Dear Diary
I am hereby informing you of my intent to sue the Royal Mail for their role in the greatest oppression since… well since ever.
You may wonder why on earth passive, mild mannered lickle ol’ me would have to reach this level of action right? Well, I shall tell you. I hear tell that this weekend lots of my famous equestrian friends are heading for a game of Badminton, and possibly also a jump over a few hairy scary obstacles as well.
Now let’s be very clear – if you had to choose a steed to hurtle oneself off the top of a very tall structure into the abyss (see evidence above), then logic would dictate that you would want your steed to have wings. And if not wings then at the very least feathers. And let’s make this triply clear for the short sighted amongst you – there’s not many of us specimens of equine excellence that are both capable of throwing their rider into the unknown whilst being born with the necessary feathers. And when I saw “not many”, I mean it’s a very short list. Of like one.
Thus, it stands to reason that I should have been inundated with requests from my friend Mary, her daughter or any other ambitious rider who likes to win. But no. Nada. Nothing.
The only conclusion I can therefore come to is that a not-British eventing team, so scared by the prospect of Team GB bringing the one true big gun to the party, have infiltrated the Royal Mail and have diverted my mail. I am gutted. Not for myself you understand, but for the rider and the spectators who are being denied a show that would stay in memories for forever. I can only apologise and make the Royal Mail pay for this. Preferably in polos…
It’s been a week of disappointments to be honest. Although to be fair, I’ve been disappointed for the best part of 15 years since realising my mother was more “oh dear” than any idea.
On Sunday Barbie Boy bobbed off jumping and returned with frillies and an ego that had to be shipped in another trailer as it wouldn’t fit in ours. It appears that him and mini-mother had a slightly shaky first competition, but he still managed to place. I am assuming there weren’t many entries although mother tells me otherwise. Mind she tells me she was once a size eight, so the woman has a very funny relationship with the truth…
Then in the second higher class mini-mother discovered both her brave pants and the accelerator and they flew round like a fat fighter doing a supermarket sweep at Cadbury World. An “unlucky” pole (funny how when he hits them, he’s unlucky, when I used to hit them, I was untalented) denied them the win, but the speed the little ginger ninja showed apparently was untouchable by anyone else.
Needless to say I’ve not heard the end of it from the pint-sized pain in the ass, but it was semi-worth it to see mini-mother’s little happy face. What made me even happier until Karen Killjoy stepped in again, was mini-mother’s suggestion that whilst my days of jumping really big things might be over (in mother’s opinion only I have to say), maybe she could take me out to play.
I was mega keen on this idea until she suggested that I could do the little classes and Barbie could do the bigger ones. Excuse me? That’s like suggesting you take the Ferrari to Tescos and take a Fiat Panda to a test track day. I haven’t been so insulted since Cool New Shoes Man suggested I was bred to pull and he didn’t mean the ladies. I could step over higher jumps than that little flaxen-maned failure could ever manage. I have jumped with Mary King AND Geoff Billington. Moreover, I have managed to get the blubbership round many a showjumping course, which frankly puts me in the same echelons as Milton in terms of the talent required.
If it wasn’t for the fact I really want to go to play (and I luffs her lots), I might have accidentally flattened mini-mother for the very suggestion. Instead, I took my annoyance out on mother and bronked on her when she rode me that very same afternoon. It made me feel better anyway – mother and her broken back not so much.
Apparently mother isn’t keen on the idea anyway as she doesn’t entirely trust me. I could point out people say the same about leaving her near a biscuit barrel, but instead am going to work on convincing mini-mother her idea has legs. Of the type that behave themselves.
I’m off to work on this now, and I may be some time. Don’t fret if you don’t hear from me next week – I’m fine, but the mothership is away so I will brief you on my progress when my scribe returns.
Laters,
Hovis
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