Hovis’ Friday diary: worming my way back into the good books

  • Dear diary,

    Well, I’m still here. Mum hasn’t sold me to become Spaghetti al Hovis, nor left me tethered to the side of the road with a “free to a good home” sign around my neck. And yes that was threatened — it’s a wonder I’m not emotionally scarred for life.

    I’m trying to worm my way back into her good books, but having rubbed my tail to the extent it looks like a chimney sweeps brush and self pulled half of my mane on my stable wall I am finding the good books to be rather a distance away. Unless the hysterical weeping about my appearance the other day was actually joy? I’m thinking that’s about as likely as that dude Sapphire Welsh asking to ride me in the National this weekend, but you never know one’s luck.

    As it was Easter last weekend I got a double dose of Aunty Sammie hacking me out as mother is still unable to straddle me with her dodgy hip. It actually sounds alarmingly dodgy when put like that, and knowing you smutty lot has probably just resulted in a lot of wet laptops from the spat out tea. Perverts.

    Anyway, at least we didn’t have to go hunting for chocolate eggs this year or dress up as one of those carrot crunching, big-eared, annoying things with big feet. Last time I put my bunny ears on some smart alek we met out on a hack told me I was doing a stunningly amazing impression of a large ass. Mum stopped me, but I was so tempted to autograph his large ass with a stunningly amazing impression of my teeth.

    As I understand it, Easter is because some man rode into town on his donkey and then got killed. Surely his riding wasn’t that bad? But luckily he was a very special man and he rode again and they all lived happily ever after and ate chocolate. Well, that was the version Father Ned taught me in the green fields of Ireland when I was a mere foal. Mind you, he was a pure-bred Irish draught, so it’s entirely possible he got it a bit muddled up.

    In other exciting news the new visitor centre has opened at the charity Bransby Horses. Now for those of you who don’t keep up with the big events in the literary world, when I wrote my last two monumental masterpieces I gave all the money to Bransby. Despite my desire to sell the book, make millions, get my own TV show, film deal, fan club, clothing range, fly spray brand etc, Mum told me I had to help people less fortunate than myself. After some of the things Mum puts me through sometimes I struggle to think of how anyone could be less fortunate than me, but heh hum…

    So I didn’t even get a bag of treats out of it. Not even a 50p swede from the “ooops” shelf at the supermarket (and yes I know that’s where you get them from Mum, I can read the stickers). I know. Such generosity deserves sainthood at least right? I’m still waiting…

    They have held two book launches (I am told this did not mean they threw copies out of the window — such a relief). I wasn’t invited. They do book signings — I’m never invited. They took the book to Your Horse is Alive — I wasn’t invited. New visitor centre — I’m not invited. Do you sense a trend here? I swear they’re being featherist. Photos of me cavorting around the new play park would be amazing. So I’m thinking maybe I could do the grand formal opening later in the year? I could pull open the curtains with my teeth or something. Could one of you with some PR acumen (gosh I amaze myself with my vocabulary sometimes) suggest it please as my secretary appears to be in a snit with me.

    Talking of which, I’d better go practising my worming. Good books here I come.



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