Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘2021 has sucked harder than a turbo-charged Dyson’

  • Dear Diary

    Today is the last day of 2021 and one has to be honest there are parts of the year that have sucked harder than a turbo-charged Dyson – the human strangles epidemic staying around longer than certain relatives at Christmas, having to part from my love of the past 10+ years after the boss lady closed to the yard to retire, not to mention having more surgery than a Kardasian and more rehab than Ozzy Osborne. Oh and the fact I’m still owned by my mother – who isn’t so much as the cross I have to bear, but the bear I don’t want to cross…

    There have also been some awesome moments of this year too – finally getting into a field this time last year when mother had been convinced the only way I was getting out of my stable was in a box; coming back into work and proving I have still got moves although I am less Fred Astaire these days and more just Ginger(ly) walking. Also going to Your Horse is Alive once more and watching mother do nothing but cry every time she realised we had made it back (her lack of faith is so bad she’s even on the black list for JW door knockers), seeing my mates Carl, Geoff, Oliver, Ben and Alan as well as Viagra sending me presents to remind me what it feels like to snog the most famous horse in the world – the poor lad obviously still isn’t over me, and who can blame him?

    Karen Thompson, Hovis and Alan Davies

    Left to right: Karen Thompson, Hovis and Alan Davies at “Your Horse is Alive”

    I have also moved houses and have several rather frisky new ladies who know what prime beefcake looks like (and not value lasagne as my mother suggests on a frequent basis…) and are only too happy to lick the goods before buying them. Even more amusingly I get to watch Barbie Boy being used as a hyperscale hamster in a wheel whereas I just get to watch aloofly from afar never having to worry about being similarly humiliated as my wonderful physio tells mum they’re bad for me. Hamster wheels that is, not my mother – although to be fair she’s hardly good for me.

    The mothership ends this year full of stitches having had a surgeon play Jenga with her lower spine again so I’ve had a gloriously quiet festive period with no tinsel, antlers or other horrors as if she so much as bent over she would have ruptured something. The scar apparently joins the other one from where they did the bit lower down her back so very shortly shes going to look like someone has zipped her up.

    Mother was heard commenting that this makes a change from being stitched up – something she links to having purchased me all those years ago when she had turned up to buy a nine-year-old warmblood bay mare and left with my four-year-old self who was neither bay, nor warmblooded nor female… Still look at the joy I have brought her. And the bills. But mainly look at the joy. After all what price can you put on the experiences I have bestowed upon her?

    So as we venture towards 2022 tonight, I’m hoping for a bit of tongue action with the barn ladies at midnight, maybe watch some fireworks from the local village down the hill and think about my New Year’s Revolutions. I am a little concerned that Aunty Em might not be able to sit too many spins so I’m going to keep to one or two I think, but I will help the others in the barn figure theirs out. Remember peoples – this is your time to freestyle and think about how to express the year you want to have, so make sure it counts.

    All that remains is to wish you a Happy New Year and I will see you on the other side – I’m off to find mother a zip.


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