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Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘The inequality of life…’

Hovis — Fri, 14 Feb 2025 07:00:43 +0000

Dear diary,

I have enjoyed a mostly quiet week as she who must be obeyed was in Port Seagull for a work-related international kick off thing. It was the first time that she has been away properly since her human kissing spines operation and apparently she can confirm she sets the metal detectors off now at the airport. I’m also hearing tales that such travel has nearly broken her, so I’m expecting much sympathy-provoking limping, wincing and muted whimpering when she turns up later.

It does make me ponder the unfairness and lack of equality when it comes to lameness in humans versus us horses. We so much as have one draggy step and it’s an army of vets, countless hours running up and down concrete runways while everyone stares with intent at every leg, similar hours running around in tight circles on concrete while everyone stares at alternate legs and sometimes some total knob giving us a dead leg and expecting us to do a Taylor Swift and shake it off. For the record on that one, they apparently do mean you to actually run it off and not get blood flowing again by karate kicking the dead-leg-giver in the head… you’re welcome…

In the meantime, the human herd are shuffling about with the athletic capabilities of septuagenarian sloths, so obviously bi-laterally lame even Stevie Wonder could call it, and no one says a thing. Seriously, if I lunged mother on a tight circle on a hard surface what’s left of her spine would disintegrate. Even Herman the German Needle Man who likes a good laugh doesn’t have her trot me up anymore (when she’s having another one of her “OMG is he going to die because he took one stiff step out of the barn on a cold, damp, dark morning” moments) as he says he can’t watch such suffering. And to be clear here, he doesn’t mean me. There was a time when the trot-ups gave the watching public a bird’s-eye view of mother’s bouncing airbags, but since she’s lost weight, it’s less two cats wrestling in a bag and more like two sprouts stuck to the side of a pan, so not nearly as entertaining.

It’s fair to say there is mass inequality in not just the fitness and lameness, but also weight. So while we have to be sound, fully mechanical, 100% at all times and fit enough to be lunged for a thousand years without breaking a sweat or breathing like an asthmatic on a treadmill, it seems it’s fine for our human herd leaders to be broken, unfit and two steps way from euthanasia without anyone batting an eyelid. So don’t even get me started on weight… If my fur so much as fluffs the wrong way to optically add an inch, I have a grazing muzzle strapped to my mush faster than Hannibal Lector when he eyes up a nice Cianti. My grass intake is monitored closer than Wesley Snipes’ tax return and I think I was last allowed a lickit back in 2019. My mother, however, needs a wide load sticker applying to her ass and any photo of her definitely requires the use of a panoramic lens, but does anyone gaffa-tape her gob shut? Nope, no siree.

Anyways, such is the inequality of life, but as mother hobbles back tomorrow, I shall ponder on the fact if it was the other way around, she would be going for the big sleep… Good job I luffs her and I am happy to have my elderly, unrideable steeds with me until the end. Mind you, if she’s in a grump, then I might be writing a gumtree advert for her by Sunday…

Laters,

Hovis

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Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘Our level of sacrifices need to rise to prompt spring to do its thing’

Hovis — Fri, 07 Feb 2025 09:48:32 +0000

Dear diary,

A lot like my stressage sheets of old often used to say, I’m pretty sure all our report cards would read “could try harder” right now. If the mercurial weather is anything to go by then our level of sacrifices needs to rise and Spring needs to at least start thinking about bracing the old creaking knees ahead of actually, you know, sort of springing. It’s cold, it’s wet, it’s windy and none of those things is good for a boy’s feather, mane, tail – or indeed any body part that doesn’t like wafting about like an octopus at a rave. I think a patch of white was last seen on my feather some time last year and my mane is changing direction so much it’s identifying as an USA trade tariff…

Don’t be fooled by the picture above, in reality grass in the fields is a distant memory as we now look out onto a sea of gloopy mud with divot holes large enough to hide the odd body or two (NB: they absolutely do NOT marry up to the size of my feet). Any rug which is currently being worn is now a uniform brown and may or may not be capable of standing up on their own when they dry. All in all it’s more miserable than an all-you-can-eat buffet at a wellness retreat.

This does not deter mini-mother from wanting to ride and work in it all. On most things my mother is an utter and abject failure, but on the subject of ensuring her daughter wasn’t raised to be a fair-weather rider then she is an all-star. Which she is now coming to regret as she has to stand out in all weathers, freezing to death in sideways rain, the dark and the cold whilst the small blonde one skips about in a T-shirt and a smile. At the weekend mini-mother worked me and the pint-sized pain in the posterior and we both semi behaved – I did blot my copy book by jogging in sideways from the field which she didn’t appreciate but I was just excited to see her. And my dry, warm stable…

She and the ginger whinger went out on the Sunday (mother’s birthday so I’m guessing she was thrilled) jumping so I was regaled with tales of his brilliance when he got back, although mini-mother’s version wasn’t quite so glowing. Apparently, he had moments of being very ginger and very Welsh so whilst it had all remained well, they had a few disagreements. Mini-mother did wistfully rue the fact she had never got to jump nor ride me in my youth as she imagined how responsive and well behaved I would have been. I did manfully avoid catching mother’s eye who was quite helpless with laughter, no doubt remembering a few of our finer arguments – not least my exit mid showjumping round to get to the front of the queue of the ice cream van – gave her a cuddle and allowed her to think that…

The other night I did coach the pair of them as they were jumping with her friend in the school which I can see from my field if I stand at the end so I gave them the benefit of my years of experience, my international coaching prowess and Olympic Chef de Squeak experience – did I ever mention that?

Anyways, I am off to try and find other things to sacrifice and to look for even the faintest of signs that Spring is on her way.

Laters,

Hovis

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Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘We need to find spring’s equivalent of the little blue pills…’

Hovis — Fri, 31 Jan 2025 07:00:37 +0000

Dear diary,

So, after yet another weekend of Mother Nature’s flatulence, loud snoring all night, bad temper and general surliness, in the latter part of the week a strange thing was seen in the sky. Something not seen for some time – and no, I don’t mean mother in a size eight – something far more attractive than that could ever be. It was a bright shiny ball thing that if you fantasised long enough, you could have sworn was even emitting the smallest bit of heat. I think peoples, it was actually a SUN!

Now don’t get me wrong, let’s not break out the Speedos and the factor 50 just yet, but even the brief appearance of the lesser spotted celestial being is enough to raise the spirits a smidge after the rain, the mud, the darkness, the rain, the wind, the storms with very funny names, the rain, did I mention the rain? This rare sighting coupled with the view that maybe, if you squint right (and let’s be honest, I am blind as a bat in my right eye) that the mornings are getting lighter and the evenings staying lighter for longer could possibly mean that spring might be on her way to you know, springing?

Now last year, it had to be noted that spring, like gentlemen of a certain age, needed more than a little bit of encouragement to get up and at it. We had many a false start before we were indeed in business, so I am thinking maybe we need to get on the front hoof here and you know find spring’s equivalent of the little blue pills.

I have thought long and hard about this; spring is all about weakly filtered sunshine, new life, babies and bonking, so what better way to bring her out to play than to sacrifice orange, gelded Welsh ponies over a certain age? I mean it’s obvious, right? I would like to point out that my deductions are purely scientific and the fact I may have such a sacrifice readily to hoof in the shape of the bane of my life is purely a heartbreaking coincidence. But this isn’t about me losing a not-asked-for-and-didn’t-come-with-a-gift-receipt-ginger-whinger-“brother”, this is about the greatest good for the greatest number. We need an end to winter and a start to spring sooner rather than later after we have just endured the 5,789 days of January – none of which were dry…

I am clear about my offering, I think you all need to think about yours and be quick about it. This is not time for sentiment, nor selfishness. We need to act now before we are into flooding February and we spend yet another month either inside, outside in a sea of mud in which grass is seen about as regularly boobies on a snake, or outside in water deep enough to require a snorkel every time your head goes lower than your knees. And that’s before we mention the wind.

The other week it was noted that in the high winds while the rest of the yard were indulging in self-exercise and group stampeding, I was seen trying to throw myself onto my hay to stop it blowing under my fence and away to become nesting material for migrating birds somewhere on the south coast. I noted that this is because I am an intelligent being who a) likes his food and b) knows only too well the wrath of the women in my life if I strain something hooleying about in this level of mud. I may enjoy ensuring my vet’s children are well fed and watered by selflessly paying for it all, but even I know better than to do it in January…

Anyways, please go away and report back on what you are prepared to offer spring to make her you know, like boing boing.

Laters,

Hovis

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Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘We need to talk about consequences and the definition of them…’

Hovis — Fri, 24 Jan 2025 07:00:46 +0000

Dear diary,

Ok, I think we need to talk about consequences and the definition of them because I’m starting to think you lot don’t understand the concept. I am a horse, but I have lived with mother for 19 years and thus, am a master on consequences. For example – the idea of a “fun” spook at a squirrel, which nearly unseats humpty dumpty on top, is for a split second hilarious. The consequences however are a) being on the receiving end of a very, very, very long verbal tirade questioning my parentage b) being made to run around in lots of circles on the end of a rope to “get it out of my system” c) (and most seriously) having my food cut back because obviously this is entirely due to sugar intake and not that I have childish and slightly evil sense of humour. See? Consequences.

So, when some bright spark decided to defrost Mother Nature by feeding her Indian/Mexican/something else suitably spicy, you clearly didn’t think it through. Because good lord, the flatulence is unbelievable. Right now I am writing this while deciding whether to cling to the side of the barn, hold my mane out of my face before I am asphyxiated try and stop my rug wedging up my back passage like Elon Musk up Trump’s…

I understand it’s far worse in other parts of the country, so stay safe peoples, stay safe.

The rest of my week has been reasonably ok. Admittedly we are turned out in a sea of mud where finding a blade of grass is like a search and rescue mission, but at least we have been out. Crazy Self-Employed Lady has badly hurt her arm so we have all been told to be on bestest behaviour, and on the whole I think we have just about managed it, with the exception of the ginger ninja who is in the dog house for diving for grass like a fat fighter after the last custard cream.

He was in the dog house with mini-mother at the weekend when it was decided that she would lunge us both. She took him in the school first where he promptly dived for the ground and rolled about like an enthusiastic Labrador in fox poo. It’s fair to say mother’s parental encouragement of lines such as “who is in control here?” were not deemed helpful if the amount of side eye was anything to go by. As mother struggles to be in control of her own bladder, the irony wasn’t lost on me, but I manfully kept my mouth shut (see note on consequences above…).

The pint-sized pain in the posterior, upon getting up off the floor, then decided he only spoke Welsh and refused to listen to a single voice command. Since I could see my human foal looking desolate at her lack of horse-woman-ship skills, I showed her that I would do as she asked off her voice command alone. Thus, if she asked for canter then I gave her canter. Unfortunately, my efforts to make her feel better were not greeted with enthusiasm, as not only was I apparently in dire danger of breaking a leg in the mud of my field, but also when the entire yard took my impulsion to mean that they too ought to be self-exercising then it was viewed as I had started a stampede. Honestly there is literally no pleasing some people. Thus mini-mother was sent to fetch me in while the larger and thus much more heavily ballasted mothership managed to a) get the small ginger thing up the gears and b) managed to hold on to him when he decided that full on gallop was required.

I was lunged next and having already faced much verbal lambasting, I decided that discretion was the better part of valour and just did as I was told.

Throughout all of the this, it’s fair to say the golf addict Step-Dad-to-Be just looked on with utter bemusement as to the life choices mother and her offspring have made with regards to their hobbies.

Anyways, I am off to try and stop my mane blowing about like Trump’s toupé in a hurricane. Stay safe out there and someone for goodness sakes, just get Mother Nature a nice cup of soothing chamomile tea…

Laters,

Hovis

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Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘If 2025 sucked any harder, Dyson would be suing it for plagiarism’

Hovis — Fri, 17 Jan 2025 07:00:36 +0000

Dear diary,

Well done whoever it was that went and soothed Elsa’s ruffled feathers – she does need to understand that the cold bothers everyone else, despite her warblings – but whoever was on point to deal with Mother Nature seems to have fallen a little shy of the mark. To put this into perspective, when I say “fallen a little shy”, don’t think of a farrier’s six inches, but more the distance by which mother wouldn’t make the weight for a point-to-point…

Seriously, someone needs to get that mare into a control headcollar and in-hand immediately. If it’s not freezing, it’s raining – it’s either a foot deep in snow or two foot deep in water. The fields are either useful for curling or for (front) crawling, but since I am no good at either, I’d quite like them just being, you know, like fields – full of grass and not requiring a buoyancy aid or a lifeguard?

You know the cute little rhyme thing that helps kids remember how many days there are in each month? I don’t recall the part in which January has 7,854 days and ALL of them are wet ones? We have already been confined to barracks for 70 billion days and it’s only half way through the month. If 2025 sucked any harder, Dyson would be suing it for plagiarism.

On Sunday, the mothership limped into view like a deflating blimp, having now been cleared to drive on medical grounds. I don’t think she’s ever been cleared on either having the necessary skills, nor on health and safety of other road user grounds, but still, she emerged from the driver’s side of her new motor with the agility of octogenarian with rickets. It does appear her left leg still isn’t really working that well, but she was there valiantly trying – mainly my patience, but still it’s the thought that counts, right?

Having decided the upper school was suitable for me to at least have a walk around on, she managed to get my 73 layers of clothing off (Crazy Self-Employed Lady looks after me) and pleaded with me to keep my head still long enough for her to put my lungeing bridle on. From the looks of the other mums and dads, it was clear she shouldn’t have been doing any of this, but since Step-Dad-To-Be is in India, she had been left alone without adult supervision – something I suspect he has since realised is not a good idea. The woman has the self-care tendencies of a depressed lemming on a good day. None of the 7,854 days in January are ever going to be a good day…

As it’s just been Kissmuss and is about to be her birthday, I briefly considered giving her a flying lesson, courtesy of Hoverine Airlines, but while she might have forgiven me, I’m not sure SDTB would have done, so I decided discretion was the better part of valour. Besides which, half the yard’s humans came over to watch after she had insisted that a, she didn’t need any help (a total lie) b, I would explode for everyone else if they tried to lunge me (truth) and c, despite my failings I do love her very much and wouldn’t harm her so I didn’t want to burst her horse whisperer bubble. Bless her. If she gets any more deluded, Trump will be hiring her as his press officer…

Anyways, we had a very civilised walk around (I walked – she limped like some sort of pirate with a peg leg from IKEA’s value range) while she crooned how good I was and then rewarded my brilliance with treats. There are times, peoples, it pays to let them think they haz skillz…

We have had a few dry(ish) days, so I am making the most of finding some grass in the mud before we are no doubt back inside due to the mercurial one throwing another strop. Don’t make me break out the sacrifice shortlist again… it’s not looking good for small, ginger Welsh ponies.

Laters,

Hovis

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Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘Unlike Elsa, the cold does bother us…’

Hovis — Fri, 10 Jan 2025 07:00:38 +0000

Dear diary,

Firstly, Hoppy New Year! I hope you all had a lovely Kissmuss and that you made lots of New Year revolutions. I did think about spinning around and saying I’d be nicer to the Ginger one, but mid-turn I saw his orange glow and admitted I was kidding myself, so stopped. I have thus decided to abandon the revolution idea in favour of vague outline ideas with no contractual obligations (that sounds really posh, right? I nicked it off something I heard mum say to one of the other mums at the yard… I have zero idea what it means, but it sounded good…).

I have to say though, this year is already in the “gift receipt required so we can return it” camp of presents – along with the jumper Aunty Maureen got you. If it’s not chucking it down with rain and flooding the fields, then it’s freezing temperatures, snow and enough ice to ensure that we are stuck inside. Crazy Self-Employed Lady (CSEL) was briefly renamed Sensible Self-Employed Lady after she vetoed doing a reenactment of Bolero every morning on the car park, let alone the fact the fields could be used for cold water training by the SBS (Secret Bunny Service). She then got the crazy moniker back after she did however decide (along with mother, I hasten to add – she didn’t act alone) that one more clip before spring would be a good idea… in the middle of a snap colder than mother’s heart… I would love to ask if they are up to date with all their lady clipping since they seem to think hairless is the in look for the winter season, but frankly the thought of mother’s legs is enough to have me in therapy for the remainder of the year…

I was heartened to see so many of my fans comment I looked a little too svelte and lightweight in the photo that CSEL posted on Facebook, but mother was swift to suggest it was merely flattering lighting. I did wish to point out that when she posts photos of herself, if the adage is the camera adds 10lbs, then the whole of the UK Pepperoni must be taking a shot of her at the same time… I do wonder if those of you who feel I look too lean might wish to stage an intervention? Or at the very least send me food parcels?

