Dear diary,

So it’s that time of year again, when abject cruelty is witnessed across our fair land, when untold misery is caused to literally thousands of my fellow equines — horses and ponies alike. Yes, that’s right people. It’s Christmas.

What is it with this time of year that makes otherwise reasonably normal people (and to be clear, I don’t include mother in this group but some of you at least are lucky enough to be owned by reasonably sane people) behave like complete lunatics? Is it something they spray on that tinsel stuff? Some sort of hallucinogen that Mr Kipling creeps into those seemingly innocent mince pies? There’s got to be some sort of explanation. Because unless this time of year causes mass snow blindness there is just no way these humans can mistake their equines for a Christmas tree — and that let’s face it, is what some of us have to go out looking like: a four-legged fir tree. With Balls. Big shiny balls. And don’t get me started on the tinsel. Or the antlers. Or the novelty hats with ear holes.

At least I am off work and so won’t be put through the annual shame of being seen out in public festooned like a refugee from an explosion at Santa’s grotto, although mother was eyeing my Madonna-bra like mask the other day and it didn’t take a genius to see she was contemplating the hanging tensile strength of the straps. If she sticks baubles on the end of my twin peaks she’s not going to live to see 2018 I can assure you…

On the subject of seeing, for those of you who weren’t aware, I am just recovering from a horrific, painful, horrendous eye operation (I don’t like to mention it) and I did hear the other day about the amazing medicinal powers of carrots when it comes to eyesight. The mother-ship refuses to buy me any more citing that I’m “like a fat Zebedee fed on blue Smarties” and that thus I should be stripped back in the food department such that she can regain control. Which is frankly ridiculous. Firstly if she strips back much more I’m going to be surviving on thin air and NAF joint supplement, and secondly, she never had control in the first place. The fact that she wants to curb my athletic demonstrations which so enrich the lives and indeed vocabulary of all within a five mile radius every time she brings me in is merely yet another sign of her Grinch-like personality. If she wanted a boring horse she should have bought a thoroughbred…

Anyway back to the carrots. So I’m a boy who likes to be charitable. I do lots of charitable things including donating all the money from my five incredibly funny books (which make great Christmas presents — do you see what I did there?) to equines less well off than myself at Bransby Horses. I therefore want to extend this to helping fight obesity — and there’s no easy way to say this — but Santa and those reindeer are looking a tad chubby these days. So in yet another overwhelming act of charity (and yes I do think I should get some sort of OBE), I am offering to take all those carrots instead of you guys giving them to Santa and that Rudolph dude. I know. You don’t have to thank me. Just knowing I’m helping is reward enough. Plus the carrots. Did I mention the carrots?

Continued below…

So I’m off to have my final appointment this year with Herman’s more attractive and much less German side kick, avoid my mother bearing baubles and await my carrot delivery.

Have a wonderfully Happy Christmas and in the name of all that’s holy, please for the love of horses, leave the tinsel on the tree…

Laters,
Ho-Ho-Hovis