British eventing. Oliver, just call me mate. We can talk.

Let’s also face facts — even if I they don’t want me on the actual team (featherist elitists that they are) I am clearly an amazing equine coach. Before his trip to Your Horse is Alive in 2014 Nip and Tuck Shop was a virtual unknown. Two nights stabled next to me and several pep talks later, just look what he’s gone on to achieve. I could be chief-developer-of-new-talent for the British Eventing team? Admittedly a few years later a casual observer may wonder why all the British horses are female and of questionable morals but heh, if the girls can jump who cares right? The Hovite Harems global domination would be without question — I can motivate females to move like you’ve never seen before. Admittedly usually in the opposite direction faster than you can say restraining order but heh, it’s moving right?!

Continued below…

Anyway, something for you eventer types to think about — and don’t think I don’t know you read this.

So I’m off to walk some more, practise my trot-up in the field and await the phone call.

Laters,
Hovis