Talking of interventions, we might need another one. For mini-mother turned up the other evening with an interloper. Yet another ginger one. What is it with the family obsession with ginger nuts? I admit in the wrong light those with questionable eyesight may feel I have a faint orange glow, but that’s just my halo gleaming. The pint-sized pain in the posterior is more orange than a TOWIE tan and then this small thing turned up in the same shade. Admittedly it was rather cute, although she did stick her tongue up my nose without even buying me a drink – she is in hallowed company as just about everyone does the same thing (Viagra being a notable example), so maybe people just cant contain their lust for my smexyness. Anyways, apparently the small ginger thing is a gift to granny and mini-mother and is called Rioja after grandad who is in heaven told mother to get her and name her that in a dream (it was his favourite red wine). Personally, I think the mothership is spending way too much time smacked off her boobies on some seriously high quality meds post- her kissing spines operation, but if she wants to add “talks to dead people” to her special skills section in her CV, then good for her. It’s not like there’s much else on it…

I will of course spend time training the new addition in the ways of the horse and ensure that she looks after my mini-mother to a standard that is acceptable to me. She is after all my foal and I have done a brilliant job of raising her to be a fine young thing to this point.

Anyways, I am off to chill (literally) in the barn while we all point out to her upstairs that unlike Elsa, the cold does bother us…

Laters,

Hovis

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Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘2024 is gone faster than a Polo mint near my left nostril’

Hovis — Fri, 20 Dec 2024 07:00:07 +0000

Dear diary,

This will be my final diary… of 2024 anyways, before you all do a mother and panic more than a Victoria’s Secret model near an open flame…

It’s kissmuss next week and then it will be New Year’s and then poof! Just like that 2024 is gone faster than a Polo mint near my left nostril.

And what a year it has been!

We will skim over the couple of instances where I have been abused and my depths plundered like an abandoned gold mine in Tex-Ass – more like Sore Ass I can assure you – without so much as dinner being bought first. The memory of Herman wearing my tail as a moustache due to how far up my back passage his arm was wedged is not one I wish to carry forth into next year. I do not wish to know the 2025 rates for anal penetration and thus one of my New Year’s revolutions will be to endeavour not to give the mothership any further reasons to call out any vet-shaped canaries to mine the lower levels of my bowels…

What we will focus on is the fact that 2024 was the year that the mighty British Eventing, led by their frankly brilliant CEO Rosie, had the humility, the dignity and the self-awareness to admit that for all these years they had got it wrong. That unconscious featherism had affected their decision making and they had in fact overlooked the greatest talent to never grace the top levels of eventing. Sadly, of course, I am now too old (and in mother’s view, too broken) to be able to now compete for King and country, but I could contribute the next best thing. Under the guise of asking me to be the official supporters’ mascot for the team (they couldn’t afford to upset the human in the role), they snuck me in as the equine chef de squeak to coach, guide and steer our team in a way it had never been done before. And what can I say? Did we or did we not dominate the entire thing from start to finish? They may be featherless thoroughbred types but did I or did I not manage to guide my little flightless chicklets to greatness? From my tips on the trot-up to steerage in the stressage, I was with them every step of the way and we are now Olympic champions. I even found time to rub a little of my magic onto the Japanese team who were photographed clutching my cutout like some sort of good luck charm…

I’m pretty sure the entire equestrian world woke up to the idea that we should not allow appearances, breeding, nor background to stand in the way of dreams and that if you want something badly enough, are prepared to work at it, prepared to do whatever it takes (which to be clear, is to merely stay one step away from a restraining order) then anything is possible. I am and forever will be the epitome of the Olympic dream and the essence of the #HeretoHelp campaign for British Eventing.

All of this of course was captured in my NINTH book (come on people, surely I must be due a Hooker prize soon?), which has been released in aid of the charity Bransby Horses. For any of you scrabbling with last minute gift ideas then please do think of putting me in to your stockings…

The book, of course, was released at the cult event Your Horse is Alive where I got to meet two of my superstar students for them to give me my gold medal and for the incredible Ros Canter to top what has been the most phenomenal year – achieving a career high of getting to ride the OG of equine influencers the one and only Destroyer. It doesn’t get any better than that.

So, as I close out what has been the most amazing year, a massive thank you to all of you who have supported us, who have bought the book, bought raffle tickets to win my mini-me and generally helped me to do what all of this is about – help others.

Have a fantastic Kissmuss, a wonderful New Year (don’t forget those revolutions peoples – stand up and do those spins) and I will see you all on the other side.

Laters,

Hovis

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Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘I had to battle my urge to go absolutely full scale cowabunga…’

Hovis — Fri, 13 Dec 2024 06:45:36 +0000

Dear Diary

It’s fair to say as we head into the festive period, it’s been a week of ups and downs – mostly in terms of mother’s blood pressure and the likelihood of her killing me before New Year.

At the weekend Storm Blowy-Flowy hit and the batons were firmly pulled down – well they were for us equines. Mother, mini-mother and the long suffering and now possibly not husband-to-be, were out fencing in it. I have to say watching mother try to unravel electric fence tape in a force 10 gale like some sort of two-legged, crippled, wild-haired human Andrex puppy was one of the funniest things I’ve seen in a long time.

Luckily for the more innocent members of the barn, the wind made it impossible to hear anything but faint snatches of the tirade of abuse which was pouring forth, but I imagine it was “colourful”. By the time they had finished I think the wedding was off, mini-mother had sworn to look for an inside hobby and mother was needing a vet to euthanise her on humane grounds.

Funnily enough I don’t think “fencing in a gale” was on the allowed list of activities three weeks post multi-level spinal fusion, but if any of you think she was ever going to listen to anything akin to reason, you clearly haven’t met my mother…

The following day the wind had dropped slightly but the rain was coming in sideways so we were confined to another day in barracks. Which is where mother’s brilliant idea #2476385 came in.

Following a brief lesson on the art of lunging, my step-dad-to-be (SD2B) and mini-mother were made to wear hats and gloves whilst I had a very thin rain sheet put on, my lunging bridle and was led out to the school by mini-mother. Now in my defence it was getting dark, it was very windy, I’m half blind and hadn’t been out for two days so I might have been, you know… a bit boingy.

Now apparently I have a “tell”, which occurs split seconds before I lose my poo in which I shake my head like Stevie Wonder with a wasp in his ear – who knew?! Upon seeing this, my mother (three weeks post-major back surgery and under strict instruction not to lift anything heavier than a kettle, not to twist nor bend) grabbed the lunge line and yelled at the two able-bodied people, who had full protective gear on, to get out of the way.

Despite everything, I do so love my mum and so I had to battle my urge to absolutely go full scale cowabunga and corner like Evel Knievel on rails so that I didn’t hurt her. Her crooning at me not to break her in half did sort of make the point as SD2B and mini-mother looked on in horror, so I absolutely managed to get myself under control and have a sensible 10 minutes on the lunge. For the record, sensible is so over-rated.

It did, however, buy me much cuddles and treats as I gently licked and cuddled my broken mess of a parent when we got back to the barn. It’s fair to say at that moment she loved me more than anyone else on earth.

It’s also fair to say that feeling didn’t last long…

An important question

Now I’m going to ask you a question.

So, on Christmas Day, when you’ve all over-indulged on Christmas dinner and are approaching a turkey tryptophan coma, I imagine you all like to sink down onto the sofa or the floor and just have a minute to get over the small food baby you have created. I’m assuming at no point does someone get in a panic, call an enthusiastic German Man who then – without so much as a warning – shoves his lightly lubricated arm all the way up to his armpit up your back passage?

No?

So pray tell why after I might have slightly over indulged on grass in the winter field (a sectioned off bit mind – see earlier point about fencing in a gale – so hardly 10 acres worth), I indulge in a little (ok somewhat unheard of) lie down to work off the grass gas, did a fellow livery phone mother who flew into one of her much patented panics and call Herman? Herman, who shot out to her promising the “full service”, which seemingly means violating me in every way possible whilst cracking jokes at my expense. Up to his shoulder up my arse, he asks mother to check my ear; slightly bewildered but stressed enough to be gullible, she does only for him to say to her if she can see his fingers he’d gone too far. SD2B was on the floor laughing, which made me evilly wish for him to have Herman do his prostrate exam next time it needs doing…

Needless to say, mother’s hysteria will have resulted in another enormous vets bill and made me very hangry as I was denied food for three hours once the Herman-shaped hemorrhoid had been removed from the crack of Hovis. Herman did suggest he could give a good sedative – which to be clear was for mother, not me – and disappeared chuckling to himself. I meantime am plotting revenge – I’m sorry but that level of penetration requires dinner and some drinks beforehand at the very least…

So, I’m off to wedge myself against a wall to stop anymore unwelcome infiltration and to enjoy the three blades of grass I’m clearly now going to be allowed a day. Ho, ho, blinking Ho.

Laters,

Hovis

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Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘This idea has more legs than a caterpillar convention’

Hovis — Fri, 06 Dec 2024 07:00:55 +0000

Dear diary,

Ok, fess up? Who has pi$$ed her off again? And no, I don’t mean mother – I am all too aware that someone breathing in her vicinity at the moment is pi$$ing her off due to her inability to lift, bend, twist, drive or generally do anything that in her view would make her a useful human being so thus, she is a bad tempered witch. No, I mean who has upset Mother Nature again? Did you all learn nothing from last year? If you recall, we had a prolonged period where she was so foul tempered, I had to lead a national campaign to sacrifice sh*tlands to appease her. Now to be fair, I’m all for sacrificing small annoying ankle biters but I do worry if we’ve entered another period of her being hormonal, we may be running a tad short of sacrifices. Personally I have no issue with the next port of call being small ginger Welsh things, but I am aware that small people such as mini-mother may take exception to this idea.

In light of this, can someone please apologise for whatever you’ve done, not done, said or indeed not said (she is a woman, I am a man – I am well aware that there are thus a million and one ways this upset could have been caused, so let’s cover all bases here, eh peoples?). It’s only November and currently my field resembles the aftermath of the Battle of the Somme. We have been kept inside several days this week because the fields were so waterlogged we needed a life guard on duty, and the ginger ninja’s new arm bands haven’t arrived yet.

Luckily we are due to move to our winter fields this weekend, but since we are on clay soil, they too will swiftly become mud baths if this rain continues. Winter is suddenly looking longer than mother’s face is currently and about as attractive. Many of the humans at the yard are already muttering mutinously about new hobbies that don’t involve trying to push wheelbarrows through mud thicker than a TOWIE cast member, nor having to hose off legs so regularly we are thinking of installing a car wash style brushes system on the car park so we all just walk through it on the way back from the fields.

The mothership worries about me having to stay in (which is why she injected my legs with super slime), but equally worries about me going out in the mud, standing up to my eyeballs in it eating hay and then pacing about in it. To be fair, worrying is mother’s default setting when it comes to me, but on this she does have a point. I am therefore pondering on suggesting a relocation to foreign climes for the winter months? Do any of you live abroad and could I come and stay for with you? I’m sure mother could pay you for my upkeep and you would have the pleasure of the company of an equine superstar? I’d leave the pint-sized pain in the posterior to take his chances with a snorkel and slippers back in Blighty as mini-mother does actually like to ride in winter, but since the newly made bionic woman is not allowed to ride for at least six months, I think this idea has more legs than a caterpillar convention.

I’m off to buy some suncream for my snoozel, pack my suitcase and await the offers to come flooding in faster than my field is currently flooding.

Laters,

A hopeful Hovis

PS: Theres only five more days to go on the raffle to win a mini version of me (hand-made by the brilliant Helen Nielson – The Crafty Civil Servant), with all proceeds going to Bransby Horses. Mum is really wanting to get the number to £1,000 and by all accounts we are so nearly there so please, please do buy a ticket. It’s only £1 and the money will do so much good.

PPS: Don’t also forget my new book Hovis’ Friday Diary: What’s the Story Medal Glory? which is obviously a) hilarious b) a great gift for anyone horsey or indeed with a sense of humour and c) sold with 100% of the money going to Bransby Horses. Kissmuss is coming, so put me under your tree x

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Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘About as much use as boobies on a fish’

Hovis — Fri, 29 Nov 2024 07:00:00 +0000

Dear diary,

Lord knows if this is going to even read as English; mother is a drugged up fruit loop at the moment and making about as much sense as a TOWIE cast member at a spelling bee. For those who don’t know, she had major surgery on her back (seven-and-a-half hour’s worth) to put in a load of metal work into her spine. She is now officially the bionic blubbership. In the process, they have damaged nerves into her left leg so she now can’t lift her left leg, so can’t drive and has to have her leg lifted into the car and such, like some sort of aged grandma. Apparently her attempting to get out of the bath has resulted in Greenpeace’s experts in beached whales being called and the fire brigade asking if they can use her to practice rescuing cows from ditches.

She appeared at the yard at the weekend like some sort of hobbling ghost with a colour so bad, even B&Q wouldn’t offer to be able to match it. I was only allowed to give her a kiss over my door as she’s not allowed to be pushed about, bent, twisted, lifted, nor basically do anything. Right now, it’s fair to say as a human being, she’s about as much use as boobies on a fish and as such, she’s more frustrated than a caged cat in a sardine factory. She’s feeling very, very sorry for herself, so I licked and kissed her lovingly, then spat my tea in her hair to cheer her up. It was the least I could do.

Talking of help the aged, it was Cool New Shoes Man’s half century last week. The big five-O. There are trees less old than he is. The only thing I am sure gives him comfort is that while he is officially ancient, he has had the pleasure of shoeing me for 18 of those long years, which is a privilege afforded to very few. I would have thought after all those years that he wouldn’t get as breathlessly excited when he’s close to me and I lean all my weight in for a cuddle, but he does. I am starting to ponder if its less he’s excited and more he’s exhausted though? I mean at his age I’m guessing that between the bladder and boy parts, lifting anything more than his cocoa at night and his knee rug might be a stretch. I shall bear that in mind next time he comes to shoe me and consult the “help the aged farrier” handbook.

Apparently he has a big party tomorrow night, which I’m not invited to, but limpy leg is. I have asked metal mother to pass on my regards and then kick him in the shin for not inviting me.

In other news, time is running out to win my adorable, much cheaper to keep (according to sick note anyway) handmade friend Hamish. He came with me to Your Horse is Alive and hung out with me and my celeb mates and is a true one off. Helen who made him, told robo-girl that she spent hours studying photos of me rearing to make sure she got the pattern of my belly markings just right. I would like to point out at this juncture, I don’t rear. I merely have to take two feet off the ground to gesticulate wildly at mother when she’s either heading the wrong way or I spot the Red Arrows above and I wish to wave…

Anyways, please do head to my Facebook page to see details of how to win my crocheted doppelganger – tickets only cost a pound (other currency options are available for those readers in the USA or Europe) and all the money goes to Bransby Horses.

The same of course is true of my new book, Hovis’ Friday Diary: What’s The Story Medal Glory which is a) hilarious b) guilt-free shopping, as all the money goes to charity and c) make the BEST present for the horse mad person in your life. Come on head to www.bransbyhorses.co.uk and buy the book exclusively in their online shop. They will ship anywhere in the world if you ask them nicely, so please do support us.

Anyways, hopefully my drugged up secretary has managed to translate this into something resembling English – she was slurring that badly the other day she sounded like Sylvester Stallone playing Rocky after he’d been belted in the face by some big dude with a mean right hook.

I’m off to try and will the raffle money up to £1,000 because I like a good round number and think about my preparations ahead of Kissmuss.

Laters,

Hovis

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Hovis’ Friday diary: Sir Hovis has such a nice ring, doesn’t it?

Hovis — Fri, 22 Nov 2024 07:00:02 +0000

Dear diary,

Let me start off with an apology – the mothership had spinal fusion L5/4, L4/3, L3/2 last Thursday and is thus taking my dictation somewhat off her trolley on painkillers. She can’t spell on a good day so lord knows what it will be like after the human kissing spines op and bute – just bear with her (I’ve had to for 19 years…).

Anyways, enough of my mother’s attention seeking activities, let’s move this into what you’re all really wanting to know about – which is me. Obviously!

So, last week I covered off day one at YHL where I met up with my Team GB hairless chicklets, Ros and Laura, had a slightly off-piste jumping moment, picked up my gold medal and had visitations from literally hundreds of you all. It is fair to say that it was a good day…

Ros with Hovis and the mothership. (Image credit: creditUnknown)

Later on that afternoon, I was visited by a new friend; titan of the equine world, known to millions worldwide for his talent and the mind-boggling longevity of career, John Whitaker. John was there promoting his new biography, which has special poignance as 50p from each sale is going to a charity called doitforbrodie, set up by the wonderful Emma Webb. On a note of seriousness, I doubt there’s anyone who can imagine the pain of losing a child, but for Emma to campaign the way she has is awe inspiring. So, we all had photos together, as philanthropists and changers of the world for the better. John also tried to lure me to Team GB for the showjumpers, but as I said to him – “John, my learned friend, it took a long time for British Eventing to admit they’d got it so very wrong. I am not going to abandon them now… But chuck in some haylage, a lot of loose-principled mares and some trips to some nice foreign climes and we might be able to rethink this.” He went away to think about my requests…

Laura Collett introduces Hamish – Hovis’ mini-me body double who is available to win via a raffle – to one of her horses. (Image credit: creditUnknown)

Don’t fret my eventing eaglets – there’s enough of me to go round. Mother says I’d feed an entire street for a week…

Sunday, as YHL dawned wet and miserable and as we were a (wo)man down, the mothership had to chalk my feathers. I’m not sure where she thought the chalk went, but it doesn’t send my feathers white through inhalation. I took great amusement for the fact she walked about for the rest of the day looking like A Happy Mondays hanger-on – white power marks on her arse and a suspicious amount in her moustache…

Despite the fact every time I moved, a cloud of haze went up such that I looked like a low rent version of Stars In Their Eyes as I wafted my way down the arena with Ros again and had a good old ponce about with her, posed for some photos, had a snog with Laura’s steed and generally had a ball. Hamish, my body double, came along everywhere and so we got some great shots of him hobnobbing with my buddies to try and up the money he raises. See Hamish’s adventures on my Facebook page.

