Hovis’ Friday diary: I have looked death in the eye… and kicked him in the goolies

Dear diary,

The human strangles epidemic continues, with cases rising again like the scales every time mother removes the gaffer tape from her mouth, but there remains hope. From Monday, the humans can roam more freely and without grazing muzzles (although to be fair, half of them should seriously consider ending their love affair with the biscuit barrel – laminitis is a real risk), so I’m sincerely hoping most of them roam in the opposite direction to where I am and stay that way.

This news and some game involving balls has got the humans all overexcited, which I don’t understand, but on the issue of people being racist, then I totally get it. To pick on someone because their fur is a different colour to yours is in my book (and I have seven of them) one of the most contemptible things you can ever do, and all in Team Hovis stand with the players in question and all who are subjected to this. I’m not so keen on standing with the three lions if I’m honest as I am self-aware enough to know my booty is mouth-watering in its splendour, and I’m not sure how much self-restraint they have. Unless mother stands with me, then it’s like lining up a celery stick and a McDonalds at a carnivore’s picnic…

BUT as newsworthy as all of the above has been there is one story that should have dominated the world’s media attention, if not for the fact that featherism is still rife and thus the powers that be have decided to suppress the news for fear of wide spread hysteria setting in.

On Friday, after nearly a year of blood, sweat and tears (and that was just Cool New Shoes Man), I was given clearance for Hoverine Airlines to take to the sky once more. Once more, I have looked death in the eye and kicked him in the goolies. Once more, I have gone to the edge and done a Wicked! (defied gravity). Once more, I have proven that Gary Barlow cannot take my crown and I AM the ultimate come back king. Oh, and that my mother may possibly have assembled a rather talented team of professionals united in their utter terror of having to tell her they can’t fix me and a bank manager who is unusually mollified by the fact she is a paid up member of pole club. I try not to ask nor dwell too long on the image that comes into mind when I think of that #playtimeinthegorillapen.

Thus, with clearance given and a veterinary student suitably scarred for life after having to cope with the trio of my mother, Cool New Shoes Man and the presence of greatness so early in her career, I was ready! Herman himself didn’t come so thankfully I was spared the dumb and dumber double act of him and CNSM winding mother up with the speed and enthusiasm of a Formula One pit crew doing a tyre change. Instead I had the pleasure of one of his much more admiring and amenable sidekicks who did have the audacity to point out that I am unlikely to ever be 100% sound, but that she was more than happy for me to commence trot work and see how I coped. How I cope? I am the king of coping; I’ve had to cope with the mothership for the past 15 years – I have multiple PhDs in coping. Apparently, miracles do not in fact occur but my X-rays are pretty much as close to one as we’re going to see. Why anyone is surprised by this I honestly know not. I am after all the Hoverine.

So, Saturday saw my first trot for well over a year with Aunty Emily as pilot as the mothership had mini-mother’s birthday to contend with. I’ll be honest – I’m not thrilled it’s on social media as it does in fact look like I’ve forgotten how to trot. Discombobulated is a good word to describe it, although mother favoured “a disunited mess in which the front end and the back end appeared to not only belong to two different animals, but also reside in different postcode areas”. Bearing in mind my mother is so wonky she couldn’t pass a straight line sobriety test sober, with a spine so twisted her airbags point to different points on the compass, and a limp that makes Long John Silver look sound enough to pass a Burghley trot-up, I found this a little rich. Fair to say I am also plotting the first time she gets on and asks for trot… ejector seat activated is all I shall say…

Continued below…

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Aunty Em and I did several more this week and each time once I get over the shock of being allowed to trot rather than screeched at if I so much as jog, I thoroughly enjoyed myself. So much so that snitch bags Mc Snitch reported back to mother than anything so much as a nose twitch was going to end up with me cantering with gay abandonment around the school using the human’s broken carcass as a ground pole, such was my enthusiasm. Apparently, the mothership’s response was unrepeatable in polite company…

So, I’m off to do more trotting, fittening myself up for an emergency call to Japan at any minute or indeed for any other events which require my own unique brand of brilliance. Watch this space!

Laters,

Hovis

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