Dear diary,
So, the countdown is firmly on now to Your Horse is Alive. I know this because a) I am highly intelligent and can read a calendar and b) because mother is running about like a blue-footed booby in mating season.
Last week, as I told you, I had Evil Army Man come and dremal my dentures so that my selfies are a shiny homage to my knashers. This week has seen a parade of professionals (and Cool New Shoes Man) come to get me in top notch condition.
Firstly, the firm-fingered physio sauntered in on Sunday and poked, prodded and pushed my posterior in ways that honestly I find offensive. The woman didn’t even buy me dinner first. I had vibrating things stuck on various body parts while she let loose with a monologue of moaning about my delusions of being a reining pony and how my shoulders were showing the signs of 3.4 tonne of muscle using them as an emergency brake. I bore all of this with fortitude as some of the massagey bits are quite nice – on my shoulder I hasten to add – I don’t enjoy her fondling anything past my withers – that in my view is wrong on more levels than a lift in a brothel…
Then on Wednesday, the two ladies at the yard hoiked me in and scrubbed me so thoroughly that I swear my internal organs are gleaming. Apparently, she who must be obeyed had asked for it, and let’s be honest, the thought of incurring her wrath makes Chuck Norris wet himself. So, they scrubbed, and scrubbed, and scrubbed some more. If my feathers get any whiter, I am going to have to issue an instruction for you all to wear shades at the cult event Your Horse is Alive next weekend. That’s of course assuming I can’t turn them black again tomorrow just to see grown women cry…
Today, Cool New Shoes Man rocked up and proceeded to give me a nice pedicure while insulting mother at every opportunity. This waned quite rapidly as mother is verbally faster than a viper with breasts and CNSM was needing all his oxygen to cope with the emotion of cuddling me. He gets all embarrassed and of course claims I “lean” on him, but we all know that even after all these years, he gets all overwhelmed and choked up. I mean, who can blame him, greatness is the cross I bear. Well, along with mother, but she’s more a cross bear I have to put up with…
After Cool New Shoes Man had departed, just shy of needing an ambulance, mother shot off like Usain Bolt on a promise (well if Usain was old, limpy and no longer the fastest man alive) to fetch my executive transport back from being serviced while I chilled out and pondered why I wasn’t being allowed out to graze/muddy my snow-white feathers. The answer it turns out is Rainbow Clip lady, who turned up looking like a very cool human unicorn with multi-coloured hair and a love of getting manly men naked. Again, I would like to point out that if I tried to yield a set of clippers around any of you ladies’ nether gardens without so much as buying you a drink first, you would be screaming louder than the insects that Matt Spancock is apparently going to eat.
Anyways, faster than a Las Vegas hooker on an hourly rate, I had my clothes off and on the floor, and was standing looking like a four-legged advert for a Greenpeace Save the Seal campaign. Apparently, I am very easy (how rude, I do have standards – low ones admittedly, but I do have them) and thus, she was done super quick. Turns out like most of the human race, she is a fan, so selfies were taken and a life was made more fulfilled.
Now, talking of lives being more fulfilled, I understand I got some grief from you all last week for not mentioning my win at the Mossburn charity show. To be honest, I was trying out modesty as a value and I’ve got to be honest, your feedback tells me that it’s not a winner for me. So, to be clear I am the most handsome gelding in the world.
It’s official.
I have a rosette.
Well, to be clear, I have three rosettes – one for being the most handsome male on earth, another for best headshot (although as usual Karen the killjoy has tried to say it actually says “the biggest head” – it doesn’t, I haz checked) and then reserve champion. I am only reserve because I was beaten by some small cute thing voted by people who think they keep cats as pets (rather than accepting cats actually rule the world and we’re all just scared of them.).
Anyways, Barbie got second but only because mother had to get him some sympathy votes from MY fans. But still, it was inevitable who would triumph. It was all in aid of Mossburn, which is a small charity and therefore any help we can give is important – it’s about the giving, man, not the winning. But did I mention I am the most handsome man? I know the likes of George and Brad have claimed this title before, but they’ve only gone up against fellow genetically superior humans. They’ve never really had someone really give them a run for their money, so if they’re reading this, let’s have a sexy off. To see who would be crowned supreme sex god. Call me or my people if you have the cahones to put it to the ladies, Georgey boy.
I am thus off to practise my pout, mane toss and selfie smirk ready for Your Horse is Alive next weekend.
Laters,
Hovis
Hovis’ Friday diary: it’s nearly time to pull off feral to fabulous again…
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