Dear diary,
So, the countdown is now on to the cult event, Your Horse is Alive, and the launch of my eighth book. Covers have been designed, mother’s tear-inducing blurb written and the best photos of me selected – that’s the hardest job because, let’s face it, all the good photos of me would fill multiple volumes of a thickness of a London telephone directory – well, at least before you all got mobiles, which I understand was somewhere around 1906. You know, like when mother was born…
My merch has apparently been designed, which means the land shark which is mini-mother will be turning on her charming blue-eyed blonde-haired angel impression and pouncing with the deadly accuracy of a pint sized velociraptor to “persuade” you to part with your hard-earned dosh. But it is for charity, so I don’t apologise for using one of the deadliest sales weapons ever to grace this planet. She makes mother look like a rank amateur – I would say the apple didn’t fall far from the tree, but the truth is I think she takes more after me; a gorgeous, photogenic, well-educated philanthropist with the world in our hooves…
For any of you who haven’t already booked tickets (which, let’s be honest, flew off the shelves like pants at a Tom Jones gig the minute everyone knew I was going), there is apparently a competition on my pages to win a couple. It will be very nice to be able to give one fan such an awesome prize and mum has said she will let whoever wins come and give me a proper cuddle in my stable as well, so you’d best bring carrots. Or Pimm’s. I am frankly easy. Or easier after Pimm’s. Sort of like mother….
Talking of competitions, I am also told I have been entered into an online show to raise money for a small charity called Mossburn. I am apparently in the “most handsome gelding” class (like duh, naturally) and the “best headshot” class (which mother was heard muttering ought to allow for panoramic shots to fit my ego in as well. I don’t see why that’s not allowed – after all, it’s the only way she can take a selfie these days anyway).
The competition is to raise money as they are a small charity and therefore rely very heavily on donations, so if anyone fancies moseying over and voting for me and maybe making a little donation at the same time, that would be seriously cool of you all. I am apparently being pitched against the bijou blonde Barbie boy, so I am praying that he doesn’t get more votes than me. I will NEVER hear the end of it. I did suggest he might be better suited to the prettiest mare contest, but my suggestion went down about as well as a skunk in a perfume shop…
Talking of going down well, I did manage to briefly redeem myself at the weekend as a slightly fraught-looking mother came to lunge me before heading off to some hospital thing where a camera was stuck up unmentionable places. I’ve got to be honest, there is a Uranus joke just crying out to be made, but I would hate to make mother the butt of a cruel joke… badda bish!
Anyway, after my enthusiastic Tasmanian devil impression the other day, I did tone it down to more like a weather cock in a light breeze and mainly managed to keep all four feet vaguely in the vicinity of the ground. Admittedly not all at the same time, but I did mainly follow the climbers’ mantra of three points of contact at all times so mother did manage to hold her ground without bursting a blood vessel. There was still a lot of “no, no, no” and “ack, ack, ack”, which as stated before, does make her sound like she’s trying to cough up a fur ball and does absolutely zilch to make me refrain from shifting faster than the pound can drop just now, but heh – if it makes her feel better…
Right I’m off to practise my acceptance speech for the most handsome man alive contest. You won’t hear from me next week as mother is in Do Bye, but sadly not a permanent bye as she’s back the week after.
Laters,
Hovis
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Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘If mother had been any frostier, Olaf would be suing her for copyright’
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