Geoff Billington with Hamish. (Image credit: creditUnknown)

My new book, Hovis’ Friday Diary: what’s the story, medal glory, was flying off the shelves with people indulging in guilt-free Christmas shopping for friends, relatives, yard owners and frankly, themselves. I’ve said it a million times, but I will say it again – I don’t take anything. Nothing. Nada. Zip. When we go to the shows, mum pays for everyone’s accommodations and all my team buy their own food and drink. We do not, and never ever have, taken a single bean of money for anything we do. So please do consider heading to www.bransbyhorses.co.uk and buying me from their shop. Well, my books anyway!

To be in with a chance of winning my one off hand-made body double Hamish (created and donated for free by the brilliant Helen Nielsen – aka The Crafty Civil Servant), follow this link.

It costs just £1 a ticket (you can buy worldwide in any currency) and all the money goes again to Bransby Horses. He’s an exact replica of me – only smaller, cheaper and easier to keep. Mum will post in time for Christmas, so please do enter. I’d love to break the £1,000 mark as a thank you to Helen and to raise more money.

So, the afternoon was an emotional last ride for Ros, who has to now wonder where on earth her career could take her to peak that moment. I had a long chat with her, guiding her, supporting her and fostering that incredible talent of hers. It’s a long way since we first met at Belton in 2018, but I am so proud of how well she has taken to my coaching. LA is in the bag for her if she follows the Hovis how-to guide – she’s an all-round very special lady and I told her that.

Hovis with Ros Canter at Belton in 2018. (Image credit: creditUnknown)

As I headed home, I reflected yet again on the impact this little bogtrotter from a field in Ireland has had on the equestrian world – 19 years at the top, the OG of equine influencers, coach to the stars, gold medal-winning chef de squeak and philanthropist extraordinaire. I have to wonder where MY career goes now…

Pondering it, Sir Hovis has such a nice ring, doesn’t it? Just sayin’…

Laters,

Hovis

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

Hovis — Fri, 15 Nov 2024 07:00:31 +0000

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…

Hovis and the mothership. (Image credit: creditUnknown)

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.

Ros Canter with Hovis, who is wearing his gold medal, and his mother. (Image credit: creditUnknown)

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.

Hovis with John Whitaker and the mothership. (Image credit: creditUnknown)

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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Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘Unlike mother’s knickers, my guts weren’t in a twist’

Hovis — Fri, 08 Nov 2024 07:30:53 +0000

Dear Diary

As you read this I will be on route to Your Horse is Alive, which I am thoroughly looking forward to – I hope to see as many of you as possible, help you all spend your money on my new book and grab the odd selfie or two. I’m also hoping that there’s enough of you around to prevent my mother from murdering me, which I have to say after this week is distinctly possible…

So, for some small background: late last week there was major concern at the yard about the large display of sparkly lights and loud bangs that was due from a nearby village last weekend. The mothership being all cocky espoused my past record of dealing with these things stoically such that I had on several instances been used as a large equine comfort blanket for the more highly strung of our species (most notably having to hold Nip and Tuckshops hoof at Your Horse is Alive some years ago). “Hovis will not have an issue with any of this”, said mother confidently, “he is fine with fireworks”.

Now to add colour to this situation mother was also in Scotland for my stepdad-to-be’s (SDTB) birthday. Which for those of you who like a good factoid was 7.5 hours drive away even driving like some sort of mildly panicked bat out of hell.

I’m thinking you might be guessing where this is going…

In my defence I am, as you all know, a wildly philanthropic individual and only the other week Herman the German Needle Man had expressed worry as to how he was going to fund the refilling of the swimming pool and moat at Herman Towers. The thought of his children having to swim in mildly mucky and possibly cold water tugged at my heart strings in such a way I knew I had to help the poor wee mites. And what better way than an emergency call out on a Sunday morning… and another one on Sunday night… you know, just to make sure.

Mother and SDTB were enjoying a leisurely Sunday morning doing things I wish not to think about when the peace was apparently disturbed by Crazy Self Employed Lady (CSEL) phoning to say I didn’t look right. One video later and mother was flapping like a turkey at Winter Wonderland and hurtling down from Scotland faster than World Leaders doing a U-turn on their comments on the Toupee wearing Terror. A vet, Aunty H and CSEL were all dispatched to make sure I didn’t shuffle off my mortal coil before mother was in the same postcode, whilst my bowel motions were watched more closely than the voting pattern in a swing state.

With hindsight as Sunday activities go, I possibly should have thought things through a little more as the weekend vet was even more fond of long gloves and back-channel excavations than Herman is and thus once more I will have PTSD for some time if anyone even mentions the word “marigold”.

Despite the vet assuring mother that unlike her knickers my guts weren’t in a twist, the blubbership was mildly hysterical and so CSEL and Aunty H stayed with me most of the 7.5 hours it took mother to gather the 40+ driving licence-ending speeding fines between the hotel and home. By the time she arrived I still hadn’t pooed – which I think merely proves that unlike the mothership, I’m not full of sh*te – so just to make sure the kids didn’t suffer she called the vet out again. This time the elbow-deep delving did find the motherload, but not content with the damage she’d already done Mother did make my poor stepdad top off what will now be a memorable birthday by coming back at midnight with torches to look for poo. I’m pretty sure that he didn’t know what he was signing up for and is possible now reconsidering his life choices.

It’s fair to say 24 hours later I was absolutely fine and cleared for duty this weekend; which is more than can be said for mother whose nerves are more shot than the Turkish dude’s target, only without his sense of cool…

So, I hope many of you will come to see me this weekend, only to make sure I’m safe from mother’s wrath and to fully appreciate my dedication to Your Horse is Alive (but only just).

I have to say not only am I not full of sh*te, but my book isn’t either and will make an awesome present for all the horsey people in your life with all the money going to the charity Bransby Horses. They look after the unlucky horses who unlike me don’t have a mother who does make sure I have the best care that money can buy, even if it means she has to lapdance for her bank manager on a quarterly basis.

So come and help me, help them… and possibly bring mum some valium.

Laters,Hovis

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(Image credit: Karen Thompson)

Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘It’s official – I have the nashers of a landshark in leg warmers’

Hovis — Fri, 01 Nov 2024 06:45:12 +0000

Dear Diary

The countdown is now really on to the big book launch at Your Horse is Alive and the annual operation F2F (feral to fabulous) is firmly underway. A few weeks ago I had my hocks injected with super slime, so I do have a few unfortunate bald patches but mother is hoping that everyone will be totally distracted by the brilliance of my sparkling personality and now pearly white smile, thanks to a visit from my arch nemesis Evil Army Man yesterday.

For those of you not down with my past and thus some of these key characters (where the HELL have you been?!) Evil Army Man used to be my mother’s instructor until he got very tired of dealing with hysterical middle aged women with zero talent and a penchant for falling off and instead finished all his qualifications (and he has LOTS) to become a very high-end specialist in equine dentition.

So now instead of shouting at mother and me whilst wistfully pondering if it was beer o’clock yet, he sticks a large metal gag in my mouth and takes out his frustrations with a black and decker. He did say that my teeth belie my age and that I have the nashers of a landshark in leg warmers – which I am taking as a compliment, regardless of how he meant it.

Today I complete the trio of my support team visitors as Cool New Shoes Man comes to give me some new dancing shoes ahead of Your Horse is Alive and ensure my tootsies are top notch.

As mother’s facebook memories reminded her the other day, there were enough of you loonies who voted for him to have once made him Farrier of the Year at the Horse & Hound Awards so he cannot have me on parade with a subpar pedicure for fear of being kicked out of the funny handshake mob he belongs to.

I am constantly reminded of the unbalanced nature of our relationship when I have to turn up at these events with perfect teeth, feet, clip and feathers so white I can be seen from the European space station, whereas mother turns up looking like she’s been dragged through a hedge backwards with huge black bags under her eyes and a slightly nervous twitch. In fact, if any of you don’t know who she is then just look out for the human raccoon – black eyes, white face, fat, vicious and very possibly rabid…

I am due another clip from Crazy Self Employed Lady next week, but I am slightly alarmed what she might do as I am not in her good books at the moment. I am personally blaming Herman the German and his super slime injections, but it’s fair to say I am a little “fresh” at the minute and apparently wrangling me into the field of a morning is the equivalent of trying to put a badger into a sleeping bag.

The additional bounce coupled with the fact that going from the bright barn into the darkness of an English morning so early that the bird hasn’t even dreamt about the damn worm let alone gone looking for it, is a bit beyond my one working eye’s capability to adjust at speed, which means that (and I quote) she is “doing the “chacha slide with a 3/4 tonne Stevie Wonder”.

Rude. Just rude.

So, I am off to try to placate her before she comes near me with any scissors, practice my perfect selfie pout, and attempt levitation as I don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to keep feathers clean in a mud bath.

Laters,Hovis

Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘I am muchos de excited’

Hovis — Fri, 25 Oct 2024 06:00:58 +0000

Dear diary,

So, I remain still here, sans any side effects from the radioactive slime that mother insisted Herman the German Needle Man put into my hocks at vast expense. If anyone does want to see a really scary Halloween spooktacular, just view both my current vets bills and my lifetime cost of ownership. Or even better, ask mother about it – she goes whiter than any ghost you will ever see…

I have had the week off from Crazy Self Employed lady taking me around the block, solo as is her insane want, as I was told to take it easy for a week post the aforementioned injections. Mother did splutter slightly and insinuate I did nothing but take it easy and was at best considered semi-retired, but since the real reason we don’t do as much these days lies with the two-legged side of the relationship, then to be frank, I ignored her. I do understand that operation “get in shape for Your Horse is Alive” is underway, but I have to assume this is for my team as I am already a shape. Round is a shape…

Talking of Your Horse is Alive, I am muchos de excited to be launching my latest best seller; I have to admit this one is a corker. It’s another slightly longer and thicker one (and no, for once I am not casting aspersions on mother’s IQ), which hopefully gives you maximum bang for your book (do you see what I did there?). I will of course have to put up with mother signing copies of it for you all (one has to allow her these little things), but I am hoping many of you turn up to get your hands on another slice of literary genius.

For those of you not coming to Your Horse is Alive in person, then either send a friend or get down with the modern era and order online from www.bransbyhorses.co.uk from Monday 11 November. If you contact them, they will ship anywhere in the world, so if you are not a citizen of our little island, then please don’t be put off – your weather is probably better and you can still get me delivered. What’s not to like?

As always, all the money, every penny goes to charity so think of it as guilt-free shopping and consider me for Christmas, birthday, get well, cheer-up-someone-who-is-a-worse-rider-than-you gifts.

However, for those of you going to Your Horse is Alive, as always, I will be available for photos, selfies, snogs and sale if I kick the door too hard. Keep an eye open for where I might pop up – the possibilities are endless…

Needless to say, I am bracing for being scrubbed within an inch of my life, a touch up haircut from CSEL, lots of tears from mother about the state of my mane (I may, possibly, have sort of rubbed most of it off such that I look like the love child of Last of the Mohicans and a smurf) and some new shoes. Mum bought me some sort of miracle grow stuff but to be honest, she ends up wearing more of it than I do, which thinking about it, might explain a few things about the size of bits of her anatomy… Between the mane issues and the shaven bits on both legs, she’s alternating between crying hysterically, googling hair extensions and pondering if they make paper bags big enough to put over my head. Personally I think it gives me character and a certain je ne sais quoi (you see how much Fronsay I picked up during my stint as official supporters mascot to the British eventing team in Paris? Did I mention that at all?). Mother thinks it makes me look like I have both mange and an ill-fitting toupé.

Anyways, I am off to ponder whether I could rock a hat, ignore the pint-sized pain in the posterior prattling on and avoid doing any work.

Laters,

Hovis

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Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘He is small, ginger and Welsh…’

Hovis — Fri, 18 Oct 2024 06:00:53 +0000

Dear diary,

You will all be pleased to know that I am still here, and that a visit from Herman The German Needle Man didn’t end in a choice of euthanasia on humane grounds – yes, that’s right, we decided to let Mother have another winter as well, but with a watching brief…

I did, however, have my hocks injected with magic slime resulting in two bald patches, which mother is going to have to figure out how to cover up before Your Horse is Alive (Crazy Self-Employed Lady did retry her suggestion of “blending my legs” which, bearing in mind we have only just recovered from the Mane Scalping of 2023, Mother politely declined).

Herman decided I needed knocking out – I didn’t see why, as I wasn’t going to move – and so with his usually crafty sleight of hand gave me a little prick and the next thing I knew Tweety Pie was requesting a flyby past my ears. I must stage a protest at this point that mother felt the need to post pictures of me slightly worst for wear, sniggering about my lightweight tendencies where drugs are concerned. Firstly, everyone knows that highly tuned athletes have less tolerance for drugs and alcohol than bigger, less athletic units, which probably explains why mother can out drink an Irish fisherman and secondly, it shows what an innocent I am, living a pure life, that I can’t deal with these things and thus take less la-la juice than a Shetland.

Anyways, all is fine, no nasty joint infections, a few days confined to barracks and we should see if it’s done anything in about four weeks. If not, apparently there is another drug which Herman suggested which is even more expensive than this one was and made mother go white quicker than the PM’s tailor when asked for receipts. The good news is with me burning through her bank balance with the gleeful abandonment of fat fighters in the shop at Cadbury World, she has less money for food and is actually looking a touch more svelte than normal. This will be handy if she has to lap dance her bank manager… again…

While Herman was there, he also took blood from the ginger ninja to check his girlie hormone levels for his PMT and commented all of us looked very slim, complimenting mother on her weight management. If I hadn’t have been smacked off my boobies I might have laughed out loud at that – mother couldn’t manage to figure out which way a lift is going if she had two guesses, its CSEL who is the meanie with food.

Talking of the pain in the posterior, some of you asked how him and mini-mother got on at their one-day event. Well, it sort of ended up being less ODE and more OED (one event day). The stressage went ok, which doesn’t surprise me as he is a poncy princess with flicky toes, which combined with his pretty Barbie looks does tend to win over the judges. Unfortunately the warm-up for the showjumping was less warm-up and more survival of the fittest, which, bearing in mind they’re only small and mini-mother lacks mother’s stridency in asserting herself, they really didn’t warm up, mini-mother got herself in a total state, and as such he slammed his brakes on at the first fence and she did a detailed inspection of the filler. I have to point out that if she’d ridden me this wouldn’t have happened as a) I am big enough that no one would have come near us in the warm-up b) there is more of me to hang on to and c) I have never refused anything in my life.

They went out for a lesson on Wednesday night and it appears he has now decided that this might be a good party trick, so an hour of stopping this ensued with the instructor getting increasingly cross with him and mother grinding her teeth into dust. I have tried to point out that as a tactic, this is about as sensible as using a mane dryer in the bath, but what can I say? He is small, ginger and Welsh…

Anyways, I am off to try to figure out how to grow back hair ahead of Your Horse is Alive and try to instil some common sense into the pint-sized pain in the posterior.

Laters,

Hovis

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Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘Very rarely do I feel a fraud, but…’

Hovis — Fri, 11 Oct 2024 05:45:37 +0000

Dear Diary

Very rarely do I feel a fraud, I am after all a talking/writing horse with thousands of followers and eight books to my name with a ninth on the way. But I think, even for me, whinging about the fun and games Mother Nature is inflicting upon us here in the UK is somewhat insensitive given what’s happening to my fellow equines and humans across the pond. Two hurricanes in quick succession is more devastating a force of nature than my mother after day drinking her way through several bottles of wine and getting to the “shots is a good idea” period. For the record shots are NEVER a good idea where my mother is concerned…

Stories, videos and images of people putting their horses inside their homes or even more awfully having to turn them loose with phone numbers spray painted on them brings home the magnitude of the situation and I can only hope that all of our fellow equine community in the affected areas are as safe as possible. Our thoughts and love are with you all.

To be fair though there is one small ginger pain in the posterior who I would dearly love to turn loose, only without a phone number on him for someone to bring him back. He and mini-mother have their first proper one-day event on Sunday and frankly from the way he’s carrying on you would think he was going around Burghley. It’s a Pony Club one day thing and we don’t even know if it is going ahead because let’s be honest, more than 4cm of rain and half the short arses would be swimming, thus making it more of a triathlon than a ODE…

He was clipped last weekend (note I was clipped WEEKS ago so he’s hardly special) and he’s spent the week admiring his newly hairless frame at every given moment. I did point out that the “orange and aerodynamic” market had already been cornered by Sleezy Jet, but it hasn’t stopped him.

