Hovis‘ Friday diary: I’m a good coach, not a miracle worker

  • Dear diary,

    The human strangles epidemic carries on, but since more and more humans have now had their little pricks, they are allowed to roam freely, and in many places, without their grazing muzzles. This in my mind is a mistake – not the roaming, anything that keeps mother a million miles away is a good thing – as many of the human herd really could do with some strip grazing. To be clear to those of you who are not down with the equine lingo, that is the fiendish practice of limiting food rather than allowing humans to eat food naked. The difference in the tense here is key – not least to avoid the horrors that the latter would entail…

    So, Friday saw Barbie Boy return from a week away at Pony Club camp – erstwhile known as the most elitist, siziest, featherist horse discriminatory organisation in existence.

    He tells me that he did Pony Club games – I like games; dodge the mounting block is a personal favourite, and I can do the bending around the poles like JoLo in furry leg warmers.

    He said that he did jumping – I like jumping; whether mother enjoys the experience is always optional but I haz the feathers and I like to fly.

    He said that he did cross-country and water schooling – I like cross-country and have indeed taken the legend of cross-country that is Mary King close to the four-star cross country jumps at Belton. Admittedly I wasn’t supposed to lock on like an Exocet missile, all power, thrust and no steering, requiring her to use all of her skills to stop us both going over them, but that was only because she didn’t know if mum would be mad if we jumped it and in no way because she didn’t think I could jump that high…

    He said that they did stressage – to be honest, that bit he can stick up his substantial derriere.

    Anyway, the point being he’s had a great week away doing really cool things and having fun with mini-mother while I am not allowed to go because I am a horse and not a pony. How is that fair? Mini-mother tried to tell me that Pony Club games would be hard for her on me because I’m so tall but we could improvise. I could plait my tail into a rope ladder? Cut steps into my feathers (let’s be honest, not for the first time)? I have never felt so discriminated against since mother informed me that horse flies bite humans too.

    It does seem that everyone has been having more fun than me – our eventers had an awesome time in Toyoko and brought home an amazing gold team medal and an individual silver and then Ben Maher did the same with a gold in showjumping. While I’m really proud of them all, it does possibly reinforce a change is needed in my plans. It’s hard to say they need me on the team itself when they’re clearly doing rather well without me, so I do think I need to work on my coaching angle. There is no doubt I have a track record for developing talent (I have failed monumentally with the mothership, but I’m a good coach not a miracle worker, and even I can’t polish a poop), so I do think I could play an important role. Let’s be honest, no one knows more about dealing with the trappings of fame, the pressure of performing on a world stage and the burden of carrying our humans (both literally and metaphorically) than I do. When the important peoples get back from Toyoko, I shall be getting my people to talk to their people and put a once in a lifetime proposal to them. Watch this space…

    Talking of carrying my human (in this case literally), the mothership and I had a significant disagreement over the weekend. She labours under the view that self-carriage is something I should aspire to, while I take the view that one doesn’t keep a dog and bark oneself. Let’s be honest, she brings about as much value to the partnership as a welly seller in a heatwave, so the least she can do is carry my head for me. She is a tad high maintenance about these things and as such, we had a heated debate for some time which resulted in slightly smarting ass and an agreement that I would indeed carry my own head…

    Anyway, I’m off to write my coaching proposal for the various Chef d’cheeps (I was to be honest, unaware that big bird ran things) and plot my mother’s demise.



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