Hovis’ Friday diary: things are escalating rapidly and I need help

  • Dear diary,

    Things are escalating rapidly here, and I need help: to be clear I don’t mean “help” of the supportive, arm round the wither, nor indeed of the mental variety. I mean “help” of the “does anyone know a hitman and who is going to help me bury the body”? kind of “help”. It is bad enough that the bijou bovine imposter with the L’Oréal mane has moved in, that he’s eating MY grass while I’m confined to barracks with a hole in my foot bigger than Jimmy Carr’s tax bill, that he’s stolen MY place as mini-mother’s steed for Pony Club (PC) camp (because having been to the PC rallies I just know I would for once have pulled WAY more than just a muscle) and that he’s causing more cyber girl squeals from the Hovite Army than a gaggle of half-naked American marines holding puppies.

    No, what has tipped me over the edge into nigh on homicidal territory is that the black and white whippersnapper is trying to put the moves onto MY girl. He’s stabled closer to her than I am which is bad enough as he gets to admire her derriere from very close quarters, but now he’s laying moves on her faster than a brickie on price work. He whinnies to her when she comes out to the field (well when I say “whinny” it’s more like pre-pubescent squeaking) and then follows her down the fence line, tossing his mane about like a very young Rudd Gullit in a force 10 gale. I mean a) has he NO shame — we men do not chase the ladies, we wait for them to come us (every gelding worth his haylage knows that) and b) that’s MY girl.

    In fairness my lady love is paying him about as much attention as a TOWIE cast member pays to learning the actual English language and clearly views herself as way above his league Z — which going on the fact she is 16.2hh and he barely comes up to her nose is probably a fair view…

    I have to give the mighty maned midget his due, he does at least try and come and say hello to me and does shout to me every time he’s heading into the barn, but to be honest can you blame him? Suddenly having a big brother who is a global superstar is a cross he’s just going to have to bear — he might be cute, but I am the Hoverine.

    I am also wearing my halo at the moment because just in case she-who-must-be-obeyed has her head turned by 12hh of blue-eyed ankle biter I am turning the “I love you mum” campaign up to DEFCON 5; the fact that he hasn’t learned the finer nuances of dealing with the moody mothership is helpful. The fact I might have failed to mention that when mother says “back” she doesn’t mean put her flat on hers as you rampage across her prostrate form on the way to the feed bucket was merely an oversight on my behalf. What can I say? I’m medicated.

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    Herman the German Needle Man came out to see me on Friday afternoon to poke about my foot with all the finesse of a mole playing Twister. I am starting to wonder what sort of programmes he and his clearly angelic better half have been watching because once he’d finished furtling about in my foot with a scalpel he proceeded to truss me up in so much elasticated bandage I looked like a Mummy at a fetish party. Seriously, if there had even been a sniff of an orange I would have bailed out of that barn faster than Nigel Farage has applied for a non-UK passport. It shows how much tape and bandage he had put on when it took the combined might of the boss lady, mother and father 30 minutes to get it all off on Sunday to dress my gaping chasm in a manner very akin to hanging curtains over the Grand Canyon. Apparently Herman has told mother that if she doesn’t truss my foot up tighter, like a bondage victim then I will have proud flesh. Proud? What planet is he on? There is nothing pride-inducing about having a foot that is full of bigger holes than the current Brexit deal. I stand still in the wrong light without a bandage and my foot looks like the entrance to the pyramids. I even overheard members of the rabbit militia discussing the use of the under-feather bunker as an arms cache. Proud? Herman needs to take a good long look at his life goals is all I’m saying…

    Anyway, I’m off to suggest to the pint-sized pit pony that snapping baling twine when tied up makes mum happier than a fat fighter in Mr Kipling’s kitchen and to supervise any stressage training.



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