Dear Diary

Well another one of those Burghley parties has been and gone and yet again no invite from Mr Fox-in-a-hole or Mr Knickerless. But note that neither of them won, what does that tell you eh? Wrong steeds my friends, wrong steeds. To leave a lasting mark and an indelible memory for those who are spectators they need to take me; this is clear to anyone with a brain and eyes in their head.

I am however thinking the two of them — Foxy man and no knickers man — are not forward thinking enough to see what’s right in front of them, so does anyone have the number for the Beauty Pageant man? He seems a lot more switched on so I think I need to contact him about next year.  Mum says he’s a Kiwi which worries me as I think I ate one of those once but I won’t hold it against him.

Admit it people, The Destroyer hurtling around Burghley with a prickly green fruit sporting a beauty pageant sash is something you’d all love to see, right? So if someone can please text me his number I’ll call him.  Mum was last seen muttering something about the paperwork involved in restraining orders but let’s face it, she has taken a few falls to the head over the years…

In other news, I behaved for the lady who came to see me at the weekend and as such I am slightly back in mother’s good books.  I say slightly because an ill-timed spook at a dive-bombing pheasant nearly sent mother flying during yet another of her ill thought-out ‘no stirrups’ sessions.

Luckily for one who normally has the balance of a drunk with vertigo, she managed to hang on and I swiftly threw my shoulder up and heaved her bum back into the saddle.  On a related note I think I need physio and a good massage — I’m not saying mother’s heavy but she isn’t my brother either (see what I did there?!).

Anyway, the long and short of all my trials with new sharers is that mum thinks she’s found someone and they’re going to sign contracts this week.  I am a little alarmed about the contents of such contracts and would much prefer to write my own.  Key clauses would include:

1.   Participation in poncing in circles or any stressage type behaviour, save the flatwork parts between jumps is strictly prohibited.

2.   The Horse (that’s me) reserves the right to over-rule the above clause in the event Mr Beauty Pageant agrees to take The Horse to Burghley next year.

3.   Stirrups must be used at all times and the rider’s bum must be in the saddle with the exception of a half-seat when doing cross-country.

4.   Carrots must be provided at all meal times and at key intervals during the day.

5.   Provision must be made for the services of mares with low morals at least once a week. Several mares are preferable and all candidates must be vetted to ensure morals are low enough.

6.   Hacking is to be with strictly vetted wingmen and is to avoid any direct confrontation with the tractors of terror. Any decision to avoid said tractors by The Horse will be rewarded and must not result in the application of the schooling whip across one’s buttock or the questioning of one’s parentage.

7.   Any verbal suggestion that The Horse is a banker, a bog trotting hamburger, lasagne on legs or any other such insult not mentioned here will result in The Horse terminating the contract.  Unless the verbal suggestion comes from Mr Fox-in-a-hole or Mr Knickerless who can call me anything they like if they agree to take me to a party.  (Except ‘Darling’ because that would be WRONG).

Personally, I think these clauses are much better than anything mum or the Boring Human Society (I am assuming that’s what BHS stands for?) can come up with.  What do you think?  I shall let you know how contract negotiation goes next week after my people have talked to her people and mother has undoubtedly given me a clip around the ear…

In the meantime someone tell the Kiwi Beauty Pageant bloke I’m available? Thanks.

Laters

Hovis