Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘Where does one start when Ros Canter has ridden moi in front of my adoring fans…?!’

Dear Diary,

Well, where does one start?

WHAT a weekend!

There is no way even with my brilliance that I can contain 2 ½ days of activity into one diary entry, so, as per previous years, I will split my account of the happenings over two weeks of diaries to ensure I can convey every last detail to you – sort of the way my mother can recount every vet bill I have ever run up (for example, after last week we now know an out of hours rectal examination costs £33.16 plus VAT, you know, in case you were ever wondering…).

After being reassured repeatedly by the vet she was fine to take me to Your Horse is Alive (I had pointed out that I did at least pass the first pre-requisite, but I think it might have been too soon for mother to have found it funny), a slightly stressed looking mothership rocked up on Friday morning to bath me and generally attempt to groom me into some semblance of professionalism. From the muttering going on about my lack of mane, my massacred feathers and general muckiness, I don’t think she felt the job was within her skill range but bless her, she did give it a good go.

Aunty H arrived and we set off in my executive transport, which I had reclaimed from the ginger whinger who goes out far more times than I do these days.

We arrived to a hive of activity in the stable areas at the cult event and slammed straight into my old friend Mr Billington. When I say slammed straight into – I mean mother nearly ran him over reversing the trailer. It’s fair to say mum couldn’t tell you which way the trailer is going to go if she had two guesses – Shakira’s hips move less than mother snaking a trailer backwards into a perfectly straight parking space, so Geoff was in far more danger than he realised as he was cheerfully extracting the urine out of her ability. To be fair, Mr B shouldn’t feel special – she nearly removed one of the most famous equine influencers by the same method the following morning – sorry Harlow…

I was swiftly bedded down for the night, the stand was set up and then all was quiet ready for the morning…

…Which dawned dry but cold as the mothership and Team Hovis trooped in to get ready for action. I was fed, chalked up to the extent Aunty Em looked like the sole survivor from a wrestling contest with the Pilsbury dough boy and then led down to meet my incoming fans. I hung out, said hi, only flattened a few small children who were surplus to requirements and then headed back to the stable in the Rescue Village. Here however, things started to change. Because TACK appeared. Like MY tack. AND it was CLEAN(ish). Things were clearly afoot!

I was led down the back way like Taylor Quick under her concerts and positioned outside the roller doors to the main arena. I know this because I am a veteran of these things. Minutes later the doors opened and riding towards me with a smile that said her career had now hit a height which she can never top was my Olympic coachee, my protégé, the gold medal-winning, Burghley-winning superstar – Ms Ros Canter. Aunty H gave her a leg up (Aunty Em was banned after the never to be talked about incident with Mary King some years ago) and I went into the arena to the screams and roars of the crowd. In there was my other little Olympic hairless chicklet, Laura, and her smile was just as wide but in my view tinged with slight envy that it was Ros who got the honour of riding me.

Now to be fair this was around about the point where it all went a little “off script”.

Mother had anticipated a sedate walk around, acknowledge the crowds and thank you very much.

Alas, the gent who voices over the event and some of his team had other ideas and suggested Ros might like to put me over a little jump. Mother’s look of horror I am told made the famous Scream painting look happy, but by this time I was cantering about with my new best friend totally oblivious. I understand mini-mother’s video may have picked up her squealing “this is SO not a good idea” – sheesh, such little faith…

Now in my defence, you might possibly need to know the following factoids:

I am 23.

My mother thinks I am rather broken.

I haven’t jumped in years.

I am stone blind in my right eye.

Mother doesn’t let me jump anymore or indeed get much beyond a sedate trot, which even then is usually accompanied by her having apoplexy that my legs might snap.

Ros and I headed into the jump on the first go and I had a “oh god, mother is going to kill me” moment and so stopped, and carefully knocked it over with my foot. I did look at mother but by this time she had her eyes closed and was praying to whatever deity she believes in. Ros calmly suggested we might want another go and since she has an Olympic medal and mother doesn’t, plus I doubted mother would shout at her, I did think “duck it, lets go!”.

Unfortunately, she hadn’t got the memo about my slight Stevie Wonder issue so we did demolish the right hand wing; on the positives, we showed how easily the Jump for Joy wings come down, on the negatives it was looking like mother was going to need a paramedic sooner rather than later. Third time around and I now was determined that I would not embarrass myself, my feathers, my breed nor my superstar capabilities and gave the cross pole some serious air. The arena erupted. Ros’ career had hit a level in her life she will never find again in front of a capacity crowd, while Nicola Wilson and Laura Collett cheered her on. Mother by this time was inhaling a bag of calming cookies with the vet in attendance…

Ros rode me round with a smile so big it could be seen from Paris, while Laura’s horse tried to play tonsil hockey without buying me dinner first. What is it with these supposedly highly talented equines? I know I am utterly irresistible, but a boy has standards – Nip and Tuck, Viagra himself, Emily King’s horses and Laura’s have all leapt on me like the last Ferrero Rocher at the ambassador’s party. I am not cheap peoples, just ask my mother’s bank manager…

It was fair to say I bounced back to my stables like Tigger on a blue Smartie binge. In my world, the day couldn’t get any better.

But IT DID! For in the afternoon while jumping was now firmly banned by Captain Killjoy Karen, I got presented with my very own gold medal to recognise the fact that without me, the Paris Olympics for team GB may have had a very different outcome. Ros said some kind words, Laura thanked me for all my advice and I was asked my plans for LA as it’s clear that I am now recognised by British Eventing as the best Chef de Squeak in the world.

So, more on the other happenings next week including coming face to face with showjumping royalty as John Whitaker came to see if they could lure me away from the eventers.

One final thing, however!

All of this is done for one reason only – to raise money for Bransby Horses. My new book is now exclusively available in their online shop at www.bransbyhorses.co.uk. Please do purchase one – when it’s for a good cause, it’s guilt free shopping and I make a wonderful gift.

The hawkeyed of you on my Facebook page will have also seen a little friend pop up all over the place with my celebrity friends. He is my little body double Hamish and is a one off replica of me handmade by a brilliant fan Helen (The Crafty Civil Servant) and she has given him to mother to raffle off for the charity. Tickets are just £1 and every penny goes to Bransby. The link is on my Facebook page, so please do enter.

For now, I am off to start planning my teams training for LA, and regale the yard with my tales of daringdoo.

Laters,

Hovis

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