{"piano":{"sandbox":"false","aid":"u28R38WdMo","rid":"R7EKS5F","offerId":"OF3HQTHR122A","offerTemplateId":"OTQ347EHGCHM"}}

Hovis’ Friday diary: Peoples, I haz exciting news

Dear diary,

Peoples, I haz exciting news!

No, the humans’ box rest is not over, I have not solved global warming, found a cure to the human strangles, nor has my mother finally made it back down to single digit dress sizes. It is MUCH better than any of that!

I do feel I need a drum roll, or perhaps the crescendo of a hundred hooves attached to moral-less mares stampeding my position like a fat fighters class day out to Cadbury World…

Ladies, gentlemen, small stuffs and fellow put upon equines, I am pleased to announce the arrival of my new book (which is my SEVENTH! Take that JK Rollin’ pin) — Hovis’ Friday Diary: Parties, Piaffes and Pandemics.

It will cover the last two-and-a-half years since my last book left off and will tell tales of meeting royalty (actual, showjumping and stressage), my million dollar eye operation, teaching mini-mother a thing or two and helping humans (and their hero horses) through the first box rest. As always, all proceeds will go to the charity Bransby Horses, with not a sniff of a penny coming to the mothership nor I, so that I can once again earn my place as one of the greatest equine philanthropists of all time. All the money will be used once more to more to help those equines less well-off and in greater need than I — although to be fair, I do always argue there is no greater cross to bear than my mother. Or rather there is no crosser bear than my mother…

There was of course some real concern that the timing of the release of my latest masterpiece may have coincided with me shuffling off my mortal coil, which might well have sent sales through the roof, but would have played havoc with any sequels — unless I got a ghost writer… Badda bish! As usual, however, these types with degrees coming out of their ears have forgotten one simple fact; I am the Hoverine.

Now while I am a long way from what might be deemed sound (and I mean in the lameness sense, not in an Oasis inspired Mancunian style), I am a lot less hoppy than I was six weeks ago. The boss lady is happy about this, Cool New Shoes Man is taking all the credit for this, Mastercard has granted the credit for this and the mothership continues to walk about like a planked panda with piles — black eyes, white-faced with the slightly stunned out-of-it air of someone discovering Diamond White isn’t the new range from Tiffanys. Oh, and for reference, they don’t do breakfast either — who knew?

I’m currently sporting a new smoking jacket to show off my manly muscles and make the ladies swoon. Apparently, it has super powers and IR, but since this was explained by the mothership, who on a good day is beaten at IQ tests by single celled organisms, I’m not entirely sure that’s true. Either way, I look like Huge Heffner, but sadly the only play toy bunnies I seem to be able to find are the lead scouts for the rabbit militia and eye me with the sort of suspicion usually reserved for a hedgehog working in a condom factory.

I’m still on box rest, but my firm fingered physio came to see me again on Tuesday and once again violated me within an inch of not just my life but also my man parts (in my defence, she was into my inner thigh faster than Twitter censoring a Trump Tweet). This time, however, not only did she kneed my bum like my name was Pillsbury, stick more vibrating things on me than an Anne Winter’s party and generally cause more clicking than a dolphin with Tourette’s, but she then took me out into the gangway and made me audition for the royal ballet school. Now I’m not being funny, but if my leg was supposed to go that high, I’d be wearing a tutu and be called Rudolf — and I mean of the Nureyev variety and not the red nosed one you ignoramuses. The last time I saw mum look that shocked is a toss up between her opening my last vet bill and the time I re-enacted Punch and Judy and bopped her on the nose with my truncheon while she was washing my back legs… Not an experience either of us want to relive, that one…

Continued below…


Like this? You might also enjoy reading these:


Anyway, back to me waving my legs about one of those Spanish dudes doing an initiation into the ministry of funny walks; the firm fingered filly was most impressed with my bendiness (take note, ladies) and general athletic brilliance. Bearing in mind mother is reducing my white powder back down to more normal levels (which is ironic considering she could solve third world national debts if she flogged the contents of her medicated breakfast for two days on the black market) then I do feel that this should be taken as a sign. And not the type you have to drive to Barnard Castle to see if you can see…

So, while I work on my Beegees (i.e. stayin’ alive), keep your eyes peeled on my Facebook pages for imminent news on how to pre-order my book in time for Christmas (I make a great stocking filler I’m told) and on how to order my other six books in case you’ve been in cryogenic stasis which could be the only reason you’ve not ordered them before…

Laters,

Not quite so hoppy Hovis

NOTE: Hovis’ first six books are available to buy now at www.bransbyhorses.co.uk in the online shop.

We are continuing to produce Horse & Hound as a weekly magazine during the coronavirus pandemic, as well as to keep our website at horseandhound.co.uk up to date with breaking news, features and more. Click here for info about magazine subscriptions and access to our premium H&H Plus content online.

You may like...