Hovis’ Friday diary: my street cred was last seen running down the road

  • Dear diary,

    It’s day 198 billion of the human strangles epidemic and while there is much hope on the horizon due to them stabbing needles into people with the speed, efficiency and malicious enjoyment usually only seen in Herman when he’s using me as a Hovine pin cushion and charging mother for the privilege, the days for those of us with box resting humans are becoming something of an endurance.

    It would appear that half the problem is humans not understanding the concept of box rest particularly well and thus wandering about like a bunch of feral Welsh mountain ponies, unfettered and sharing bodily fluids with the sort of gay abandonment which results in some dubious genealogy.

    Now, as one who has just escaped from months of very recent box rest, I have to say the human herd leader is missing a real trick here: if she-who-is-obeyed-because-she-has-a-very-long-schooling-whip-and-the-wrist-action-of-a-house-bound-teenager was in charge, then frankly no one would be getting out. Seriously, in nearly five months the furthest I got was two feet from my stable — save for the day her knot was looser than her morals and I went for a socially distanced saunter down the barn following the siren’s call of Doctor Green.

    Sadly, for a unit that needs a wide load sticker on the rear end, she moves like a fat fighter at Mr Kipling’s bake sale when properly motivated, and I was back under embargo faster than Donald Trump’s social media account. So, my point being, I was stripped back on rations, not allowed out, made to listen to Smooth Radio for 12 hours a day and had frequent visits from someone who violated my unmentionables with steel-like fingers — I’ve come out of my lockdown a leaner, meaner, crooner with a bottom that resembles two hardboiled eggs in an orange tea-towel, which is a lot more than can be said for the majority of the human herd.

    If she was on point, there would be no day trips to the diary aisle at chavda, onsie wearing would be an arrestable offence and the Wicks would not be an object of perversion while the only muscle actually being exercised was the jaw around a chocolate hobnob. What that woman can do with a roll of gaffer tape, bailing twine and a handful of carrots is enough to scare even the most careless of covidiots into submission. Call me Bozza — I’ll sort out a loan contract at mates rates, for the greater good of the country and frankly just to ger her out of my mane for a bit.

    Talking of manes, once again mine has become a casualty of the boredom of the box resting human — although this time I can’t even blame the Lorna Bobbit of forelocks (the mothership) as this in on Aunty Em. WHO TRAINED AS A HUMAN HAIRDRESSER!

    She came to “give me a tidy up” the other night as apparently lockdown has left me looking like a “feral furball”. Personally, I think I rock the lockdown beard and magnificent mane, but since when has what I wanted featured in anything the two mad women in my life do? Needless to say, after vociferously mocking mother’s previous mane-dressing attempts (the only thing mother can pull with any talent is muscles to be fair), Emily Scissorhands got to work and I now resemble the lovechild of Dwayne Dibbley and a electrocuted cockatoo. Forget the lockdown rules, I’m scared to venture too far as I’m frightened to miss Cleopatra’s call to arrange collection of her fringe. Seriously, you could use my forelock as a spirit level — it’s straighter than a Roman road at the playbunny mansion. I daren’t move too suddenly as I might give myself a full frontal lobotomy on the razor sharp edges — my street cred was last seen running down the road fleeing the scene (but only staying local, mind).

    Aunty Em was forced to take a slightly sheepish — and I look like I’ve been shorn — photo and send it to mother with a bit of an “ooops” admission. Strangely enough, I haven’t heard mention of mother asking for any assistance with her own lockdown hair dressing — something about as surprising as discovering mother’s IQ isn’t actually in single figures…

    Continued below…

    So, while I am still out and rejoicing the small freedom of a turnout pen the size of a tennis court — table tennis that is — I am having to graze bottom facing my harem until my mane either grows out or I can find a suitable cover up for the problem. I wonder if Trump’s toupee is on the look out for new opportunities?


    A much less hirsute Hovis

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