Dear diary,
I’m a day late but Happy Halloween to you all. Several people have asked if I was going out trick or treating to celebrate, but to be honest, Halloween isn’t something that I can get behind. Not because of any issues with the concept of pagan worship — if treats were on offer, to be honest I’d worship at the altar of thoroughbred racehorses and yes, I am shallower than a paddling pool in the Nevada desert — but more because every day of my life is fright night; I live with my mother…
This time of year is worse than ever because whenever I am invited to the cult event Your Horse is Alive, mother goes into a spin, labouring under some bizarre view that the world will judge her horsewoman skills by the length of my nostril hairs and will remove her right to ride if I have fur, like anywhere. The fact that two minutes in her presence would confirm that the only thing she should be left in charge of is a rocking horse is clearly beside the point. I have to be de-furred, de-haired, de-moustached and de-moralised all in the name of mother’s pride: yep operation “from feral to fabulous” is well underway…
This year the person tasked with turning me from roan (I refute the fact that I am ginger-in-the-wrong-light) to seal pup grey was Aunty J. Aunty J is an individual who has clearly been a bad bad, bad girl in a previous life as she is the one tasked on a weekly basis with trying to instill some sort of ability into mini-mother and the pint-sized piebald pain in my posterior. What crime she committed to be saddled with such a herculean task one doesn’t even want to contemplate, but she’s clearly a very religious woman — she can oft be heard muttering “for the love of God, why me?” as she plasters an encouraging smile on her face (think air stewardess with rigor mortis), while the deadly duo massacre yet another circle.
Anyway, this week at least she got a treat, as she got to lay her hands on a real horse, one whose masculine physique was (at the time) cocooned under a three inch thick man-blanket while I wafted a moustache that Colonel Mustard would have been proud of rakishly in her general direction. Fast forward two hours and I have hair envy of Right Said Fred, the facial hair of a prepubescent Daniel Radcliffe and an ass colder than relations between Boris and Jeremy. It’s so cold my Hovis sausage has gone so far into hiding a US Seal team couldn’t find it. The few remaining lone cat hairs on my inner thighs are forlornly swaying like backing singers at a Kanye West concert — superfluous to requirement and painfully aware of their imminent demise; in my hair’s case because my mother’s middle name is Edward (think about it), and in the singer’s case — well Kanye, needs I say more…
Aunty J did have to phone she-who-has-a-fuse-shorter-than-the-career-duration-of-a-british-prime-minister and admit to having slipped while de-furring my back leg, and thus my leg lines are slightly lower than the morals of an alley cat. If all of you coming to see my at Your Horse is Alive could make an effort to point that out, I would be grateful — I have a mental sweepstake as to how fast I can get the mothership’s blood pressure into outer orbit. Plus, if you lot point it out, then she has to be polite which will mean I get to enjoy watching the muscles near her jaw twitch as she grits her back teeth and channels her inner Jaws (the bond villain not the fish — she’s not that good a swimmer). Whereas if I draw her attention to it then my life expectancy drops lower than the chances of us leaving the EU before my 30th birthday.
Not that I will probably live that long. Certainly not if Aunty Em McSnitch of Snitch-ville insists on posting videos of me manfully protesting the enormous civil rights violation that occurred earlier this week. Now, it’s worth bearing in mind several key facts here, because unlike Mother McJudgey (why I’ve gone all Scottish here I know not but bear with me), you should not jump to conclusions.
Firstly, in life there is a hierarchy. We might not like it but there is. Call it Darwin or Fred for all I care, but the reality is I’m more senior than the cowardly coblet — be it in years, talent or social standing. So thus, manky mane should NOT come in before me. Like ever.
Secondly, I am Celtic.The green blood of the Emerald Isle of my birth flows through my veins like water down the River Shannon. Thus, when I protest I do it in suitable style, conveying my ancestry as well as my angst; River Prance was my interpretative masterpiece and NOT as critiqued by some uneducated heathens “a mini-tantrum”.
Thirdly, and quite frankly most importantly, I have NO hair. I am NAKED. Equine Dougal looks like a walking pompom — he could house an entire family of field mice in his mane and his fur is thicker than he is. He could have stayed out a few minutes longer while I was fetched in and allowed to defrost like Olaf working on his suntan.
Continued below…
Hovis’ Friday diary: Women are impossible. Especially my mother
‘Many things make mother sad; the size of
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Thus, I think I was totally within my rights to protest. As for the allegations of “doing an impression of Puff the Magic Dragon” — I was not snorting I was swearing in fluent equine. Hey, if it’s ok for mother then it’s ok for me. For those of you who have viewed the video on my Facebook fan pages, then behold my moves.I’ve always told you Viagra has nothing on me — there’s the proof…
Talking of Viagra, I understand he’s coming to Your Horse is Alive next week so I look forward to it. Very few times in your life do you get to be in the presence of your hero, a world beater who has changed the very face of British Equestrianism. Don’t worry though — I’m sure he will handle it just fine…
Laters,
Hovis
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