They have a stressage test to do and then obviously the jumpy, jumpy bit and I have tried to give him the same coaching as I gave a certain three equines over the summer, but it’s like trying to teach an amoeba a card trick. He is related to the greatest equine coaching talent the world has ever seen, the OFFICIAL supporters’ mascot to the British Eventing team at the 2024 Olympic Games (did I mention that before…?), the horse who one hoofedly led our team to glory through the sheer brilliance of his technical briefings and tactics, and yet the ginger whinger is paying about as much attention to me as mother does to the portion size advice on cheese.

Frankly I don’t care if he comes 50th out a field of 40 – it might make his ego come down to proportions slightly more akin to his actual size – but I do want mini-mother to have a chance. I am currently wondering about waiting until he’s asleep and then subliminally trying to whisper instructions to him through the bars of the stable, but that would require his brain to function when he’s asleep; as it barely works when he’s awake then I worry that’s highly unlikely and all I will do is make myself a little horse…

I can therefore only act as slightly concerned bystander if they do actually get to go at the weekend – because it’s Pony Club and we all know they are a secret cult of featherist, sizeist pony pandering individuals who won’t let anything of my size, talent or capability take mini-mother. At least I think that’s what was meant when the suggestion was met with mother and mini-mother rolling about the floor laughing (thankfully rolling in opposite directions or mini-mother would have been flatter than roadkill).

I’m off to find the furthest corner of the field away from the orange ego, pray for those in the way of Mother Nature’s latest display of power and to plot my antics at Your Horse is Alive.

Laters,

Hovis

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Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘None of us want a repeat…’

Hovis — Fri, 04 Oct 2024 06:00:50 +0000

Dear diary,

Ok. I didn’t think we would have to have this conversation this early in the year after last winter, but someone has clearly upset the mercurial one again – and no I don’t mean my mother. I mean mother nature. After all the months last year of her unleashing her wrath because I don’t know she was horny/hormonal/homicidal (*delete as appropriate), I would have thought we would have been tiptoeing around her like mice in a cattery. But no. Someone has peed her off and once again, we are being subjected to an onslaught of conditions best expressed as “bracing” while the fields are swiftly turning from green(ish) summer pastures into mud baths, two feet deep in water. By the mid-point of this past week, if I wanted to find grass, I would have had to physically duck dive and use a snorkel.

Now, it’s October peoples, and early October at that. None of us want a repeat of last winter where waterboarding was a group activity and anything under 15hh needed water wings and a lifeguard. If you all recall, I saved the day last time around by curating a deal in which we offered up sacrifices to sooth her savage soul in the shape of shitlands. Lots of shitlands. Now I don’t know about the rest of you, but I am a huge fan of the principle of the “greatest good for the greatest number” and while I suppose shitlands have their uses – cute to look at but couldn’t eat a whole one – I’m sorry, but needs must.

As I have learned from years of dealing with my mother, I think the trick this time is to not let her get up a full head of steam in her rage. Let’s attempt to bring her down a notch now, rather than really let her get going, so I’m thinking we need to start the sacrifices again now rather than waiting until we have all shrunk under the deluge of freezing cold water like wool socks in a tumble dryer. Only at least they’re warm…

So, let’s start with chucking her some shitlands and once we have exhausted our global supply of the feisty feral foot-high fidos then we can consider ponies. I have a pint-sized orange pain in the posterior that I am happy to offer up…

I am hopeful that early action and us showing our love/contritement for whatever sin we have committed which has riled her (she’s a woman – the list could be endless…) could save us from another winter of staying inside while the resident rabbits use our fields for cross channel swim training.

Mother (as in my mother) is clearly not hopeful of our efforts as she’s been talking with Herman the German Needle Man about injecting my hocks as a mitigation of me being a bit stiff last winter. I do point out that the youngest and fittest among us were a bit stiff when it was wetter than the inside of an otter’s pocket everywhere and we did about as much exercise as a sloth on gange for weeks on end. As usual, I don’t see anyone injecting her when frankly watching her from behind is like watching the leaning tower of Pisa wander down the road – i.e. slow and very, very wonky.

Anyways, due to my age (cheek), build (pot kettle black fat ass) and damage to my foot (I have housed two Kevin the Keratomas and been subject to the butchers of Bottesford doing cowboy surgery on me), they decided that steroids would be a bad idea, so I am due to have some sort of slime injected in a week or so into both rear legs. I am slightly concerned that this could cause mutations to my already phenomenal superpowers so if anyone sees me glowing in the dark at Your Horse is Alive, you know who to blame…

Anyways, I am off to co-ordinate the sacrifice. Please don’t be selfish – operation Shitlands for Drylands is critical to us surviving the next few months, so give generously.

Laters,

Hovis

(Image credit: Karen Thompson)

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Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘I haz muchos de news to tell you all…’

Hovis — Fri, 27 Sep 2024 05:45:21 +0000

Dear Diary

So muchos de news to tell you all. Starting with the important news of my new book! The ninth in my incredible series, the new installment picks up where my last book Hovis’ Friday Diary: Laughter, Lameness and Lockdowns left off and will see all my antics right through to me being the official supporters mascot for British Eventing at the 2024 Paris Olympics…which I might have mentioned before? In passing maybe …

As always all the money from the book, every last little penny, will go to charity with neither me nor the mothership taking a penny. We are excited and proud to announce that we will be exclusively launching the new book Hovis’ Friday Diary: What’s the story, Medal Glory at the cult event Your Horse is Alive on 9-10 November.

I absolutely love Your Horse is Alive and we are so thrilled to be asked again – it will be a great opportunity for you to grab a selfie, a snog, some merch… and unfortunately the chance to be in close proximity to the mothership and team. As always there may be some other exciting things happening, but that’s all like hush hush so come and find out – let us know if you’re going so we know how many security personnel I need to request on my rider… some of you are slightly scary and I need adequate levels of protection…

Last Friday saw Cool New Shoes Man come to give me and the orange hued horror a pedicure. The mothership had been injected for kissing spines the day before so was so pitiful even CNSM gave her a cuddle. I was quite worried he’d gone soft until he then posted on my facebook pages pointing out that she is far older and more broken than I am. He has always found himself wildly amusing and when it comes to absolutely mercilessly extracting the urine from mother, I have to agree.

I showed my appreciation for his quick witted humour by leaning adoringly on him, only to have him get all embarrassed and breathless – honestly, I know that being close to equine royalty can be overwhelming, but I genuinely do worry when he’s going to get over it. Barbie Boy was under strict instructions not to eat any more of CNSMs braces after his dental dexterity last time resulted in mother dive bombing his mouth trying to get metal out and CNSM being in dire danger of losing his trousers for the rest of the day…

Barbie Boy was fidgeting about like a politician in donated pants and licking CNSM man like a fat fighter on 2mm of chocolate on a rice cake so it’s fair to say his ancestry and parentage was called into question more times than facts in a Trump speech – needless to say I stood like a rock (albeit a leaning, snuggly one…).

In thanks for me being a well behaved pilar of society, Crazy Self Employed Lady whipped me in the other night and robbed me of all my hard grown hair such that my yearly transformation from manly orange-in-the-wrong-light to seal pup grey is complete. I have always been the poster child for GreenPeace – specifically sponsor to the “save the mother whale” campaign – and this time of year sees that linkage look even stronger.

Mother did in fairness save my feather as CSEL suggested “blending” my legs; having witnessed a similar suggestion on my mane, which led to me needing to hide in a bush for six weeks whilst the inch-long mohawk grew back, mother respectfully declined this suggestion and issued a no fly zone over my feather area.

So the book is nearly ready, Your Horse is Alive is ready, my haircut is ready, the question is, are you?

Laters,

Hovis

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Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘It’s the arrival of the spooktacular season – and I don’t mean Halloween’

Hovis — Fri, 20 Sep 2024 10:34:08 +0000

Dear Diary

Apologies for the lack of comms again last week but once again my mother had jetted off to foreign climes leaving me sans any form of communication tooling. Mainly because the biggest tool was on a plane…

I am going to have to remedy this situation, which means either asking Santa Paws for my own laptop or stepping up my funding of Herman the German Needles Man’s children’s private education by going back to seeing him on an hourly basis… every day…

Whilst this second avenue will ensure that she doesn’t have the funds to go anywhere other than a tent in the garden, it will also lead to mother sobbing hysterically – got to be honest, a red-nosed, wild-eyed, soggy haired snot goblin is not what any of us need, so on reflection that’s not an attractive option. Not only that, but I am just about getting to the stage of being able to see a rubber glove without instantaneous PTSD flashbacks of The Hand of Herman disappearing into parts of my body no human should venture near so perhaps not…

Thankfully mother was not bereft of a mobile phone so when Mother Nature decided to throw yet another of her fun fits last week, soaking us all and making nights colder than then mothership’s heart WHILST WE ARE STILL SLEEPING OUTSIDE, Crazy Self Employed Lady was able to phone and politely suggest I needed to come in at night as I looked more fed up than Trump’s security team. Mother, obviously suitably sedated on Italian happy juice apparently agreed so at least I had a few nights back in the relative warmth and dry of my stable.

It’s definitely safe to say we have skipped the “summer” programme this year and are safely now back in autumn, which means many things: darker mornings, darker nights, frost, seasonal sacrifice of the hair we have spent hours growing and the arrival of the season of spooktacular.

No, I don’t mean Halloween – I mean the stage of the year where the word “fresh” is used as regularly as the adjective that starts with F and sounds like duck. The season where falling leaves are now classed as would be assassins and people across the land jump for cover as horsepersons are seen piaffing down the middle of the road with about as much control as the PM has over his cabinet.

The season where its “arm day” every ride as said horse person attempts to hold back ¾ of a tonne of freshly clipped, over excited, snorting dragon free-styling hard enough for Australia to kidnap them as their next entry to the break dancing at LA2028.

The season where the sales of stronger bits, sticky bottoms jodhpurs, calming remedy and gaffer tape go through the roof (often with an accompanying rider still attached), and of course, the season where peoples attempt to take the aforementioned steeds at high speed across the fields chasing men who have nothing better to do than run across the countryside being chased by lots of wide-eyed women swearing a lot. And for the record here I mean drag hunting, not a normal night out in Newcastle – that’s a WHOLE different thing…

Whilst I am now too old and much too mature for such shenanigans, the same can’t be said for Barbie Boy who blotted his copy book last week by rearing, like actually took two front feet off the floor, because he wasn’t allowed to go into the barn after the yartd floosie who was in season and wanting a little bit of action herself.

I hadn’t got the heart to point out that a) she’d done it to all of us males including Bob the human so clearly wasn’t picky, b) he’s as ball-less as the rest of us, and c) he’d have had to have stood on the mounting block, thus repurposing the name and the block for totally different things… bless him though. He didn’t half get mini-mother and the mothership riled up.

I watched on with amusement as I’m three times his size and have never won an argument with the mothership in the many many many many years she has been my minion so he stood about as much chance as the last custard cream at a fat fighters’ meeting. The yoof of today – not got the brains of an amoeba with a head injury…

Anyways, I am off to await the arrival of Cool New Shoes Man to fit me with some new dancing shoes so who knows – maybe I might throw some shapes over the weekend. You know, just to help mother tone those flabby bingo wings…

Laters,

Hovis

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Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘Listen up guys – I haz bigger news than Oasis reuniting’

Hovis — Fri, 06 Sep 2024 05:47:08 +0000

Dear Diary

So, the world has been buzzing this week with everyone utterly excited at a newly awaited chapter in the entertainment world, a reemergence of true giants with a long history of giving the fans what they want; yes peoples! That’s right. I’ve announced a new book… oh and some band called Oasis is having a reunion or something?

This latest literary masterpiece will be the ninth book from my rather large pen and will pick up where my last epic Hovis’ Friday Diary: Laughter, lameness and lockdowns finished, at the end of 2021.

The working title is Hovis’ Friday Diary: What’s the story, medal glory (I iz nothing but down with the pop references) and as per all the others in my impressive back catalogue all the proceeds will go to charity – I don’t take a bean, and despite her ample girth perhaps giving other views, neither does mother.

We’ve been at this a long time now so hopefully you are all up to date with all the previous eight books but in case you’ve been lost down a mine / under a rock / serving a lengthy sentence for crimes against fashion after wearing your riding gear and a pair of crocs to Waitrose, then all of my previous hilarious diaries are available at bransbyhorses.co.uk in the online shop.

More news to come on launch dates, where I might be going to do said launch, who I might be letting tag along and other such gossip will be available in due course so stay tuned to my social media pages…

So, whilst I have been sorting out meeting my publishers, my clever art work persons and the like, mini-mother has arrived back from various holiday jaunts (and no the apple clearly didn’t fall far from the tree – the mothership goes away AGAIN today so don’t expect a diary next week) and is bringing back the pint sized pain in the posterior, the ginger whinger, into work, having allowed him several weeks off over the summer.

To hear him complain you’d think he was being publicly flogged instead of allowed to have fun jumping in the school, something I’m no longer allowed to do as apparently “the mind might be willing, but the body isn’t”. I assume this means mother as I am admittedly of more advanced years than I used to be but I still have more bounce per ounce than Tigger on a caffeine high after a few lines of Columbian marching powder.

As I spent my summer as chef de squeak for the British Eventing Team in Paris – did I mention that at all? – I thought I would give him some hints and tips in the field the other evening. Mother snapped a few photos of my pep talk and it appears that due to my batman fly mask I didn’t see the little urine extracting eunuch yawning throughout my brilliantly technical briefing.

Just goes to show that the Welsh wonder is as gormless as he is short – here he has access to the greatest coach in the world and he treats the whole thing as a joke. It’s a good job he’s in a different field I can tell you or there would be an ass whooping… although whose is debatable as admittedly he’s an aggressive little git with serious small man syndrome so mum might have to do it for me…

Not-so-mini-anymore-mother did come for cuddles and some advice from me which did mollify me a tad – she’s always been the brains of the outfit that’s for sure.

Anyways I best be off to proof read my manuscript, stand by for the film offers and think about who I could use as a stunt double – maybe they could kick Barbie Boys ass for me?

Laters,

Hovis

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Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘Life is completely unfair’

Hovis — Fri, 30 Aug 2024 06:00:59 +0000

Dear diary,

Sorry for the absence last week, but her ladyship bobbed off to Port Seagul with her better half, mini-mother and the brothership’s daughter for the week leaving me sans laptop and minion to type for me.

Personally, I enjoy these wonderfully quiet periods where she is AWOL but I can understand many of you raising your eyebrows at the amount of time she spends in gross dereliction of her duties – and to be clear here, I mean writing down my immensely witty musings and earning money to enable me to continue to support the first class further education of Herman the German Needle Man’s offspring. I would suggest you complain, but as her skin is as thick as her waistline is, she will be positively impervious…

The mothership being away doesn’t mean I get to lay in the lap of luxury doing the same as her (although to be fair, a mother laid covered in suncream in anyone’s lap would be enough to a) induce nightmares and b) have Greenpeace called out to a beached whale…). Oh no. I have to both work and starve to death because she merely elevates Crazy Self-Employed Lady from being second in command to being commander and leaves a list of orders long enough to rival Mariah Carey’s rider.

As I mentioned the other week, her and Cool New Shoes Man had several inappropriate conversations last time he was here – now this is nothing unusual as they are always inappropriate, but this was about my demise and my waist line. Both of which subjects I a) don’t think they should be discussing within my earshot and b) were overwhelmingly ironic considering both have a list of ailments to keep a Harley Street physician in the lifestyle to which they are accustomed until the end of time AND are both at the “show condition” end of the spectrum.

Anyways, because life is completely unfair, and they don’t have anyone to gaffer tape their gobs shut, I am now back on restricted grazing while they continue to free range forage like fat fighters at Cadbury World. Crazy Self-Employed lady has also been taking me out hacking to help with my weight loss and my general health and fitness. As always, the gross unfairness of this situation is overwhelming – my mother’s arse needs a wide load sticker and the last time she was seen to break into anything even resembling a fast walk was when they called last orders… but I’M on a fitness regime. Life, it’s fair to say, sucks harder than a bag of lemons.

In order to try to reverse some of this abuse I am keen to rekindle the excitement of the summer and my stint as unofficial chef de squeak. A national treasure would surely not be subjected to such cruelty and therefore to this end lies my salvation. While I clearly was the reason that Team GB did so well, I am keen to show that it’s not just the world class riders who can benefit from my expertise. I am, after all, a horse of the people and I am keen to help convey the message that eventing is for everyone. I, therefore am offering my substantial coaching skills to anyone who needs assistance with any phase of eventing, at any level. I am happy to answer questions via social media, over the phone or indeed come and coach in-person, offering the same insightful direction as I gave our gold medal-winning team. And that’s before I mention the little chat with the Japanese team and their brilliant bronze.

