I hate my life. I hate the fact that I am a big butch man, with killer moves, natural athletic ability, a jump that Milton would have envied and a lot of man love to give, but all of that — ALL of that — goes out of peoples mind as soon as I am clipped. Because as soon as I am clipped I so resemble a Greenpeace advert (think baby seal cub with big brown eyes) that all anyone does in my presence is go “aawwwwww” in that voice usually reserved for babies and puppies.
I am not cute, I am the Destroyer and seriously “aawwww” should not ever be a word used in my hearing. It’s degrading.
I blame Aunty Alison; if she wasn’t so good at whipping my hair off faster than a Las Vegas call girl removes her clothing then I wouldn’t be in this mess. She should tell mother that she refuses to remove my hair on ethical grounds and that I should be allowed to keep my admittedly-ginger-but-still-better-than-seal-pup-grey winter coat. I mean I could get cold!
Thank you to those of you of the Hovite Army who pointed this out on my facebook pages; ignore mothers comments about my level of “coverage” — I am a lean mean athletic machine. And talking of coverage if that held true mother would be permanently running about naked — there’s an image NO-ONE needed, I apologise and have ordered the brain bleach. The fact that I have more rugs than most women have pairs of shoes is utterly beside the point and in no way should dissuade you form the levels of concern you were all showing. You are all kind.
To the few members of the Hovite Army who suggested my feather removal — you are banned with immediate effect. How very dare you?! Removing my feathers would almost be as traumatic as the removal of my baby Hovis makers and is not something I want to contemplate. It was bad enough when Edward Scissor Hands Aka Herman the German Needle Man removed them last year for all the needles he shoved into my feet. I’ve only just recovered from that experience and that was only the loss of two squares inches. For those of you who don’t know how big that was, ask a man — he’ll show you…
So the hair cut was prompted by me working at the weekend and being so wet with sweat it took nearly an hour to dry off. ‘Enough was enough’ announced mother after beasting me around the school for the aforementioned time. I was tempted to point out if she hadn’t worked me so hard I wouldn’t have been so sweaty, but since when has the truth stood in the way of mother having a good moan?
I did actually manage to behave myself and not cart mother into next week when a tractor started emptying the muck heap right next to the school. I wasn’t happy, I may have grown to an impressive 18HH of quivering man muscle, but I stood my ground. Mother was thrilled. I hoped my bravery would signal an early end to my stressage hell, but sadly it seemed to fuel mother into further action.
Apparently my trot when I’m in “ninja tractor killer mode” is so impressive she’s considering hiring tractors to stand running next to dressage arenas at competitions. I gave her my best evil eye and mentally decided to discover how many marks I’d get for chucking mother and going all Jean Claude Van What-hi-face on the tractor. The stressage report would be interesting: “Horse showed forwardness, suppleness and considerable impulsion whilst jettisoning the rider and putting both back feet through the tractor window”…
I found this mentally amusing and spent the rest of the session from hell practising my moves in my head. All was well until I forget to tell my feet not to enact my thoughts and mum nearly ended up greeting the stressage school mirrors face first. Oopppss.
So I’m off to try to do something about my far-too-cute-for-a-manly-man haircut and practise my kung fu panda moves. HiiiiYA!