Dear diary,
The human strangles epidemic rages on, but frankly I have run out of hooves and feather hair as a counting aid, so am unclear now what day we are on, and to be honest, this week I’m way way past caring. Because this week, a far more worrying issue is bothering the brilliance of my brain cells — more on that in a minute.
In other news, I can reveal a startling revelation, but one that will help males the world over.
You ready for this?
Drum roll please…
You can’t please women. Fact.
“And what research have you to back this up?” I hear some of you (mainly the mares) cry. Besides living with she-who-must-be-obeyed for 14 years? Evidence I haz. Evidence your honour.
Exhibit one: hacking on Sunday. I decided after several weeks of trying to throw my mother under the literal, and indeed metaphorical bus, executing more changes of direction than Donald Trump’s campaign team in an attempt to dislodge her, and one memorable saddle slippage scenario, that for once I would allow her to bask in the deluded illusion that she can indeed ride. Even if only for an hour.
Because I’m nice like that.
So thus, on leaving the yard andheading around the other local village where mother’s stable is, I behaved. I walked alongside Bob without a) wearing him as a black and white balaclava, b) pulling more faces at him than a champion gurner with trapped wind or, c) leg-yielding him into the nearest dyke. I patiently gave Bob a lead when he decided to channel his girl power and “stop right now, thank you very much” when a tree moved in a faintly tree-like manner. I managed not to fall over my own feet (well, mainly), and while we had a slight difference of opinion over a rather steep bit of road (she wanted me to go down the road, whereas I wanted to re-enact the Hickstead drop off the top of the grass bank), we did manage to avoid any Geordie Shore remakes and were sans mid-flight tongue in ear issues for an entire hour. We got to the crossroads in the village at the same time as a tractor coming the other way, and I manfully restrained my highly trained ninja instincts to throw mother, or indeed Bob, under it’s wheels and run screaming to the next township. We then ran into another tractor as we came past the posh houses on the outskirts of the village and despite breathing harder than a pug in a pilates class, I stood on the drive more frozen than Joan Rivers’ forehead, before calmly heading for home.
Basically, I ignored every single highly tuned survival instinct on every one of my last nerve endings, all so that mother could experience what it’s like to ride a horse whose intellect is rivalled only by garden tools. The sort that got into the gene pool when the lifeguard wasn’t watching, that for some reason is so highly prized by middle-aged women who should probably stick to knitting.
And was she grateful? No. Not one bit. Instead, she treated my incredible gift with the sort of suspicion usually seen when interviewing a hedgehog for a job on a condom production line. A boy just can’t win.
But I could just about cope with the fact my mother is an ungrateful wench with room temperature IQ and an ass so large light bends round her, if it wasn’t for the fact that yet again, I have been subject to the greatest discrimination seen since M&Ms were told Smarties were the answer.
All this week I have been left at home, alone, while that brainless blonde barbie boy has got to go and do all the things I love the most in life; jumping, water schooling, cross-country, hacking and more jumping. OK, he also did some stressage, but I’d have even put up with that humiliation if I had been allowed to do the other stuff. I’m GOOD at all that stuff, whereas in his case, if talent were petrol, he couldn’t ride a moped around a fruit loop. But was I allowed to go? No. Because it was a camp run under that masonic, horse-ist, secret hoof shaking, featherist federation erstwhile known as PONY CLUB.
As I have mentioned before, in times gone by, before the human strangles epidemic, I have been to an evening at Pony Club where I was the celebrity guest and was fawned all over by four-foot-high-floosy-like fillies, so I had, up until this year, been something of a fan. But that was before I realised that they are a den of devious discrimination. Basically, as far as I’m concerned, if you’re not some squeaky, squealy short arse then you’re not allowed to go.
Continued below…
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So, I have to ask you, what is this going to do to the youff of today? We’re breeding a generation of pony-biased discriminating delinquents. I have said it before, and I say it again; the cult-like behaviours of this “Pony Club” should be sending alarm bells to every horse in the country — not to mention the fact I am green with jealousy over the tales bimbo boy has been regaling me with every evening. I feel I have little choice but to once again send out my rallying cry as we horses remain silent no more. So, join me peoples, and neigh #PCiswee. Although to be fair, if anyone from the PC high command is reading, I am happy to discuss dropping my campaign if I felt the right overtures were being made. Mainly me being invited. Call me…
Laters,
Haughtily huffy Hovis
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