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Hovis’ Friday diary: how does mother sticking her marigold-clad hand up my man sausage cave count as her essential daily exercise?

Dear diary,

It’s day 742 billion of the human strangles epidemic and any hope of them all buggering off back to work and leaving us the heck alone are fading faster than a TOWIE member’s fake tan in lockdown.

I totally get the reality of having to keep the wonderful NHS protected, but for the love of God, can we please extend the ban to include activities such as mane pulling, tail trimming, feather fluffing and man sausage scrubbing? I do not see how sticking her marigold-clad hand up my man sausage cave counts as my mother’s essential daily exercise? She looks like a perverted Paul Burrell doing a bush tucker trial — only it’s me who is both the celebrity and the being who wants to be out of there, I can assure you. I do not want to even think what the poor check out assistant in Chavda thinks when her sole purchases are a bag of carrots and some adult lubricant…

I do think her sudden obsession with cleaning my man parts was in a fit of sadistic revenge for the fact I may have dragged her in from the field like a feathered four-legged Halley’s Comet on five out of seven days last week while the boss lady was off. Apparently my new found talent for Bambi bouncing like an obese onyx is going down about as well as a bottle of Blue Nun at an Eton cheese and wine evening. And when combined with me coming out of the field like equine intercity express train, has left mother considering the take up of more gratifying past times. Apparently, taxidermy is high on the list, but having seen mother’s driving, I’m not sure many people will take her up on this. I would tell her this myself, but I do worry she’d tell me to get stuffed…

What made matters worse on Sunday was that not only did I flatten her but Barbie Boy buggered off for a full five minutes running circles around her like the love child of The Flash and a hamster, and then my lady love proceeded to shove into her all the way from the field to the yard like a big beautiful black opinionated snow plough. That’s my description as I admiringly watched the battle of two of the most opinionated females I know — mother’s was a LOT less flattering and contained an awful lot of words that would have gone down about as well as the aforementioned Blue Nun. Apart from the fact my mother is no nun and the only thing blue was the air…

I think what miffed mother even more than usual with Barbie and I displaying our moves, was the fact only the day before she’d once more paid for the steely fingered ministrations of my physio to work on the magnificence of my muscle mass and give poncy pony a poke while she was here. Let’s be clear, she’s my professional — I merely let her appreciate the comparison of dealing with a real horse versus the stressage squirt so that she remains clear the lofty heights of clients she should attain to.

Continued below…

I had the most lovely massage, ultra-sound and inner thigh fondle and thus was keen to demonstrate the benefits as soon as I was able. For the record, piaffing down the fence line with the sort of high-kneed action that would make Valegro even more hot for me than last time we met does not in fact please the mothership. But then to be fair — short of an all you can eat buffet with no entrance fee — I’m not sure what does please that woman.

Anyway, what with relations with the blubbership frostier than Olaf’s popsicle and the ever mercurial mother nature throwing more white stuff about than Charlie Sheen’s ex-dealer, it’s fair to say there’s definitely been a nip in the air this week. I’m off to try to defrost myself a small section of grass and mentally choregraph Balero for the weekend.

Laters,

Hovis

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