Hovis’ Friday diary: Women are impossible. Especially my mother

Dear diary,

I have said it before, and I shall say it again; when God created the woman, he was having the biggest laugh he’d had had since he stuck a duck’s bill and webbed feet on a cat and called it a fattypuss. A more contrary creature he couldn’t have wished for — how Mel Gibson eeked an entire film out of the subject of “what women want” is beyond me. The answer could have filled an infomercial at best, and can be summed up with the words “whatever is that you’re NOT doing”.

Many who meet her come away with the misguided view that my mother is “low maintenance” — yeah right and so is a Ferrari built on a Friday at payday — but seriously, she is SO demanding. Although on reflection the above comparison is a tad unfair — one has great airbags, bodywork prone to damage at the slightest touch, an ability to go from nought to sixty in 1.2 seconds and is very very tricky to handle and the other is a top end sports car…

Anyway, back to my point. Women are impossible. Especially my mother.

So, for the past few weeks I have had intermittent bouts of lameness, which I have coped with in a manly way and soldiered on regardless. Any suggestion that I have hopped about on three legs while invoking an interpretative dance of a dying swan swaddled in duct-tape is pure malicious rumour and unsubstantiated rumour at that. The point being I have been trussed up in more duct-tape and babies nappies than a politician at an S&M convention and nada was happening. Which made mother sad. Many things make mother sad; the size of her arse, the size of her overdraft (both for being of undesirable proportions) and the tiny amount of pus that was coming out of my foot.

Herman was called, Cool New Shoes Man was called, the surgeon at Bungle’s house was called, the bank manager was called — I will be honest and say we were two steps away from a priest being called and full on exorcism being done. So, what did I do? I tried to make mum happy. So, I oozed. That’s the kind of man I am, I oozed for her. Admittedly the way I got the old pus stuff moving might have involved a bit of enthusiastic parkour freestyled with a rave version of River Dance in the style of a spider with restless leg syndrome, but heh! It meant I oozed. The fact that my field was cut up more than a Love Island reject is sort of beside the point. I oozed. Lots of stinky, oozy pus out of my foot.

I will be honest, I foolishly thought that this would make mother happy. Clearly, I was wrong.

Pondering the situation, I wondered if her elation at the oozing was being diminished by concern over my eventing future, so thus on Sunday, being the kind of guy I am, I set out to prove that I can ooze both pus and talent in equal measure and thus commenced a half-hour demonstration of my finest freestyle stressage moves, my powerhouse bascule, my endless ability to shorten and lengthen strides at full gallop and my “show you I can turn on a dime in case the only option left is polo” swivels. Honestly, it was a thing of beauty and artistic impression — me channelling my inner Rudolf Nureyev, mother channelling Peggy Mitchell as she yelled a torrent of abuse about my questionable parentage, my ambition to work in financial services and the apparent mathematical correlations between the size of my feet and the number of brain cells between my ears. Now I will grant you that my timing might have been slightly questionable, but an artist has to react to their muse; the fact that the muse was an unamused mother trying to catch me in the lashing rain was unfortunate, but when we creative types are inspired we just have to let it out.

Sort of like the pus.

By the time I had finished freestyling, it’s fair to say I was sweating like a dog in a Chinese restaurant and blowing harder than mother putting out her candles on her birthday cake, while the aforementioned hard to please female stood dripping distain and rain water in equal measure. It’s fair to say I don’t think she was happy.

So, what I ask you: what is a boy to do? I’m lame; she’s unhappy. I give her acrobatics; she’s unhappy. I don’t give pus; she’s unhappy. I give pus: she’s unhappy. What do women want? I have ZERO clue. All I know is mine is very sensitive.

Although talking of sensitive girls, I am led to understand that I might have upset the entire Royal Marine Corps the other week with my insinuation that I have as many moves as a marine on the pull. Apparently, it has been suggested that I owe all current and former Marines an apology for this and should go on record correcting my gross inaccuracy before I am hunted down and mounted, stuffed, above the bar in the sergeant’s mess by a bunch of threader’s bootnecks.

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And because I’m man enough then I will. My official statement is as follows:

“I, Hovis, hereby apologise to all serving and former Marines for suggesting that I have as many moves as you all do when you’re on the pull. This was a grossly inaccurate statement and I thus apologise for any offense caused.

“The simple truth is I am a mere girl guide in comparison and don’t have the depth nor numeric of moves to be held on a par with you. Although to be fair, when it comes to ‘hoofing’, I leave you all standing.”

Laters,

Hovis

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