Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘She lets me down like a small prick in a balloon factory’
Hovis and Mary King at Belton.
(Image credit: Karen Thompson)
Dear diary,
I do realise that after all these years, my mother’s ability to disappoint me shouldn’t come as any surprise. I mean, let’s be honest, as a gullible young four-year-old boy, just days off the boat from Ireland, I should have perhaps been a little more strategic in my choices of human but in my defence she can seem quite normal when she tries. It’s only after 18 long, long years together that I now have the level of world-weary cynicism needed to accept her failings.
But still, she lets me down like a small prick in a balloon factory.
I had high hopes of her little field trip to Bramham last weekend. I really did. I know many of the top riders have in theory got their steeds for the French party, but let’s be frank, if offered something with the power, talent and sheer charisma that I bring to the piece then half of them would abandon their thoroughbreds faster than a politician can do a U turn. Which is to say extremely quickly, with zero conscience and the memory of Dory…
And yet she came back with no more than slight wind burn and a new skirt to show for her trip upt’north. As an agent she makes a bloody brilliant secret one – which is about as much use as windscreen wipers on a submarine. So, I am now stuck with wishing one of the wimpy warmbloods pulls a shoe/muscle/hair out of place such that they need to find a substitute – which while not sporting, if someone could arrange, I would be grateful.
It’s not that I’m being selfish, it’s more that I could bring to the team something never seen before at this level of equestrianism. Those who saw me with my mate Mary at Belton International horse trials all commented they’d never seen anything like it – and they only let me do the stressage thing there; it was deemed too demoralising to the others to show them any of my jumping. The point being, we could signal the start of years of domination of the sport by making this move.
I’ve got to be honest I’m not getting any younger either. I don’t want them to realise only too late that I’ve only got two major parties left in me. Can you imagine their disappointment? It doesn’t bear thinking about.
I am prepared to hop on a plane at short notice if the powers that don’t like feathers have some sort of epiphany over their éclair and realise their mistake but the clock is ticking peoples, it’s ticking.
Talking of ticking, and in this case me off, I wasn’t amused to see mother had posted a video of me and mini-mother having a moment the other day. In my defence, I appreciate to the uneducated that it does look like mini-mother is giving me a scratch and I’m wobbling about like Stevie Wonder on a waltzer, but that’s because you lack context. In reality, mini-mother is about to attend her first school disco and I was showing her the sort of interpretative dance moves that those who are down with it do these days. I will confess to not entirely knowing what “it” is but as can be seen by my head position I am definitely down…
Anyways, I am off to wait forlornly, and I suspect hopelessly, by the phone for a last minute call to action. I seriously need a new manager – mother is about as much use as boobs on a fish.
Laters,
Hovis
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