Well I’m back! Knighthood is in the bag; I’m expecting a call from royalty any second asking me to move in and the military are queuing up to offer me a job. It’s fair to say peoples, I left an impression (and not just large foot-sized divots in the royal lawn).
So, I filled you in on the early days of the show last week; the baths, the mud, the mares and the Royal visitor and the rain. Did I mention the rain? Mother spent three days looking like a rat which had been repeatedly water boarded by an overenthusiastic squirrel. It was not a good look. Unlike me who, thanks to Aunty Em and the magic white powder, had managed to keep my feathers pretty clean and the crowds kept coming. And coming and coming.
Then on Friday afternoon, another meeting of aligned stars occurred, and another dream came true. Charlotte What’s-her-face-in-a-garden came to see me. I do so love making peoples’ day. Clearly she had had the epiphany which has faced so many of our Great British equine elite; looked around at her warmblood wastrels, wondered to herself what a proper horse is like and, leaving Viagra hobnobbing with yet another horse who spends his entire time looking up to me, she came to find the one true answer to that question. Now I’ll be honest, I do view flatwork as the bit between fences and have often cursed her mate Mr Nester’s statements about 50,000 transitions in a lesson, but she is passably good at the prancing malarkey and as we posed for the cameras I felt it only fair to pass on a few words of advice. Which, as with every other celebrity that I have taken under my coaching feathers, she put into good use and won the class that night. What can I say? I’m generous like that. Apparently, we might be sharing air at a venue again soon so maybe I might ask if she’d like to sit on some real horsepower and see what happens when you dance with leg warmers on… FAME! I’m going to live forever… mainly because mother has paid to rebuild every part of me… Who would like to see that union?
In the meantime, the military had started a campaign to lure me into the cavalry and I was introduced to some dudes who clearly hadn’t got the memo about mother’s fetish for scrubbing every feather she sees into oblivion. Seriously, the word is so widespread that a family of ducks striding confidently across the carriage course for the marathon took one look at her, about faced and ran away. The guys were wearing them out of their head and seemed un-afraid of mother’s scrubbing brush — I hated to break it to them but no amount of fancy amour or a sword was going to help them; I weight 0.75T and she still comes at me with the subtlety of Boris Johnson after the PM job…
Mind you, she wasn’t quite so cocky the next day when she was caught with her pants down. Or more precisely, caught with a massager down her pants. Honestly you couldn’t make this up if you tried. I was enjoying a wonderful equi-massage, which mother had tried to interfere with implying she was far more broken in both spirit and body than I was and thus should be the one enjoying the wonders of the pulse unit. The woman doing the work was clearly used to high maintenance owners and gave her a round unit like a large German sausage and told her to place it against the area of her body giving her the most problems. Since it wouldn’t fit in the space between her ears, she had placed it down the back of her jeans against her spine, causing her rear end to vibrate like Kim Karadasian operating a jackhammer. Not pleasant. So, there I am enjoying my massage and trying not to look at mother’s ass vibrating like a jelly on a tumble dryer when I hear a horrified whisper of “OMG! Incoming Martin Clunes and I have a vibrating wand down my pants”. Cue one of the more undignified moments I have ever witnessed as much scrambling ensued to remove said vibrating sausage shaped source of shame while the extremely flustered mothership plastered her best “nothing to see here at all, but lovely to meet you” smile on her face and strode forth to talk to Mr Clunes. To be fair, her saving grace was that a) mother has more front that Trump Towers and b) my security detail was so star struck they were fangirling like 10-year-old girls at a wrong direction concert. And that was just the guys…
Determined to hang on to the family shred of pride, I remained cool and allowed Mr Clunes to in turn fangirl over me, my magnificent feathers and my reputation for being the most charitable Clydesdale around (I know the list is probably quite short but heh I am the top of it…). Mum gave him a copy of a couple of my books and he was last seen clinging on to them like Kate Winslet clung onto that bit of flotsam — with an iron grip and no intention of sharing…
It wasn’t just the actors and royalty who flocked to me either; hearing of my legendary coaching skills and ability to help riders reach the pinnacle of their fame, I also had visitors from the showjumping world in the shape of Joe Stockdale and Robert Whitaker who were both keen to be helped. Once again proving I am the equine equivalent of the blarney stone, Joe then went on to win his class. Seriously when are people going to start noticing this isn’t a coincidence?! If you wont let me actually compete then surely you cannot deny that I have a knack for bringing the best out of all those around me — apart from mother, but I’m a good coach not a miracle worker — so British Eventing, British Dressage and British Showjumping, I await your call.
I’ve got loads more I could tell you, but I think I shall save that for another week. I will however extend the warmest thanks to Royal Windsor Horse Show, the fantastic team at HPower and all those associated with such an incredible event. It was a true honour to be asked to attend.
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Can I also thank the Countess of Wessex, Charlotte Dujardin, Joe Stockdale, Robert Whitaker, Martin Clunes, the Household Cavalry and most importantly every single one of the hundreds of people who came to see me. We raised a bucket load of money for a great charity and raised the profile of equine welfare in the UK. From the bottom of my feathers to mother’s vibrating bottom, I thank you all. I’m off now to regale the yard with my tales of magnificence, eat some non-royal grass and plan on when I tell you where I shall be next…
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