So, by the time you read this I will be firmly ensconced at the cult event Your Horse is Alive; meeting my adoring public, hanging out with the stars and generally living the life I was born to lead. I mean my introduction on the website says everything:
“Blogging superstar” – someone should point this out to mother when she’s suggesting she’s the talent in the relationship
“Social media phenomenon” – someone should explain this to mother, because despite her faux Hyacinth Bucket voice, anything past two sillabulls foxes her completely. Although to be fair what livestock have to do with it, I know not. Is it because she usually talks a load of bullocks?
“Hovis loves to be unpredictable” – see this is seen a loveable quirk by those in the know, and not something that should cause a tirade of expletives that would make a marine blush. Although to be fair seeing how sensitive they appear to be these days then that might be easier than one might think…
Anyway, this week has all been about the final stages of operation feral to fabulous in which I have spent most of my time wetter than the inside of an otters pocket, trailing soap suds like mother trails swear words and trying to perfect the art of levitational sleeping to avoid the wails of anguish over poo stains on my patellas. Mother is giving a demo on every morning at Your Horse is Alive about how to get me “show ready” – including Saturday and Sunday when I share the stage with Teddy the Shetland – I’m assuming he’s there as my fluffer? I am wondering whose bright idea this was, as whoever it was has clearly never witnessed what really happens when mother gets me ready – not only would the excessive use of a scrubbing brush have anyone watching reaching for the number for horse-line, but they’d have to bleep so much out that it would sound like mother was using Morse code. Usually mother ends up looking like an episode of Baywatch – the victim that is; soaking wet, bedraggled and in need of CPR…
Apparently, we are going to give you a “flavour” of what it takes to prep a star like myself – with mother anywhere near the microphone its likely to be fruity with a dash of bitterness and that’s before anyone asks her about her pelvic floor…
Despite the fact that watching mother waft chalk and an air of incompetence is entertainment of the type not seen since Janet Jackson’s wardrobe malfunction, we must not forget why I do this. I know I’ve told you before but ALL the money we raise from donations and you buying my merchandise at events like Your Horse is Alive goes to the equine charity Bransby Horses who do amazing things to rescue and rehabilitate victims of unbelievable cruelty. And to be clear I mean abuse even worse than stressage and mother washing my Hovis hose with cold water. So if I have ever made you smile, even a little bit, and you’re coming to Your Horse is Alive over the next three days then please please do come and say “hello” and give generously; every little bit really does help. To be equally clear, unlike she-who-has-ideas-way-above-her-station, I am not cheap date so I will trade kisses for carrots and photos for polos – please give generously.
Stay glued to my facebook pages for live feeds, videos and photos as who knows what I might get up to…
Finally, it’s also Armistice day on Monday so I shall be wearing my poppy with pride to remember the brave men, women and horses that have died protecting our country. I’m nifty with words but this poem by Scots Grey says more than I ever could:
I’m only a cavalry charger
And I’m dying as fast as I can
(for my body is riddled with bullets,
they’ve potted both me and my man)
And though I’ve no words to express it
I’m trying this message to tell
To kind folks who work for the ‘Red Cross’
Oh, please help the ‘Blue’ one as well
My master was one in a thousand
(for horses are built just like humans –
be kind to them – they’ll do their part)
So please send out help for our wounded
And give us a word in your prayers –
This isn’t so strange as you’d fancy
The Russians do it to theirs
I’m only a cavalry charger
And my eyes are becoming quite dim
(I really don’t mind the thought “I‘m done for”
so long as I’m going with him)
But first I would plead for my comrades
who are dying and suffering too –
Oh! please help the poor wounded horses!
I’m sure you would – if you knew
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
Lest we ever forget,