Dear Diary
First, because I am lovely and despite my dam having the morals of an equine alley cat, I have been brought up right and I want to wish all my readers and faithful fans a Happy Kissmuss. Hardly any of you humbugs have sent me a Christmas card, far less any presents and none of you have reported mother for equine cruelty involving tinsel, but hey I’m not going to let that stand between us.
Far be it from me to point out, I have tried valiantly to entertain you for the last few years, written two literary works of genius for you and have undoubtedly imparted much vital equine knowledge (such as stressage is for fairies) to you all, and in return you can’t even send me a carrot or at the very least help me hide the evil antlers. Three words here people. One way street.
As you tuck into your mince pies, you just spare a thought for me being forced to mince of a different kind down the High street like the four-legged equine love child of a Christmas tree and Bambi. I think what’s left of my street cred can be found hiding under a holly bush fearing for it’s life in case mother “tinsels” it.
What’s worse is even my Facebook fans haven’t helped and indeed have asked for pictures of me in my antlers. Where’s the love people? Mum is even doing a Christmas quiz for my fans which no doubt will include embarrassing questions. Forcing me to relive moments my therapist (Hayley, the haynet) has long since helped me suppress (a marigold-wearing mother chasing my chipolata up my Hovis cave, being one that caused nightmares last night).
That nightmare has since paled into insignificance, in light of mother’s new hair-brained plan. Inspired by Charlotte and that Viagra dude’s impressive prancing display at the stressage cult headquarters (Olympia), mother was overheard sniggering about me doing stressage to music. Seriously? Can my life get any worse? Apparently yes it can. Music choices have included: “I like big butts and I cannot lie” (just rude), “He aint heavy he’s my brother” (breed-ist nonsense), “I believe I can fly” (feather-ist reference which was uncalled for) and “Rump Shaker” (I’m not even going to stoop to comment on that one).
I already have visions of mother asking my fans for other ideas and them all demanding videos. All I can hope, is the sound system meets with an unfortunate accident over Christmas — actually scratch the “hope”, I’m sure for a polo Billy could be bribed to sit on it.
So as you all enjoy your office parties, your Christmas dinners and your random snogging under green weeds, just spare a thought for me, dressed like Rudolph’s fatter, more feathered camp tinsel-wearing brother. Made to parade around the village so little snot goblins children can pet me and question why my nose isn’t red, and now made to learn the lyrics to some cringe-worthy song to prance to in the New Year. Perhaps this needs to be a case of “when the going gets tough, the rough get going”?
Happy Kissmus all
Love
Ho-Ho-Hovis