So send your dilemmas, worries and eventing issues to HovisHeretoHelp and I will help to prevent you being the most watched video on shiteventersunite. Special on-site coaching rates given to any group of six or more mares with low standards and high energy…

Laters,

Hopefully Hovis

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Hovis’ Friday diary: Surely my talents will still be appreciated by someone?

Hovis — Fri, 16 Aug 2024 06:00:01 +0000

Dear diary,

Thank you for the many suggestions after last week’s entry asking where I should focus my attentions next. I agree I could probably do a much better job of running this country, and indeed a knighthood should be on its way, but I do think the suggestion of leading the synchronised swimming team had an accompanying drip of sarcasm? I am a land horse not a sea horse peoples, and how would I write my own diary underwater? Get back into the real world, eh…?

Anyways, back here in the real world, it’s fair to say that my moment of mega-stardom is over and normal service has resumed. Cool New Shoes Man came on Friday to do me and the ginger whinger and spent a lot of time discussing with the mothership how slimlined Barbie boy is, how I could do with being on a diet and the numerous ways that my time on this planet is likely to come to an end. While I stood there… I mean, literally, I was right there.

Firstly pot belly, kettle to the pair of them. CNSM is looking in show condition to put it mildly and the mothership – well the term “walking laminitis case” would apply if she could walk without a) limping and b) without looking like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Or in mother’s case, pizza…

Standing at the wrong angle I may possibly, to the short sighted look like I may have put on a few pounds, but that’s only because I haven’t given any to Herman The German Needle Man of late. Pounds to be clear before you gutted minded individuals start sniggering in your cereal. Needless to say, Crazy Self Employed lady was called and I am now more restricted than a Russian Oligarch. I might actually see grass again sometime next spring, but then who knows.

Barbie Boy on the other hand was seen as very slender. I didn’t like to point out the blindingly obvious which is he’s only 12.2hh so a LOT smaller than me, in EVERY way, and also has severe PMT so mother keeps him in shape to avoid having to pay alarming amounts of money to the vets to make sure his insulin levels don’t reach higher numbers than his IQ…

Mother and CNSM clearly then felt they had done enough to ensure I starve to death for the rest of the year and turned their attention to my age and various joints and a long winded discussion as to whether I am fit to face another winter. Well not if you starve me to death first no, peoples. Thankfully the unanimous decision was I am in fine fettle for my age and ailments, which made me heave a sigh of relief – only one mind, because then CNSM proceeded to give his view on what was going to cause me to shuffle off my mortal coil and how he and Herman have a code word and grab bags ready to sprint to the airport when THAT phone call comes in. WHILE I WAS STOOD THERE! Seriously. This conversation was wrong on more levels than a lift in a brothel.

And this is what it comes to. One week you’re the toast of the nation, celebrated chef de squeak, self-proclaimed saviour of British equestrianism and the next you have to stand and listen to a view on how long before you’re actual toast. To be clear, the view is quite some considerable time before anyone panics – I mean like mother might actually slim down to double digits before then, that’s how long we’re talking, but it’s the principle of the matter.

I am currently ringing around my eventing chicklets and seeing if any of them has a spare stable going. Surely my talents will still be appreciated by someone?

Laters,

Hovis

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Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘The world is my lobster’

Hovis — Fri, 09 Aug 2024 06:00:47 +0000

Dear diary,

So now the excitement of my stunning achievements at the Olympics is dying down and the last weeks of the Games has been handed over to lesser sports like throwing objects further than mother can chuck a tantrum or pretending to be a rabbit (do humans have ANY idea how daft they look doing the hop, skip, jump thing?), one question remains. What next?

What’s clear is the evidence that I am indeed an amazing chef de squeak – the lack of clear rounds in the individual showjumping just shows what happens when I am no longer around. Contrast that to the brilliant direct coaching I gave to our eventers (“jumpy, jumpy, gallopy, gallopy and repeat” = GOLD), the indirect help I gave to our showjumpers (“We need to be more streamlined than a greased weasel with the turning circle of a fat fighter who missed the desert station at the buffet” = GOLD) and the words of my wisdom which filtered down to the stressage squad (pretend you are Billy Whatshisface, prancey dancey = bronze) and the facts speak for themselves. In any language – not just fronsay.

It therefore goes without saying that even Stevie Wonder in a blindfold could see that I am needed. Without me it all goes to rat poop faster than a Newcastle lass’s day out at a bottomless brunch. LA2028 is already in the diary but where are my talents needed before then? Do I stick with coaching the elite big guns for my King and country? Do I extend out to other brilliant eventers such as my mate Ollie Country-finish or my besties Mary and Emily? Do I offer clinics to grassroot eventers (as long as they bring the rest of the grass) and bring a whole generation forward, coached in the ways of the feather? Do I seek to get a TV deal and be like that body dude with my own channels and programmes on how to do each phase? I feel the world is my lobster, but I seek guidance and feedback on how best to spread my skills seeds.

One collaboration that I think we need to make happen is I need to meet Snoop Doggy Dawg. I mean the dude is seriously cool and I think we both have a lot in common: we make equestrian sports hip to the masses, we both have fantastic manes, we’re both fly with the ladies and we both like a lot of grass…

I do feel he jumped on my bandwagon a bit with his whole “I am the mascot” thing – dude, I was the official supporter mascot long before you rocked up – but I think we might hit it off. He might be the D-O -Double G but I am the H O V E, the OG – he might be fly but he ain’t got no feather. So my cool friend, shall we drop it like it’s hot shod and pull off the best collaboration the world has ever seen? Get your people to talk to my people and let’s chill.

So, ideas of what you want to see me do/how best I can use my talents to further improve British eventing on a postcard. I’m keen to hear from you all so remember #Hovisheretohelp

Laters,

Hovis

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(Image credit: Karen Thompson)

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Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘The most amazing week of my entire life’

Hovis — Fri, 02 Aug 2024 06:00:21 +0000

Dear diary,

Well, where do I start on what has been the most amazing week of my entire life? For once I am almost lost for words – note almost, otherwise this would be a seriously short diary entry. Let’s be honest, I have always, always said that I was the weapon British Eventing (BE) didn’t know, or wouldn’t admit, that they needed, and let’s be equally honest, I think the majority of you might have humoured me slightly. Sort of like when people tell mother she’s semi-amusing/not that fat/can sort of ride…

But I KNEW.

And I never stopped dreaming.

Because feathered or flighty, all terrain or thoroughbred brain, eventing is for everyone. Just some of us were meant to do it at the very top peoples. Now because they took longer to get with the programme than mother takes doing her noodle curls, I am sadly now past my prime to actually compete (although I still fancy my chances at doing that cross-country course in a way NEVER seen before), but I have long since held the view that I would be the best Chef de Squeak the world has ever seen. And I think peoples, you all now have to agree.

After the grande fromage (I am SO down with the fronsay now) of BE, Rosie, came to realise what was needed, and I accepted the call to be BE’s official supporter mascot – well I think it’s fair to say the other nations knew that it was pretty much all over. With our team’s talent, horsepower, brilliant support staff and my frankly incomparable advice, there was never another outcome likely.

I’m hoping you read my daily insights into what I said to our boys and girls every morning, because frankly now knowing the result might take away from just how visionary and inspiring I was. Churchill, Mandela, Martin Luther King, Barack Obama – all amazingly inspiring speakers of their time. But none of them could beat me telling our lads to go out there and “gallop gallop, jumpy, jumpy” – my instructions on each key fence of the cross-country was legendary and even though we can all have an opinion on a French fence judge’s unfortunate flag faux pas, there is no doubt that the team nailed it.

As I said at the time – they may be slim and featherless, but I have never been so proud of my little hairless chicklets as I was every night. They did everything I told them to the T – and look what happened?!

What was even more inspiring was seeing all the pictures of eventing fans from around the globe clutching my images and waving my flag as you all tried to capture a piece of my magic. As photographic evidence clearly showed, I even loaned a bit of the love to the Japanese team (we already had it in the bag so I could afford to be generous) and look what happened. I am the horse equivalent of lucky heather. Forget the lucky horse shoe – you get the full four legs and a hell of an ass with me. It’s clear that I am now going to have to be installed as a stalwart of the team, as to risk taking it away now is like to risk not wearing your lucky pants – just asking for a fit paramedic to have to cut your clothes off while your mates film it for shiteventersunite…

Mother unsurprisingly got thoroughly over emotional about the whole thing, which is utterly embarrassing – honestly, she springs more eye leaks like a spider in an onion factory. Although even I had a small lump in my throat when I saw we got a write up in the Olympic edition of the proper Horse & Hound magazine, as well as a moving shout out from British Eventing, in which they recognised my talent. I however got over it pretty quickly as it would have got in the way of me eating grass…

It’s taken 22 years to get here peoples, but I haz arrivé sur la grande scène – and why yes ladies I do spraken the fronsay. There is very little I can’t do…

So, I await to hear when we start planning LA 2028, when you’re all petitioning parliament for my knighthood for services to sport and where I need to be for the victory parade.

Laters,

Hovis

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Hovis’ Paris diary: ‘Guys, we need legs like riverdance and faster switchback turns than a politician on the radio’

Hovis — Mon, 29 Jul 2024 05:15:19 +0000

Dear Diary

What can I say? I did the “I told you so” yesterday so I think it’s “I told you so with a cherry on top” today. Did I or did I not tell you all for YEARS that I am the greatest secret weapon in the equestrian world? In my hay day I would have gone around that course myself in a way that no one would have seen before – now I am a little older, a little wiser and slightly more creaky, I have held fast to the view that I would make the best chef de squeak the world has ever seen. Due to the vision, bravery and foresight of their new CEO, British Eventing came to their senses and admitted this and LOOK WHAT IS HAPPENING…

Under my guidance, tutelage and mentorship the team are going amazingly, surpassing all expectations and nailing every instruction I have given them. They may not have my muscles, my feathers or my moustache, but I could not be more proud of my featherless flight birds. They are like my little penguin chicklets and I am a very proud dad.

But we have a couple of hurdles still to come, firstly the trot-up (knees up, knees up), and then one last job to do and that’s showjumping.

In my day I was an awesome showjumper – if we gloss over my arguments with mother over strides, an inability to stop once hitting warp speed in indoor arenas, and an unfortunate incident when I abandoned a round half way through to go and get an ice-cream, then I was seriously good.

So in one final installment one last behind the scenes listen to my team talk this morning:

“Team,Guys, what can I say? You were all amazing yesterday – Dubs you so got the gallopy gallopy, jumpy, jumpy bit nailed. Awesome job my Southern Irish named mate.Dan – considering you decided to ad-lib Cinderella, you were awesome. Word to the wise however – can we try and keep our shoes on today?Walter – unlucky dude, but I hear tales of a long lie-in and an extra cross-aunt yesterday. What did I tell you? Just think about what you eat today – we do not need flatulence over those poles. All of them need to stay the heck up.So, I know you’re all tired and everything aches but we have one last job to do.Today is about speed and accuracy – sort of like mother downing drinks before last orders. We need you to do a dirty dancing and “be like the wind”, only the non-blowy type. We need legs up into our undercarriage like a 747 carrying a load of vestal virgins. We need to be more streamlined than a greased weasel with the turning circle of a fat fighter who missed the desert station at the buffet. We need faster switchback turns than a politician on the radio and the vertical take off capabilities of a eurofighter with gas.Walter, you’re up first. As before – you go and suss out every plant pot, flower and camera position and when none of its eats you then the rest of you can relax.Looks, there’s bound to be more fillers out there than in the entire cast of TOWIE but they are not going to hurt you. Any monster / carnivore / horse-eating menace is wanting prime beefcake and that’s me. You’re all like a sticks of celery to these creatures – chewy, low calorie and not worth the effort. If anyone if under threat it’s me and I’m prepared to brave it so suck it up my little buttercups and get on with it.Your pilots are bound to be tired too so no flattening them in the trot up, just because you’ve been dragged out of bed early either. Just do it like you did the other day and all will be fine. No hooves up to anyone – we will save that when we are the winners – not before.So in summary, legs tucked up and crossed like you’re attending a riverdance convention, count your strides, keep your eyes open and don’t forget to engage your upwards thrusters. Once again I am metaphorically and emotionally lending you my feathers so my little chicklets you can fly. So boingy boingy, bouncey bouncey, neaty feety and non party farty.Hooves in my tired little Hovite heros. One last ride – urn, duh, two car… GO TEAM!”

Watch our amazing team live on TV, or live streaming, wave your flags for my boys – and whether you’re back in Blighty, with us in Versaille, or elsewhere around the world, post your pictures of you supporting us all with #HovisInParis #Hovisheretohelp.

One last ride peoples, one last ride.

I’m off to find a plant-pot to hide behind – I’m not sure I dare to watch…

Laters,

Hovis

Catch up on Hovis’ previous Paris diaries…

[col;ection]

Hovis’ Paris diary: ‘My little hairless Olympic chicklets were incredible’

Hovis — Sun, 28 Jul 2024 05:45:19 +0000

Dear diary,

I don’t like to say I told you so. It lacks decorum, class and refinement.

Ha! Screw that!

TOLD YOU SO!

Have I not for YEARS told British Eventing (BE) that if they used me, world domination was inevitable? And, thanks to the vision and frankly the ability to admit that they have been wrong from the BE grande fromage Rosie, who had the humility and respect to fall on her sword and ask for my help, we exited yesterday with a record-breaking Team Stressage score. That record was held previously by the Ozzies for their impressive 68.6 in Hong Kong in 2008. We smashed that with 66.7 yesterday and, let’s be honest here, there is one reason for that…

They all listened to me.

‘Dubs’ went first and did an awesome job, importantly coming back and telling ‘Dan’ and ‘Walter’ where all the horse-eating things appeared to be lurking and also the news they prefer Clydesdale chowder to thoroughly bred tatin.

Then Dan went and did flicky toes EXACTLY as I told him to do. He remembered the no Dory rule and counted like a champ; his boings were boingy and he and Laura deserved to break the records. He knows, of course, if I had been competing it would have been a whole different story and we had a manly hug behind the scenes to recognise my passing of the torch. I have transcended my own talents and it’s not about me now peoples, it’s about my team and my country.

Walter and I had a long chat in the wait until his dressage and the boy went and did exactly as we discussed. I never thought I could be so proud of anything with no feathers, but my little hairless chicklets were incredible. I almost had a lump in my throat, but that would have got in the way of the grass so I got myself together pretty quickly.

So now we have to focus on today. Yet again in the spirit of transparency I will share with you my team talk from this morning:

“Team,You were all awesome yesterday and I sincerely hope that we have taken one thing away from it; follow me and we are all good. As a shadow Chef de Squeak, I am without compare; I know your human Chef de Squeak is amazing, but frankly he has two legs so he will never see it my way – and as I’m half blind, I see it in a VERY special way.And that’s going to be important.You and your pilots need to agree which one of you is going to have your eyes shut over each jump. There is only an option for one of you to poop yourself at any given time, so please ensure that you have figured out the brown knickers and the eyes wide shut thing ahead of time.So let’s talk tactics.This course is fast and twisty in places, so please go easy on the cross-aunts tomorrow and think about a light breakfast. Or act like my mother every time she sees a camera and suck everything in – it’s only 9min2sec of your life and then you can breathe out… remember oxygen is overrated. Seriously, I know you’re all slim, non-feathered types but there’s more tricky and skinny fences here than a pre “Marbs” episode of TOWIE – you’re going to need to have the razor sharp focus of a fat fighter hunting the last After Eight…Walter, my friend. I know you are a Lord and all that, but please try not to get distracted with all the castles – there are a LOT of them, but this is not an episode of Homes Under The Hammer, so let’s just focus.At fence 13 make sure you leave the oars where they are. We are the equestrian team, not the rowing team – our boat boys brought their own gear with them, we don’t need to be helpful and take them extras.Fence 18 does look like you’re dive bombing Rudolf, but I can assure you that Father Kissmuss will forgive you all – your presents are not in jeopardy and so just launch yourselves over it. Yes Dubs, if it’s a big deer then you are right it’s a buck, but that doesn’t mean you have to do one. Trust me.I know fence 24 looks like the steps in Rocky, but there will be NO Eye Of The Tiger moment here peoples – just jump the bloody thing and move on. Gallopy gallopy, jumpy, jumpy, and repeat.In short, I need you to be fast, slim-lined and focused. Basically everything my mother isn’t…None of you will jump this course the way I would and we all accept that, but you all love cross-country so go and enjoy it – I will metaphorically and emotionally lend you my feathers so you can all fly.So, hooves in my little Hovis’ heroes. Gallop like you’ve never galloped before, jump like grasshoppers on a promise, keep your pilots in the plate and come home victorious and safe. Urn, duh, two car, GO TEAM!”

As always, please watch our team, show them every bit of support in the Hovite Army – wave my flags and will them all home. We all know they won’t do it like me, but by god, they’re going to try.

