Hovis’ Friday diary: I am not a ‘fat, Irish, bog trotting banker’

  • Dear diary,

    It’s fair to say this week has been one of ups and downs — including me doing a bit of up and downing of my own much to mother’s abject disgust but I’ll get to that in a minute.

    On Friday Cool New Shoes man (CNSM) came to see me, cuddle me, slobber on my whiskers and finally actually re-shoe me. He and mum discussed her hunt for a new sharer and he suggested that I needed a man to ride me, a talented man, who knew me well, was a good rider and who lived fairly close by. Since I don’t know anyone like that I decided he should stop talking drivel and actually hold my feet up for me since I was getting tired — the moaning the man did for the rest of the morning implies my feet are heavy or something?

    >>> Hovis’ Friday diary: My week has been blighted by some sad, sad news

    I am actually fine with the idea of a man sharing me as long as they don’t want to snog me on a regular basis — it’s bad enough with CNSM wanting selfies with his tongue up my nose without encouraging anyone else. Lady sharers are also most welcome and they can cuddle me — after all these years with mother I have learnt the best way to keep fickle women on side is to give the best horse hugs around. And I do. Trust me.

    After CNSM had finished putting my racing plates back on he and mother stood discussing dates for his next visit, so I decided to take matters into my own hands and ensure he diarised things properly. Mother promptly whipped the camera out and the Hovite Army were treated to Facebook photos of me and my farrier wedged into his van — to all who drooled over him can I just ask you to pack it in? His ego is big enough already without comments like “two fine men there together”. OK, I know I’m one serious hunk of male flesh but he doesn’t need encouraging…

    So newly clipped and now newly shod I braced myself for a weekend of work but salvation briefly came in another form and very exciting it was too!

    Unbeknown to our yard owner the hunt was in the area and the first that we knew of it was the doggies (houds, apparently) in the fields next to the school and at the back near the “back track of doom”. I was quite excited by this and stood looking for the man in the red jumper I had chased myself before in the past. Alas all the others on the yard didn’t seem to want to just watch the men in the red jackets and the hounds and went utterly mental. The poor boss lady ran around fetching them all in with the help of the American dude’s mother as they all proceeded to prance about like the cast of River Dance at a rave. I was most intrigued by what the fuss was about and the boss lady showered me with praise for being the only one not to positively wet myself over the incident.

    >>> Hovis’ Friday diary: I am not cute, I am the Destroyer

    We were all put into the barn and all went quiet for a while until we heard the hounds again and they came back the other way; cue all my highly strung equine companions having yet another fit of the vapours. Needless to say I stood in superior silence wondering how I got saddled with such a bunch of wimps.

    Mother turned up a few moments later and was told the tale of drama by the American dude’s mother. She seemed horrified when mum promptly got my lungeing equipment out and took me in the school — I did have a brief look over the hedge to see if they were still around but after that just got on with it like the pro I am. This is less due to me being a complete hero (although obviously I am) and more down to the fact I have long since learnt that mother doesn’t view any form of distraction as a good enough excuse to behave like a “fat Irish bog trotting banker”.

    The others stood on in sweaty, snorting, highly strung amazement while I went up and down my paces with not a hair out of place. Seriously people, it was some men, some horses and some hounds — nothing to worry about.

    The dastardly yellow soldiers of the devil that are now appearing down the driveway like a legion of horse killing ninjas? Now THAT’S something to worry about…

    So it’s fair to say I was in the good books. Hovis 1: Hunt 0

    I followed this up by being my usual brilliant self with mini-mother (and my Facebook fans will have seen from the photos I really do mean MINI-mother; she’s TINY), a star to lead out the following morning when the others were still fired up from the hunt incident and generally babysitting my highly strung comrades until they realised that every movement behind the hedges was not anything which was going to eat them.

    >>> Hovis’ Friday diary: On a collision course

    I might have blotted my copy book slightly when mum came to fetch me in and we had a minor disagreement about me stopping to munch the boss lady’s lawn. I view this as a favour to the boss lady by keeping her grass under control. Mum views this as the height of rudeness and so we may have had a brief moment of standoff whilst she tried to haul ¾ of a tonne of me off the lawn and I simply rooted to the spot. She smacked me with the lead rope and I might (and I say might because all these things need to be put into perspective) have done a little rear (if you can call six inches off the floor a rear). Sadly my athleticism didn’t impress mother so we spent a boring 20 minutes doing “ground work” in the school while she “re-established who the boss is”. Easy. I’m in no doubt of who rules the roost in our family: Mini-mother.

    Needless to say I went from being the world’s favourite pony to being a disgraced outcast, condemned to eat my meagre rations out of the pink buckets of shame with my parentage and dubious breeding being called loudly into question. Fickle. That’s what mother is. Fickle.

    So I’m still waiting for the right sharer and possibly praying for another hunt incident to regain my “good boy” hat. I think I might be the only one though…



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