Hovis’ Friday diary: if Santa needs a storage locker for his sleigh then tell him to call me

Dear diary,

Let’s talk about equine rights people, basic equine rights. Now before you all start thinking I’m about to embark upon a rant about welfare, about the scary number of high profile neglect cases hitting the press at the minute or indeed about being made to stand outside in weather that made our ancestors line up two-by-two, I’m not.

To be clear, all of the above are utterly despicable (and are why I spend so much time fundraising for charities like Bransby Horses) but they pale into insignificance next to the heinous breech of my equine rights which has occurred this week…

So, last week, of my own free will I told you about my foot operation, the eviction of Kevin the Keratoma (not to be confused with Kevin the Carrot — my foot hasn’t caused a punch up in Aldi lately), and my prognosis. I shared as much as I wished to share and felt that I managed to suitably convey my masculine machismo at dealing with such terrible trauma in a dignified but pointed way.

What I did not then need is she-whose-mouth-is-bigger-than-the-hole-in-my-foot posting pictures of my compromised comatose carcass all over Facebook. How I am going to pull moral-less mares when they’ve seen me with a tube down my throat and my tongue hanging out like an overgrown stoned Shiatsu? I looked like a stick-on Garfield. As for the one with my foot encased in a huge pink bandage — I look like an unfortunate accident at Barbie’s bowling alley. And don’t get me started on the one of me looking like an equine Happy Mondays front man — if I had looked any more spaced out then NASA would have been on the phone. We equines have rights too and this is a blatant invasion of my privacy — as for you gore gawking sickos, then shame on you for being enablers.

Following on from my terrible tootsie topiary, and after being fitted with a new set of special shoes by a Yorkshire version of Cool New Shoes Man (Cool Flat Cap Man), then I was finally allowed to journey home on Sunday. I do enjoy my time at Bungle’s House; the food is good, accommodation fitting a horse of my stature (and here I mean my fame not my frame) and a constant stream of limping but luscious ladies are paraded past my box every morning. But there’s no place like home.

Apparently, my fidgeting in the trailer all the way home (like, HELLO, great big hole in my foot here!) nearly gave mother a heart attack as she watched the trailer do a Stevie Wonder impression all the way down the A1 in the rear-view mirror. It’s fair to say that by the time we got back to the yard it was debatable who needed pharmaceuticals the most; me for my foot or mother for her nerves…

After a sachet of bute all was fine with the world again and I was back to my usual self — well, apart from the new shaved bits and the hoofting great hole in my hoof. Let’s put it this way; I’m semi-expecting a bill for bedroom tax the space is that large. US SEAL teams have found internationally wanted men hiding in smaller caves than the new Hole of Hovis — if Santa needs a storage locker for his sleigh then tell him to call me, I’m sure I can do him a good rate…

I’m confined to barracks for a while, which to be honest, is no bad thing as I look out of the barn and don’t so much see horses as see sea horses. The amount of rain we’re still having is insane. The only people happy are the previous winners of Bullseye who finally have a use for the powerboat they won back in 1981…

I’m quite happy in the dry, listening to the radio, stoned off my swede and playing with my swingers (which, for the record, is hard when you’re seeing three of them). Many thanks to the team at Silvermoor for sending me loads to keep me occupied, although I’m less thankful for the videos circulating of me playing with said swingers — I look like the fat kid at Halloween who can’t quite grasp apple bobbing as a concept; all teeth and a slightly boz-eyed expression.

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Thanks also to the wonderful people at Zebra products, who have sent mum a new set of Sprenger stirrups to replace the ones that were stolen by the pond life that stole all my tack. Mum is still fighting it out with the insurance, so the amazing generosity of people has blown her away (which is not easy — she’s a big old unit is my mother). I am slightly alarmed that this generosity is going to mean that once I’m given the all clear for Cool New Shoes Man to do his wizardry, then I’m going to be back in action faster than I might have hoped; that said, I owe two generous members of the Hovite Army a ride. They paid for this at Your Horse is Alive to raise money for Jonty Evans’ charity but since then have offered it as another auction prize to raise funds for another equine charity Prince Fluffy Karim with the added bonus of a high-level eventer offering the winner a lesson on me. Now personally this strikes me that said aforementioned high-level eventer is too shy to ask me for a ride herself and is using this as her way in with me, but it is for a good cause so I will play along with the subterfuge…

Anyway, I’m off to enjoy the warm and the dry while laughing hysterically at the others standing outside in monsoon conditions. Sometimes there is distinct benefits to box rest!

Laters,

Still-slightly-hoppy Hovis

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