I’m off to suss out the showjumping for tomorrow #HovisinParis #Hovisheretohelp #HovisWithUs

Laters,

Hovis

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Hovis’ Paris diary: ‘Guys, this is not the time for ad-libbing or any artistic interpretation’

Hovis — Sat, 27 Jul 2024 05:43:00 +0000

Dear Diary

I know – multiple entries from me but this is extenuating circumstances – it’s not often that the fate of British eventing Olympic success lies in a boy’s hooves so c’est la vie.

I am now firmly getting down with this Fronsay and am finding that the French mares appear to be a little more l’aisse faire with their morals than their British counterparts. Not that there is any time for le hankie pankie because we have work to do.

Today is after all stressage day.

Now I know what you’re all thinking – what on earth does a big manly unit like The Destroyer know about stressage? My friends – you are forgetting what I did for Nip and Tuckshop. Just because I view it as a total waste of time, indeed in my world “flatwork” is the bit between two fences, does not mean I doesn’t understand it. It means I choose to run away from it like mother away from a set of scales – with as much speed as one can muster without actually breaking into an outright run…

However, this is not about me.

This is about my country.

So, once again, in the interests of transparency here is a transcript of our team talk this morning…

“TeamLook, I get it. No one wants to be bobbing about in the big arena unless there’s fences in there, but look at this like the starter you have to eat before the fab desert – the Less-cargo before the MILF feuille. (Keep your mind on the job here my Southern Irish friend, mind on the job, but let me assure you, if we win you and I are SO going to find out what that is).I know you’ve all been having advice from stressage coachy types but let’s keep this simple.First off ensure that your pilots have strapped all sausages and baps down tightly – we do not need any reenactments of ferrets fighting in a bag when doing the sitting trot. Nor any injuries due to unsecured airbags… I’ve been there with mother looking like a raccoon… it’s not a good look…Secondly, just accept that you’re going to look a plonker, take a deep breath and dance like no one is watching even though you know the eyes of the world are on you. Think pointy legs and flicky toes and imagine you’re at a barre. No London, they don’t sell gin, it’s not that kind of bar…This is not the time to forget how to count. If you’re supposed to do four boingy boingy bits then its FOUR, not three or five. We do not get extra marks for more or less boing. Don’t do a Dory, concentrate and COUNT.Whatever else this is not the time for ad-libbing or any form of artistic interpretation of the ask. I appreciate coming from the king of freestyle moves this may be hard to hear, but for the few moments that are required we need you to harmoniously dance with your humans – even if they have two left feet, no sense of rhythm and the moves from the back-catalogue of a geriatric Justin Trousersnake.This is the Olympics thus you need to remember if you want gold then you are NOT a pirate. X does not mark the spot so DO NOT STOP AT IT. I know in any other stressage test in all the fields in all the world you do, but today you do not. We will subtly wave a Hovis flag – just follow the flag peoples and do NOT stop until you reach it. NOT the flag on my ass, no Graff, the wavey type…Dubs you’re up first. You need to assess all the flower-pots, cameras etc for danger and report back. There will be NO squad spooking. If it didn’t eat Dubs then it’s not going to eat the rest of you – it’s clearly more interested in prime Hovis beefcake and I’m going to be safely back here ensuring I have my Eventing CEO buddy to throw at any French flower fiends.Hooves in peoples, hooves in; go out there and pretend you are Billy Whatshisface, prancey dancey and it will be over before you know it. Then we get to do the fun stuff and go rumpy jumpy tomorrow. Right guys you lead the numbers… urn, duh, twoir GO TEAM!”

Make sure you watch all the action today live on TV with our guys going out at 9.18am, 1.27pm and 4.21pm British time. Show yourselves waving your Hovis flags and remember to hashtag everything #HovisInParis #Hovisheretohelp #HovisWithUs

I’m off to walk the cross-country course and suss out the situation.

Laters,

Hovis

Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘Suck your tums in, stick your airbags out – un, duex, trois, Go TEAM!’

Hovis — Fri, 26 Jul 2024 06:00:44 +0000

Dear diary,

C’est l’heure!

I know, I know, there is no end to my talents – I am a writer, heartthrob, comedian, all-round multi-disciplinary superstar and linguist supreme. There is no wonder the Dutch team offered huge sums of money for me at Windsor all those years ago, but thankfully for all of us, I remained here where I am carrying the torch, the flag and neigh indeed the hopes of our nation on my broad, ginger-in-the-wrong-light, shoulders.

So where to start?

Last weekend my mother swallowed her pride (which is thankfully a LOT smaller than other parts of her anatomy), acknowledged she was a bigger muppet than Kermit and reshot my flag photos – this time with the flag actually the correct way around. In fairness, I have long since told you all, for all her snazzy big job and university education, her IQ rivals that of a garden rake, but no one believes me. In her defence, she did admit every day was a school day but since the last time mother was at school, I suspect they used slates and chalk, with possibly the odd quill for posh writing lessons, then I’m not sure the analogy holds water any better than a sieve but neigh mind.

Thankfully she had learnt said lesson enough to ensure that Crazy Self-Employed lady didn’t make the same mistake when she clipped the flags on my ass, so we have averted any potential incident involving my rear end and any form of distress signal. Well further distress, I still have PTSD around marigolds… and I don’t mean the flowers…

(Image credit: creditUnknown)

Anyways we are off!

The team have all arrived now safe and sound in Versailles having stopped off along the way to get used to the weather and all things French. Now part of my job is to give you all the inside gossip, so it’s fair to say we have discovered that my other equine team pals don’t spraken le Fronsay the way I does, and while I’m not going to mention names, we did have a couple of misunderstandings of the linguistic nature – such as foie gras is not the French for Doctor Green…

I am currently therefore trying to teach everyone the basics so there’s no cultural issues – there’s too many restaurants around these parts for us to run the risk…

So, today is trot-up day and in the interests of transparency, and horse interest stories, I am going to share with you the briefing I gave the team this morning:

“Team,Today is the day, we are going to walk out there and show the world what we’ve got and more importantly ensure that all the vets and important welfare people know we are in as tip top condition as you non-feathered types can manage. You are elite athletes, so we need to act as such and remember the following:This is not the time for freestyle, nor any form of interpretive dance routines. As you all know, I am a massive fan of the art (usually in the middle of the road having seen a tractor) but now is NOT the time for your best Carlton impression. As a result, all four tootsies are to remain par terre. Vous comprenez? Or put another way, feet on the floor peoples, feet on the floor.You are to walk and trot forwards at the pace and direction requested. I am fully aware you are all a super helpful lot and indeed aware that French air traffic control is often on strike, but now is not the time to ensure Sharon’s shenanigans in Shagaloof are on time by signalling to any aircraft in the vicinity. See above point about feet…You are also not to forget that your pilot is also with you and may have the issue of being somewhat more petite than you are. We have rather defeated the purpose if you pass the trot-up but flatten your partner in the process; sadly for us the humans do have to actually come with you for you to be allowed to compete, so just restrain your inner racehorse. And yes my Graffalo friend, I do mean you – we need Ros so please don’t accidentally send her airmail to Spain.So, in summary, tomorrow is prancing day, today is parading. There will be NO airs above ground, no River Dance re-enactments – yes my Irish-named buddy, I am looking at you – or attempts at attracting an alternative career in Follies Bergere – and yes I know you sound all French and exotic but NO my little friend.Right! Hooves in people! Suck your tums in, stick your airbags out, smile at the nice authority people and let’s do this! I have our flag on my ass and my heart on my feathers. En trois – un, duex, trois, Go TEAM!”

I hope that this insight into what’s happening behind closed stable doors is enhancing your experience, so please do watch on TV and online and see once again the brilliance on my training in action. Wave your flags, cheer from the stable roof tops and support our team.

More from me in a while – I have stressage strategies to solution…

Laters,

Hovis

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Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘None of you saw that coming, did you?!’

Hovis — Fri, 19 Jul 2024 06:00:32 +0000

Dear diary,

Well, it’s fair to say none of you saw that coming, did you?! I did tell you I had news – but in fairness, I guess this was NEWS on a scale more epic than my, now recognised, talent.

As the details spread like wildfire, I was happy to see so many of you congratulate British Eventing for their smart choice – it’s important that we do that. It takes big people to admit when they have goofed and my new friend, WhatsApp group buddy, CEO and all-round visionary Rosie has stepped up to the plate with admirable skill. I joined her and the team at BE for a strategy session in the week – her feedback to mum was I was a little quiet but my presence was felt by all. Although that might just have been due to me taking both the space and most of the ginger nut biscuits…

Talking of my utterly moronic mother, I have to apparently point out that she managed to cock up the ONE job she had the other day, and in amongst battling gale force winds, my flag rug blowing off and me not wishing to stand still, managed a) to hang my flag upside down and b) not actually notice. Now I could argue that I was indeed signalling I am in distress – have you met mother? – but the reality is the woman just has an IQ in single figures. I will get the photos reshot this weekend by someone with more brain power – I’m sure there is a friendly amoeba around somewhere. Honestly, I have met garden gnomes with more about them… Anyone who said you shouldn’t work with children and animals has never tried it with an overworked, overwrought, overweight, over the hill menopausal train wreck…

Anyways, I am still in full preparation for my new role, did I mention it at all? You know, the official British Eventing supporter mascot for the OLYMPICS? No? I don’t like to brag so it may have escaped your attention…

I had a bath last week and I have heard tails of Crazy Self-Employed Lady scheming to clip a union jack in my ass (let’s hope she gets it the right way around – distress signals on a fence is one thing but on my bum might be a whole different set of issues). I also had the willy washer come this week to make sure I am all spruced up in the supporter sausage stakes – although any rumours or indeed images of me appearing to enjoy it far too much are merely the desperate attempts of foreign nations to discredit me. They are after all, all now cantering scared; the GB big gun is on the field so you can’t blame them…

Talking of other nations, in an effort to ensure our nearest neighbours and inhabitants of the place of my birth felt we still loved and appreciated them, I popped over briefly to Dublin along with the managing director of Equiratings who do all the really cool and amazing data and insight stats on the equestrian world. Frankly I don’t really know what any of that means but he’s a fellow Irishman and seems much more switched on than mother, so I’m there with more bells on it than a Morris dancer at a Campanology course.

I am told flags with my face on them are rolling off the press as we speak and our brilliant riders and horses have almost had to be separated due to enthusiastic squabbling over who gets my attention, and thus advice, first. Rest assured I am currently compiling my guide to each phase – including the stressage – to help the team, neigh indeed the whole eventing world to turn the dial in a way never seen before.

Laters,

Hovis

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(Image credit: Karen Thompson)

Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘Drum roll please – here’s my big, BIG news’

Hovis — Fri, 12 Jul 2024 06:00:21 +0000

Dear Diary,

Where to start with my news?

For as long as I can remember, the word “big” has always been used about me; my eyes, my feet, my manly physique, my rugs, my shoes, my vets bills… the size of mother’s arse…

But there’s two things that have been bigger than anything else – my heart and the size of my dreams.

Since the very first time I surged over a jump and showed that I may have feathers but I can still fly, I have always ascertained that your background, your breeding, your supposed skill level (to be clear here, I do mean mother – my skill level has NEVER been in question) – none of it should be a barrier. No matter what anyone else thinks. If you want to be an eventer, then you should be an eventer.

To this end, I have for years pointed out if the powers that be in British Eventing could move past what I always believed to be old fashioned featherist prejudices, they would realise that here, in the UK (by way of a field in Ireland and some very questionable ancestry) was the greatest equine asset the world had ever seen.

Only a few weeks ago I was lamenting that while they may have now selected their team from the crème d’la crème of eventing talent (I would have frankly been the cherry on top of the crème, let’s be totally open – even my highly experienced mate Mary would tell you she’s never ever ridden a horse like me), there was still a role for me as Chef de Squeak. I have, as I pointed out, an impressive coaching record and can offer insight the likes of which a two-legged Squeak cannot, even one with a really cool name like Wellbrilliant.

Now, I know that you all agreed with me and said some lovely things, but I think if you’re all honest, you might have been humouring me? Kind of like when people tell mum she can ride? Well boo-shuck peoples, you should have had faith…

Because…

Drum roll please…

Guess who rang the other week?

Go on guess?

You will never guess…

BRITISH EVENTING!

Just let that sink in – BRITISH EVENTING rang ME!

And they have offered me an incredible role.

Of all the peoples and all horses, in all the world, they have asked me to be the official supporter mascot for British Eventing at the Paris 2024 Olympic Games.

THE OLYMPICS!

The actual real life Olympic games. Like properly for real – a proper job with British Eventing on the biggest stage on earth.

(Image credit: creditUnknown)

Sometimes dreams do come true – you just have to believe (oh, and have a very large social media hoofprint, have written eight books, be a philanthropist of a scale just short of the Gates, have an international reputation as horse of the people and boundless talent, but other than that anyone can do it…).

I spent last weekend getting ready and French-ified – I rather like my beret, although I fear it may make me even more irresistible to women – and am all set and raring to go.

(Image credit: creditUnknown)

I shall be supporting our British Eventing team, coaching them on how to ride the cross-country, guiding them on the showjumping (do NOT eat snails the night beforehand – we do not need a wind risk that could knock poles) and counselling them on the horror of stressage (just shut your eyes and dance like no one is watching).

I’m also helping to show the world that eventing is accessible to all – and to the snooty woman in the car park at some qualifiers many years ago who commented: “My god they let carthorses event these days” – who’s laughing now, missus?

I have my own roving reporters and not one, but THREE Hovis Hashtags (if nothing else tells you I am now where I’m supposed to be, then a Hovis hashtag is it) for you to show your support. These are #HovisInParis #HovisWithUs and #HovisHereToHelp

In addition, the British Eventing hashtags you need on your radar are: #BritishEventing #BeWithUs #HereToHelp #BritishEquestrian #abondlikenoother #Paris2024

Be sure to also check out my Facebook page.

Peoples, I am away to take my place on the biggest stage on earth – I luffs you all, please follow my adventures for this once in a lifetime opportunity and remember, no matter if you’re feathery or flighty, all terrain or thoroughbred brain, don’t let anyone stand in the way of your dreams.

Laters,

Hovis

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(Image credit: Karen Thompson)

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Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘I have news… awesomely exciting news’

Hovis — Fri, 05 Jul 2024 06:00:35 +0000

Dear Diary

I have such exciting news to tell you… news which will make all this palaver over who is going to be the boss of the human herd fade into insignificance more swiftly than the winner of The Voice. News which outstrips mother’s supposed recent weight loss (personally I remain unconvinced – the only way she’s lost weight is if her brain cell has fallen out or someone’s reset the bathroom scales to calibrate laden lorries)… and her recent nomination as Woman of the Year at some award ceremony (I’m assuming she was in the all-male group hence the nomination – sort of like when I came second in a showing class to the umpteen-time winner of HOYS. And yes, there was only two of us in the class…).

But you’re going to have to wait until next week to find out what it is – because I am more teasing than Joe Wicks wearing chocolate body paint at a Fat Fighters work out class… While you’re waiting, why not check out my new brand facebook page, Hovis the horse, which is going to be a hive of activity very soon – for now I can say no more…

Alongside prepping my awesomely exciting news, I have been a busy bunny – Cool New Shoes Man came last week and we had our usual ritual of a cuddle and him turning red with excited embarrassment. It really is adorable how flustered he still gets after all this time – in fact going on his breathing and heart rate I actually think if anything he gets more excited now than he did when I first met him. I mean I know my fame has grown faster than mother’s arse in that time but still it’s adorable – CNSM being embarrassed that is, not mother’s arse, just to be clear.

Anyways, I now have my new custom made Loobootons and CNSM can finish the West Wing swimming pool tiling and fill it with mothers tears of happiness at how quickly I can empty her bank account.

I’ve also been out hacking a number of times as Mother continues to insist that Crazy Self Employed Lady gets me fitter, slimmer and trimmer whilst she swallows painkillers of the actual and liquid type faster than the Hack Duh girl is gaining followers on TokTik and hobbles around like a penguin with piles. The other night I had to babysit a friend of Mini-mother’s and her pony, which was useful as it meant I had a small cute sacrifice to offer up to the Tractors of Terror. We didn’t see any so no children nor ponies were harmed during said hack – I guess making them like an umbrella, you take it out with you and you wont need it…?

Talking of small ponies I am pleased to announce that the pint sized pain in the posterior is for once in more trouble than me having escaped his hormonal holding hutch the other day and been found frolicking in grass like a fat fighter in Cadbury World. He was swiftly caught and talk has been over heard of enforcing his electric fence. Personally, I’m up for dialing up the wattage to crispy but I think I may be alone in this sadly. Still makes a change for the ginger ninja to be in trouble whilst I am cooed over for being so well behaved, I shall go and enjoy it whilst it lasts.

Keep a close eye on my news coming out…

Laters,

Hovis

Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘I am just too intimidating’

Hovis — Fri, 28 Jun 2024 06:00:52 +0000

Dear diary,

Apologies for the lack of missive from me last week, but mother was returning from Do-bruv-nick, which I can only assume is some sort of prison for siblings? How long her and her brother spent in there I don’t know, but it meant I didn’t have a secretary, and as we have discussed, I am not trusted with a laptop on my own…

Anyways muchos to catch you up on.

