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Hovis’ Friday diary: please, for the love of horses leave the tinsel on the tree…

Dear diary,

Peoples, we haz much to discuss this week seeing as it’s the last time you’re going to hear from me for a few weeks; apparently there’s some important thing going on next Friday — some dude’s birthday apparently, which is weird as I thought it was Kissmuss — but unless he likes his cake tiered then I cant see he’s going to have a good day… badda bish!

I’m going to start however with the horrendous news that mother has leapt on a social media bandwagon with the agility of a weed smoking sloth, and signed up for a site called Sh*teventers, which, from what I can determine, appears to be full of lunatics who celebrate being ejected by their indignant equines like it’s some sort of rite of passage. They also seem to condone the sort of language mother uses on a frequent basis, which often themes around my parentage, the American word for girl parts and my potential career in financial services, liberally sprinkled with expletive fairy dust. It’s fair to say mother has found her tribe. Needless to say, at first I was quite honoured because I misheard and thought she said she’d posted about my mate Mary King and I on a page called brighteventers, and on hearing how many people thought it was brilliant, was completely unsurprised. I mean let’s face it, I am the Hoverine and I did give the queen of eventing the ride of her life; I took her round that arena in a way she’s never felt before and is unlikely to again unless she returns my calls — and possibly drops the restraining order…

It’s also fair to say I was therefore totally unamused when I discovered that mother’s version of events was completely fictional and in no way bore any reality to the majestic display that Mary and I put on. And what’s worse, thousands of people were encouraging her. To be fair, the majority of them could probably be excused due to the number of blows to the head many of them appear to have sustained, but still; if you want a cheap laugh get a woucher voucher for the local comedy club — don’t extract the urine from the greatest undiscovered equine eventing talent Team GB has ever missed out on. I mean, I have to forgive my mother — it’s not her fault she’s so dumb she couldn’t tell which way the lift was going if she had two guesses, but I didn’t realise just how many of my fellow horses suffered the same issues — clearly half our riders got into the gene pool when the lifeguard wasn’t looking…

Anyway, I have my legal team on it, and I shall be dealing with the matter as soon as I convince them to come out of their burrow and stop enthusiastically piggy backing their sisters and other assorted relatives.

The theme of human issues continues as once again I issue my usual Christmas plea. I still, after all these years, cannot understand what it is with this time of year that makes otherwise reasonably normal people (and to be clear, I don’t include mother in this group, but some of you at least are lucky enough to be owned by reasonably sane people) behave like complete lunatics? Is it something they spray on that tinsel stuff? Some sort of hallucinogen that Mr Kipling creeps into those seemingly innocent mince pies? There’s got to be some sort of explanation. Because unless this time of year causes mass snow blindness, there is just no way these humans can mistake their equines for a Christmas tree — and that, let’s face it, is what some of us have to go out looking like: a four-legged fir tree. With balls. Big shiny balls. And don’t get me started on the tinsel. Or the antlers. Or the novelty hats with ear holes. At least I am off work and so won’t be put through the annual shame of being seen out in public festooned like a victim of an explosion at Santa’s grotto, but I don’t put it past mother to take advantage of my inability to runaway and dress me up just for photos. Because she’s sick like that. Once upon a time in a land far far away, I recall a time I had pride, I had street cred — note I say “HAD” as trust me they have long since disappeared in the rear view mirror in the same way as mother’s size eight jodhpurs have…

In the meantime, in between writing unfunny fictional fiddlesticks mother and Aunty Em have continued #operationfightback and the in-hand walking has carried on. Never mind that it is the season of love for all men, mother has not stopped whinging that “walking me” is like trying to wrangle a large male bull using a coat hanger. You’d think that she would be thrilled to feel the power surging through my manly frame as I sit back on my haunches and launch across the school like Usain Bolt at a trainer sale, that the experience of me trotting off at warp speed in front of her because a two-legged flying pie filling looked at me funnily from the fencing would make her breathless with excitement rather than because she’s not paused for breath between expletives, and indeed that my display of vertical levitation and fabulous feather wafting would leave her tearful with joy (which, to be fair, I have achieved 50% of – i.e. the tears not the joy bit). There is simply no pleasing this woman. I’m still ever hopeful for the gift of adoption at Christmas — to be clear here, I mean mine — so Emily, if you’re stuck for a present then maybe your mum wants to rekindle our romance? #callme

Continued below…



Thank you by the way to those of you who have already sent me Christmas cards and presents — you are all very lovely. Mum gets very jealous of my fan mail, but let’s face it, only one half of this relationship is talented, the other half is a chancing hanger on who plasters her names across my books because people don’t believe I write them. Well I does peoples, and I will take this opportunity to remind you that the new one is available for sale at www.bransbyhorses.co.uk selling to raise much needed funds for equines who don’t have a voice. Or to be fair, a mother that one-celled organisms outscore in IQ tests…

So, all that remains for me to do is to wish you all a very Merry Christmas and in the name of all that’s holy, please, for the love of horses, leave the tinsel on the tree…

Laters,

Ho-Ho-Hovis

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