I am sadly still waiting for my last minute Team GB call up and frankly, I have to face the tragic reality that once again our sporting teams are choosing to head into battle without the greatest secret weapon they could ever possess. Whether it’s embarrassment, rampant featherism or just a general conspiracy hatched by the underground thoroughbred factions, I have to accept that they just won’t ask me. Well at least not in a competing role.

Which brings me back to my fall back plan, a plan so clever and cunning that only a lack of tail is stopping it being called foxy.

Chef de Squeak.

That’s what I should be aiming to be. Let’s be honest, I have an incredible track record, which I can lay out:

Your Horse is Alive – I get put next to a young and inexperienced Nip and Tuck, I spend the night soothing his nerves from the banging lights in the sky and imparting my knowledge and poof! The boy is a stressage sensation.

Ros Canter comes for a cuddle at Belton International Horse Trials, I give her some sage guidance and voila! World number one.

Charlotte Whatnot-in-a-garden comes for a canoodle at Windsor, I give her some tips on some Irish prancing moves and Im-a-hot-step and her dominate the leaderboard in a way not seen since her and Viagra (the less we say about Viagra snogging me without buying dinner first the better…).

Valegro and Hovis. (Image credit: creditUnknown)

Chris Bartle sought my advice and with a bit of steerage I felt he did a pretty decent job (for a human, I mean).

Finally, and more close to home, my very own little Crazy Self-Employed Lady has been riding me to help her learn how to ride a proper horse (and no one is as proper as like I iz) and as a result won the grand prix amateur final on her international debut at Bolesworth.

I am, peoples, the Alex Ferguson of equestrianism, only slightly less likely to throw shoes – only because Cool New Shoes Man can only cope with seeing me every few months…

I think with hindsight that I am just too intimidating to have a place on the team as the others would feel so inferior, so I should use my brilliance in a different way for the greater good. So, the question is, who do I need to submit my resumé to? I get that the current party might be a bit soon for a change to the top table, but let’s allow that to play out without me having to dice with death as a potential French family feast and then they can swap.

Who would support me in this endeavour? As I might need a petition or such like to help convince the neigh-sayers, any volunteers to help would be appreciated.

Laters,

Hovis

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(Image credit: Karen Thompson)

Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘She lets me down like a small prick in a balloon factory’

Hovis — Fri, 14 Jun 2024 06:00:17 +0000

Dear diary,

I do realise that after all these years, my mother’s ability to disappoint me shouldn’t come as any surprise. I mean, let’s be honest, as a gullible young four-year-old boy, just days off the boat from Ireland, I should have perhaps been a little more strategic in my choices of human but in my defence she can seem quite normal when she tries. It’s only after 18 long, long years together that I now have the level of world-weary cynicism needed to accept her failings.

But still, she lets me down like a small prick in a balloon factory.

I had high hopes of her little field trip to Bramham last weekend. I really did. I know many of the top riders have in theory got their steeds for the French party, but let’s be frank, if offered something with the power, talent and sheer charisma that I bring to the piece then half of them would abandon their thoroughbreds faster than a politician can do a U turn. Which is to say extremely quickly, with zero conscience and the memory of Dory…

And yet she came back with no more than slight wind burn and a new skirt to show for her trip upt’north. As an agent she makes a bloody brilliant secret one – which is about as much use as windscreen wipers on a submarine. So, I am now stuck with wishing one of the wimpy warmbloods pulls a shoe/muscle/hair out of place such that they need to find a substitute – which while not sporting, if someone could arrange, I would be grateful.

It’s not that I’m being selfish, it’s more that I could bring to the team something never seen before at this level of equestrianism. Those who saw me with my mate Mary at Belton International horse trials all commented they’d never seen anything like it – and they only let me do the stressage thing there; it was deemed too demoralising to the others to show them any of my jumping. The point being, we could signal the start of years of domination of the sport by making this move.

I’ve got to be honest I’m not getting any younger either. I don’t want them to realise only too late that I’ve only got two major parties left in me. Can you imagine their disappointment? It doesn’t bear thinking about.

I am prepared to hop on a plane at short notice if the powers that don’t like feathers have some sort of epiphany over their éclair and realise their mistake but the clock is ticking peoples, it’s ticking.

Talking of ticking, and in this case me off, I wasn’t amused to see mother had posted a video of me and mini-mother having a moment the other day. In my defence, I appreciate to the uneducated that it does look like mini-mother is giving me a scratch and I’m wobbling about like Stevie Wonder on a waltzer, but that’s because you lack context. In reality, mini-mother is about to attend her first school disco and I was showing her the sort of interpretative dance moves that those who are down with it do these days. I will confess to not entirely knowing what “it” is but as can be seen by my head position I am definitely down…

Anyways, I am off to wait forlornly, and I suspect hopelessly, by the phone for a last minute call to action. I seriously need a new manager – mother is about as much use as boobs on a fish.

Laters,

Hovis

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(Image credit: Karen Thompson)

Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘I have given up trying to figure the illogical workings of the female brain’

Hovis — Fri, 07 Jun 2024 06:00:21 +0000

Dear diary,

After a winter that felt longer than a stay from an unwanted relative, it does appear that spring has finally sprung and who knows, summer, like mother’s weight loss, is apparently on its way…

The other week I told you we were now out in the coveted summer fields – although I don’t quite covet mine quite so hard when they are fenced off with bright pink fence posts – enjoying actual grass, as opposed to the odd stem found in a mouthful of mud. This week has then seen another step up the ladder of “summer is here” by us being turned out 24/7.

Well, all of us except for the small ginga whinger, who supposedly isn’t allowed out 24/7 due to his PMS, but in reality, I think is more likely because being the absolute princess that he is, he doesn’t do rough sleeping. On this one I actually do agree with him – I’m all for the sun on my back, fresh grass and long sunny days, but I can do without trying to lie down with spiky bits up my unmentionables and the local insect life using me as an adventure playground. I at least don’t think it’s too much to ask for a tent/mattress/small motorhome to summer snooze in. Although you may be unsurprised to hear the mothership doesn’t agree. Which I find hilarious when the closest she comes to camping is looking at a tent from the window of her five-star hotel room – mother loves nature, just seemingly loves it a lot more when she’s had a good shower, a good night’s sleep and fizz for breakfast… #highmaintenance

I wouldn’t mind, but it’s not as if I get free rein of my field during the night. Oh no. Crazy Self-Employed Lady and mother agreed on some sort of rat-like maze thing (a track system apparently, but trust me, there ain’t no racehorse alive that would recognise this as a track) and then some sort of “pen” for me at night to have hay in. I mean like, what the flip? If I’m contained in a small space with hay, why can’t I be contained in a small space with hay with a roof? Erstwhile known as a stable…

I have long since given up trying to figure the illogical workings of the female brain, but this is a whole new level of dumb – seriously, as I have said before, there are times when mother’s IQ challenges that of a garden gnome…

Crazy Self-Employed lady appears to have been on a mission this week to tune me up. Now, in readiness for what, I don’t know, but I am hopeful of a surprise wild card to the French party.

Mother is off to Bramham tomorrow and one can’t help but think this might be to sign the papers to allow me to perhaps join the squad. I have been hacked out this week (sans wing person/companion/ritual sacrifice* delete as appropriate), had the backs of my legs shorn (supposedly to allow my scabby knee to breathe, but if you think about it, it might be for increased aerodynamic streamlining), my chin hairs tidied (makes me think that my new rider might be a lady who likes snogging, but not her face looking like she’s kissed a cheese grater) and my mane pulled (I suppose I do have to conform to the appearance rules and while my mane is usually more L’oreal than Legionnaire, I am happy to go GI Joe for King(s) and country). Now there would be no reason to subject me to all the above horrors (and I swear to god, I heard someone mention willy washing yesterday) if not for something important. As Herman the German Needle Man’s West Wing can attest to – mother on form can charm the pants off a monk when she needs to (or in the previous example, more money than a small African country out of a bank manager to pay my vets bills…).

So I am eagerly waiting, in my pink posted pen, to see what news comes back. Fames may be close peoples, it may be close.

Laters,

Hovis

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(Image credit: Karen Thompson)

Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘Winter has stayed longer than an unwanted smell in a public toilet’

Hovis — Fri, 31 May 2024 06:00:34 +0000

Dear diary,

Following my diary last week and the overwhelming ground swell of sentiment that I am indeed the greatest overlooked talented in equestrian Olympic history, I have been patiently waiting for THE call. But it hasn’t come. Many of you had talked of the idea of a wild card, but it appears someone prefers the domesticated variety – as I told you all, the level of featherism in the elite levels of equestrianism in this country is beyond compare.

If instead of a ginger-in-the-wrong-light wall of muscle, topped with a manly full mane and tail, which make hair dye companies weep, and tailed with feathers so full and blindingly white that polar bears ask for style advice, I was a boring brown warmblood type, I honestly think this would be a whole different story. I am all together too much horse for these bo selector peoples to cope with.

I wouldn’t mind, but I spent some time canoodling with the chef de squeak some years back and I really thought I’d made progress, but alas not. So unless something changes, then yet again I can see the British teams having to seriously ride their socks off to achieve any form of greatness when they could have had it much easier. It’s fair to say I would have done Olympic-ing like it’s never been done before, cementing us in the record books for all of time. I would have risked being the main course in order to serve my country, but instead I have been spat out like a French food critic realising their cock-o-van might be the reason that Barry the Asda driver (other supermarkets are available…) hasn’t been seen for a week….

As I am party-less and frankly rather peeved, the only good thing to come of this week is we have finally moved into our summer fields. It’s fair to say winter has stayed longer than an unwanted smell in a public toilet and is still clinging on tighter than Mr McIlroy to his pre-nup, but we are finally at least able to be within sniffing distance of grass. Now, I say sniffing distance because as per usual, the mothership’s fixation with my waist line is in direct contrast to the fact hers earns more compound interest in a year than a child’s tax-free ISA. Let’s be honest, she bucks the trend – in most things like chocolate, crisps etc. you get less for your money than you used to. Whereas with mother, she super-sizes annually. I’m not sure that the fact you get more of her than you used to is a positive thing, but at least by the lb she’s a bargain…

This new grass situation hasn’t come without drama though, because you know, this is my life and I am surrounded by insane women. No, in order that Crazy Self-Employed Lady and the mothership can ensure that we know whose fence stakes are whose, I have been ordered a new set. In BRIGHT PINK. I haven’t been so mortified since mini-mother grabbed something other than my leg strap to do up my rug…

So, I am stood waiting patiently, in my pink-fenced pint-sized paddock next to the ginger ninja, whose hue clashes violently with my pastel posts for my call up. It’s going to be a long week…

Laters,

Hovis

(Image credit: Karen Thompson)

Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘Is it too much to ask?’

Hovis — Fri, 24 May 2024 06:00:20 +0000

Dear diary,

So much for spring finding some balls and you know, springing. After a few days of glorious naked romping we have spent much of this week getting absolutely soaked. If more rain had run down my nose, Niagara Falls would have been suing me for copyright infringement. As it is, I’m pretty sure some of the local mice turned up thinking I was a water park; very wet and not very wild…

Is it too much to ask for some actual consistency? I mean, I know Mother Nature is a woman and thus, I would have more success asking a snake to grow boobies than her actually be anything like reasonable, but heh, a boy can try, right?

At the time of penning this missive, we are still all in our winter fields, because every time we get to the cusp of moving to the very green and nice looking summer fields, the aforementioned mercurial one unleashes some fresh wet hell and the decision is reversed for fear of trashing the summer fields in the tsunami. At this rate we will still be in our winter fields in July, which then means looking forward to a winter of three blades of grass a day because frankly, my field is so bad I think it’s going to need a lot more than a “rest”. More like rehab and a lot of therapy…

Talking of people who can actually ride, I note once again (and frankly this is getting boring in its regularity) that my name is a glaring omission from the summer party lists again? I mean the stressage one is no loss in my view – I have the moves but frankly I only like pulling them freestyle and usually upon seeing a tractor – but the showjumping and eventing ones just once again show the alarming levels of featherism rife in elite sport. If I was a puny, spindly-legged thoroughbred with my kind of skillz, I’d have a queue longer than that for the ladies’ toilets at a Taylor Quick concert. But because I am manly, and muscled and feathery, instead I am treated with the sort of distain usually reserved for finding a bug in one’s Pimm’s (unless you’re mother and she just views it as protein…).

Now, I have to say I am in a mixed mind, because I understand said party is in France and we all know what they eat in France. With my manly buttocks and beefy thighs, I fear that it would be like a well fattened seal prancing about in front of a hungry whale and I’m not sure how good they are as a nation at resisting temptation. I suppose I could round up some snails in advance and throw them behind me like edible flack as I hurtle around the cross-country course?

Anyways, I see the daughter of my very good friend Mary has been named as part of the potential guest list, so I am disappointed they’ve not rung. I hung out with her and her mum at Your Horse Live some years ago but maybe she’s too embarrassed to have asked. In which case, can anyone who knows her just reassure her that I am in fact very approachable and am always happy to help out King(s) and country…

Anyways, I will stand by the phone, look at my summer fields and practice parleying le Francy.

Laters,

Hovis

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(Image credit: Karen Thompson)

Hovis’ Friday diary: sun on my back, mud in my mane, filth in my feathers…

Hovis — Fri, 17 May 2024 06:25:49 +0000

Dear Diary

Apologies for the lack of update from me last week but the mothership was in the Currybean – doing what I have no idea but it’s not inconceivable she was playing pirate. Let’s be honest she’s that blind that an eye patch might be a good addition, she’s bird-brained so a parrot would help and she limps more than someone with a wooden leg most days. Anyone who has also seen her the morning after a night out would also suggest the resemblance between her and Jack Sparrow is positively uncanny…

Anyways, whilst she was off traumatising tropical islanders with the horrors of her in a swimsuit, we were enjoying good weather and some good old fashioned nakedness here. Now obviously I am unable to go fully naked as I have to wear my mask of Zorro to protect my £12 billion bionic eye but the rest of me was definitely sans clothing. Which was fab! Sun on my back, mud in my mane, filth in my feathers and no mothership to whinge about it. Add in the fact we have only just got to the point that we’ve eaten down the ginger ninjas grass in his field (and let’s be clear here – I have done the eating whilst he’s stood in a bare patch, the size of his brain cell and watched) and it’s all been pretty good.

Herman the German’s much more lovely and glamorous assistants (and yes, they now come to me in twos to ensure that more than one of them gets to lay their hands on celebrity) came to see me on Monday to give me my latest shot of superhero juice. The other ignoramuses of the yard suggested it was merely my vaccinations and nothing special, but I know differently – bionic eye, superhero mask, genetically altered blood and an other worldly ability to create vets bills the size of a planet from thin air and there is no doubt in my mind that I am indeed the Hoverine.

They seemed thrilled to see me, commented I looked rather well (which will mean I have a grass muzzle gaffer taped to my mouth by the queen of contradiction by the weekend – mark my words), jabbed me in the neck with my super serum and then went to take bloods from the hormonal half-wit. Due to his PMT he has to have bloods taken frequently to see how much of a girl he’s become and to ascertain if he should be allowed to look sideways at a bit of grass or not. Sadly, for my grass intake his bloods have come back pretty good so he will be allowed to continue as is – it appears I was the only one mildly miffed by this but then there’s nothing new…

So, I’m off to enjoy this inbetweeny period between us all whinging about rain (which by the way hasn’t gone away – I got soaked yesterday) and the money being spent on rug cleaning/shampoo/hay from us all being inside and us all whinging about heat and the cost of fly spray/suncream/hay from us all being inside…

Laters,Hovis

Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘I can reverse with more skill than most politicians’

Hovis — Fri, 03 May 2024 06:00:38 +0000

Dear diary,

I take everything I have ever, ever said about my mother, which may have been misconstrued by the less intellectually capable as perhaps implying I thought she shared a brain cell with an amoeba on a part-time basis – the woman is a genius.

The best bit is because he has PMT, he’s not allowed a lot of it, so he’s currently in a space even a London estate agent would have a hard time describing as anything other than the surface area of a zit, while I eat down his grass to make it safe. I am a grass safety device! And it’s wonderful!

Now, don’t get me wrong, this is my mother, so please don’t think I’m gaily frolicking across meadows here – I am confined to a pretty small space myself, because god forbid I get a kilo over my fighting weight, unlike herself whose fighting weight these days seems to have included eating her opponent…

I can however cope with the bijou nature of my space as it has grass in it. Did I mention the grass?

It also seems that we have saved up enough money to buy spring some balls and a strange glowing sphere has been seen in the sky the past few days. Such that we have been going out NAKED. Now, mother was last seen sending prayers to Crazy Self-Employed Lady and frantically buying up shares in whitening shampoos, but it has been rather lovely to feel the sun on our backs and not be risking hypothermia/drowning/waterborne diseases. How long it will last will depend on whether Spring has more will power than mother on a diet but heh, I will take it.

The only downside to the spring actually springing thing is it had mother in spring cleaning mode at the yard last weekend as she tackled tack rooms which may or may not have become a dumping ground for “stuff”/a breeding ground for arachnids with small snow drifts of sawdust up the walls and cobwebs big enough to use as hammocks.

Judging from the screaming, I suspect some of the spiders may have been large enough to saddle but she got the job done. I was not thanked for my managerial oversight role as I inspected her handiwork – I won’t repeat the language she used, but she might have suggested I was rather too large a unit to be in said aforementioned tack room. Luckily, I can reverse with more skill than most politicians so we all survived unscathed, but I’m not sure the use of the words “wide load” was necessary…

Anyways, she is off to the Currybean this week so she won’t be around to take down my musings next week. Normal service to resume the week after.

I’m off to enjoy my grass and some sunshine.

Laters.

Hovis

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(Image credit: Karen Thompson)

Horse & Hound magazine, out every Thursday, is packed with all the latest news and reports, as well as interviews, specials, nostalgia, vet and training advice. Find how you can enjoy the magazine delivered to your door every week, plus options to upgrade your subscription to access our online service that brings you breaking news and reports as well as other benefits.

Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘Unfairness levels? Off the chart…’

Hovis — Fri, 26 Apr 2024 06:00:15 +0000

Dear diary,

So, the funds might be sneaking up enough that we have managed to buy some medium sized balls for the every puny spring. We have managed to ease the water works off to a mere shower-like dribble, but now the thermostat has been turned down – we had FROST this morning! I am more and more thinking that mother’s muttered comments about winter being a woman (stroppy, forceful, possibly hormonal and definitely able to do more than one thing at once), and spring being a bloke (slightly whimpy when faced with said aforementioned strong woman and quite clearly only able to do one thing at once) might actually, for once, be true. And I am a bloke…

Still, there are signs, small ones admittedly (sort of like the size of springs balls), that things might be slowly changing. We now have enough green shoots of grass that the kill joys in every vet practice in the country have already issued their dire warnings about laminitis – too many moments on the lips equals shorter lifetime for the hips – and up and down the country sales of electric fencing are being bought by middle-aged ladies of questionable poundage on whom the irony is totally lost. I have often mused a grazing muzzle for humans is the singular most missed invention of the modern age…

Anyways, taking of grass, I have suffered yet another outrage this week.

So, if you recall the ginger whinger, who has PMT, went lame a while back and caused all sorts of drama. Although I note with some pride, he has not yet reached anywhere near my skill in both causing tears, angst, drama and a bill to rival most third world countries’ national debt…

Anyway, since then, he has been turned out on the all-weather surface with haynets and what not with the odd wander about on the grass for grazing. This is due to where his field is so boggy and deeply rutted, his delicate, spindly little legs can’t cope and, unlike me, he’s not being asked to levitate on a daily basis. Please note unfairness levels rising…

Because it seems a move to the summer fields might now be imminent if spring can continue the limp-wristed fight, a minor panic has ensued that the pint-sized pain in the posterior will colic/get laminitis/come out in hives if put on grass after a period off it. So, thus, these single brained celled humans have decided he needs to go back onto some grass. Like, duh?

However, his field is now quite full of grass and still some distant away so these walking amoebas with hair have decided the best course of action is to out him in MY field. With ME! Unfairness levels? Off the chart…

So, I now have a sectioned off part of my field, which by the way has about as much grass in it as mother has money in the bank – which is to say it is bereft – in which the blonde bouffanted berk is currently residing.

Note, we have to be sectioned off because he is an evil small man with issues of jealousy regarding my size, manliness and all-round superstar qualities and has been known to launch a barrage of kicks at my head. I am far too much of a gentleman to hurt something small and belonging to my favourite small person, so we have to be kept apart.

I’m not sure how long this sub-renting is supposed to be going on for, but I fear it may be a while. To be fair, if dirty looks could kill, I am not sure which one of us would be dead first as it’s clear he’s not exactly thrilled with this idea either, but since trying to talk sense into mother is like trying to resuscitate week old roadkill, both of us are resigned to our fate.

Life sucks.

Laters,

Hovis

(Image credit: Karen Thompson)

Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘I love my country, but I’m going to have to leave’

Hovis — Fri, 19 Apr 2024 07:27:22 +0000

Dear Diary

How much is it to hire a plane or at least get a seat on one (although to be fair in my case it would have to be a big seat)? I’ve decided that if English spring is going to continue with this abysmal lack of fight back against a winter, which is hanging around longer than the smell from a silent fart, then I am going to have to leave the country.

So, my question then to my foreign fans is where should I go?

I am therefore after somewhere warm but not hot – us ginger-in-the-wrong-light types do have a tendency to burn and I sweat more in the heat than an off-shore accounting specialist during a tax audit…

Somewhere where they don’t eat horse – or more specifically Hovis.

Somewhere with good grass and floozie-like-fillies of the grateful and adoring kind.

And more importantly, somewhere where spring actually springs with a little more verve and vigour than an ageing octogenarian with piles.

I don’t want to leave, I love my country – but I love it a lot more when it’s not fetlock deep in water for 5784936252 days straight.

I love it when I have grass and not a sea of mud, which for those of us with feather of the white variety has led to us being an idol worshipped only by the shareholders of whitening shampoo.

I love it when then glowing thing in the sky actually shows up and you know, actually does its job.

Sadly all of the above have been sadly absent this year and frankly, as its now mid-April, the report card for spring reads “must try harder” and I am forced to look at relocation. All ideas and more importantly offers of board and rations welcomed.

Last week Cool New Shoes Man came and put some new shoes on me and the ginger whinger – although given all that’s been said above, I’m not sure that flippers might not have been a better move. He did tell mother that I was very stiff, which I think was rich bearing in mind I only leant on him for a cuddle and he turned puce, started hyperventilating and sweating more than mother before weigh in at fat fighters. I do think its adorable how after all these years he still gets so overcome being this close to a mega-star – I know it must be hard to reconcile but I am just a regular guy, just one with a world wide fan base, eight books under my girth strap and some of the biggest names in the business on speed dial…

Anyways, he’d be stiff if he’d not had seven days consecutive turn out since last year. Mother being mother however was concerned so spent the last week lightly exercising me and upping my supplements to “going-to-need-to-sell-another-body-part-to fund-this” levels. Bearing in mind the woman is held together with piano wire, alcohol and kill-an-elephant levels of opiates, then I am reminded once again of the double standards of the human kind.

So I am off to do some light yoga moves – mainly the “under the electric fence neck stretch” – and research relocation options.

Laters,Hovis

Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘We need to buy even bigger balls’

Hovis — Fri, 12 Apr 2024 06:00:32 +0000

Dear diary,

OK, we all need to try harder. My GoFundMe page has clearly not raised sufficient funds to buy big enough balls for spring and frankly I think they’ve just given up. We had three days, THREE, where I thought they’d finally got with the programme. Admittedly they clearly had massive flatulence as well as the wind was worthy of the morning after a madras, but I could have lived with that as it meant the fields were drying out.

But no.

Three days later and it’s tiddling it down more than a sneezing sexagenarian with questionable pelvic floor muscles; even Tena Lady plus might give up this fight (other wee wee pants are available). Honestly, we are back to being wetter than the inside of an otter’s pocket and spring is back to having as much booiinngg as an elephant wearing concrete wellies. News flash – winter is winning here folks and is showing staying power equivalent to a 21-year-old playboy bunny without a prenup.

The weekend saw Crazy Self-Employed Lady have the weekend off to go and do some big competition (purple potato or something?) so the mothership and her loyal, but totally non-horsey better half, were in charge. This meant rations of a size that wouldn’t keep a sparrow alive, mother moaning about my stable habits and a tall tentative Scotsman having to have mano-y-mano conversations about not accidentally grabbing my man tackle while doing up my “outside jacket” – his words not mine. The mothership had allocated me to him as apparently the pint-sized pain in the posterior would have extracted the urine and I was deemed the safer of the two options. Him and I have long since established his role versus mine in the pecking order of my mother’s affections, so we are cool and I saved jumping in the really big puddle until mother was walking me, thus drenching her in muddy water all down her side, her legs, her substantial rear and her even bigger air bags.

Due to the aforementioned lack of moral fibre shown by spring and my inability to levitate, I came in somewhat filthy and in need of a bath, which then resulted in an hour of comedy as mother shoved me, her dearly beloved, some shampoo and a scrubbing brush into the shower room with the advice of “pretend he’s just a large, hairy car”. Sixty minutes later and both of us were reconsidering our life choices, although I suspect one of us more than the other…

By the Sunday, mother was so crippled by her back and general lack of ability to cope with physical labour (she’s management darling, not manual) that the uneducated could have assumed that a human crab had come to sort me out. As the likelihood of her straightening up without mechanical help was unlikely, I had an amusing few minutes sticking my head up in the air, thus making the headcollar onto head physics impossible. I thought I was funny. On reflection, and careful consideration of the choice words she called me, I’m coming around to the idea she didn’t…

She was last seen crawling out of the barn muttering that CSEL is worth every penny she pays her and she could afford to pay for the spinal deformity surgery she needs if she hadn’t rebuilt an ungrateful, empty headed oaf from the hooves upwards. I thought that was a little harsh – I’m sure ginge has a brain in there somewhere?

Anyway, I am off to stare forlornly back out over a sea of mud, which for one brief moment over the weekend, was actually dry. Dig deeper into your pockets peoples, we need to buy even bigger balls…

Laters,

Hovis

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Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘Enough is enough’

Hovis — Fri, 05 Apr 2024 06:00:33 +0000

Dear diary,

I am setting up a GoFundMe page and I need your help. No, this is not, as you may all be guessing, a fund for my elopement/my vets bills/my solicitors bills or indeed anything to do with me; it’s to buy Spring some balls. Or maybe some new springs. But basically, something to help it, you know, like, SPRING? It’s not even trying right now – it’s worse than me doing a stressage test back in the day – no effort at all.

Everything else is trying; the yellow perils have bravely stuck their heads out of the soil only to be battered by 40mph winds and a monsoon of rain.

Little clouds on legs are arriving and then having to be rescued by farmers as they are too cold and wet – although I do confess to finding the idea of saving a lamb’s life by putting it in the AGA slightly amusing. Circle of life; start life in the bottom oven and end it in the top one…

Baby bunnies are being kept underground to avoid having to have underage swimming lessons and let’s not even talk about the grass. I know vets around the land have issued the usual laminitis warning (moment on the lips = shorter lifetime for the hips), but I think in some places they have overlooked the fact that, with the exception of aardvarks, none of us can actually find grass under the sea of mud…

This weather now is about as welcome as the in-laws at Christmas and has stayed about as long. Enough is enough. Spring needs to fight back – it’s not even trying.

Talking of trying – that brings me on to my mother, who has once again shown a scant regard for both my feelings and the extent of the underground equine network, through whom I have discovered another one of her betrayals. For this week she has been with mini-mother in Scotland and they have ridden OTHER horses. Now I’m used to this, but the pint-sized pain in the posterior isn’t, so with some relish I did inform him that he’d been relegated to “the one she has at home”. In fairness, he had his head down snorting lines of Ventipulmin at the time like a Happy Mondays drummer in their heyday, so I’m not sure how much of it actually reached his furry Welsh ginger ears, but I will remind him all weekend.

Apparently (so the jungle hooves tell me) they went riding in a forrest and onto the beach in conditions so bad that even the hardy Highlanders nearly went on strike. I hear tail (do you see what I did there? Not a mis-spell, a cheeky play on words – just reminding peoples who the creative one is here…) that mother was so wet through to her underwear that even after an hour’s drive home with the car heaters on full blast, her other half still went and bought her some pants for incontinent older ladies, so sure was he that she’d wet herself. To his family and friends – I’m sure the fact he hasn’t been heard of since is just a coincidence and he’s totally fine…

Mini-mother, who was raised firmly (by me) not to be a fair weather rider apparently had a total ball and has proven to both herself and the mothership she can ride something much bigger and stronger than the ginger whinger. I am thus starting applications to be her next steed – only fit 14hh females need apply…

So, remember the ask(s); please seek out my GoFundMe page and help me buy Spring some bigger balls and send me CV of fit females who would like to come and be my play thing mini-mother’s new ride. I await both while looking mournfully out of the stable at the river of water flowing between me and what was once a field…

Laters,

Hovis

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Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘Help! I’m on starvation rations and categorically NOT allowed to eat the small ginger one’

Hovis — Fri, 29 Mar 2024 13:48:29 +0000

Dear Diary,

Hoppy Easter to you all.

I will be honest – I don’t understand the whole Easter thing; big bunnies supposedly hiding chocolate eggs all seems a little suspect to me. Sort of like a horse writing a book (or eight)… oh wait…

I am not mentioning any lack of understanding, or indeed questioning whether mother should indeed be eating her own body weight in chocolate when her body weight is already akin to a small family hatchback, because it’s fair to say I am still not entirely out of the dog house following last week’s over reaction to my little sit in protest. Thus, I have been trying to walk on (Easter) eggshells to avoid any other faux pars which may result in either my imminent demise or being given away for free on Pre-not-loved-anymore.

I can’t say it’s going that well, but I am trying. My mother says her patience but I think the effort should at least be acknowledged…

Talking of trying, I actually thought Mother Nature was trying to do spring the other week – the bunnies were bonking, the sheep sh*gging, that weird orange ball thing was in the sky and I think mother actually smiled. Sadly, it seems she has a similar attention span to Dory and thus has given that up as a boring idea. Instead, we’re all now playing a game of what rug should we wear and do I need an umbrella, a boat, sunscreen or all three every time we are turned out.

This, four seasons in three hours game is getting very tired, very quickly, but the mercurial one seems to be finding herself amusing, which is good because I’m not sure anyone else is thinking so. I’m fairly sure then only thing longer than this winter is my itemised vet’s bills, but it’s starting to become a close run thing…

The unpredictable weather didn’t stop mother from making me work over the weekend, which is about par for the course – I am 22 years old, have lots of bits of me broken but still have to be fit, slim and starved to death. She’s 22 * cough * and a LOT of practice, has lot of bits of her broken and is allowed to be unfit, fat and loved by the shareholders of McDonalds (other fast food outlets are available): the levels of unfairness is nearly as large as her arse.

Talking of the small ginger one, he has now decided that in addition to EMS, PMT and SMS (small man syndrome), he has hay fever and so is doing a very good impression of a seal with a 50-a-day habit. The mothership has found this somewhat uninspiring and merely ordered him some Columbian marching powder and suggested he needs to get on with it.

When it comes to nurturing mother would make a fantastic serial killer, but on this occasion I do think she’s right. Her comment that she sees through these things because she’s had the pleasure of 18 years of the largest walking equine vet bill in the UK was somewhat harsh, however, and frankly uncalled for.

Anyways, I am off to see if a bunny has brought me any brunch, and brave the wind/rain/fog/snow/sunshine or whatever other combination the mad one upstairs throws at us.

LatersHovis

Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘I could put you on the moon without the aid of a space craft’

Hovis — Fri, 22 Mar 2024 07:00:48 +0000

Dear diary,

As I type, I’m pretty sure I might be featuring in several other online outlets and publications – unfortunately for me, less fan-type pages where people extol my brilliance, but more, for sale sites, where I suspect mother has suggested payment for me isn’t necessary… fair to say she doesn’t luff me right now.

Now, as usual, this lack of affection is grossly unfair, but still I suspect she actually might mean it this time and as such this could be the last time I write to you, as my new career as a pit pony may preclude me having the time to do so…

Her issue started last weekend when she came to help mini-mother commence bringing the whingy ginger back into work, which I will be honest, I took umbrage to. She has more faults than the San Andreas area, but she is my mother and I dislike seeing her lungeing the pint-sized pain in the posterior while cooing good boy at him when he’s done nothing more impressive than not fall over his own feet. At first, I tried expressing my lack of delight by meaningfully turning my back to her in my field, but this was about as effective as giving her a Weight Watchers leaflet had been in reducing the size of her arse. Clearly, I deduced, a more dramatic measure was needed.

So, I decided to stage a protest.

Since I am not prepared to go on hunger strike (I mean, I was jealous and all, but that would have been a tad extreme), I decided to stage a sit-in protest. Now here, in my defence your honour, other than a few circus trained-types and the odd deluded thoroughbred, most horses can’t actually sit. So thus, it was more a lay down-type protest.

I suppose looking back the fact I chose to do it in a muddy field and the fact I’m not prone to lying down was not something I had taken into account and thus her reaction to my dramatic entry into my protest (I may, possibly, sort of groaned very loudly in disgust on the way down) is sort of understandable. Hearing the escalating levels of panic in her voice as she yelled my name, I realised that she may, possibly, sort of thought I died. Realising that I was going to wish I had when she realised I hadn’t, I did what any sane equine would do – played dead.

I was then frog marched for a bath (did I mention that my sit in protest may have been right in the middle of a very very muddy field?) where to be fair, mini-mother took over in fear of my welfare. I think she, like me, had very real visioning of mother waterboarding me or throttling me with the shower hose. Mini-mother cleaned my feathers while I attempted to school my features into a suitably Bambi-eyed picture of loving innocence to mother. I think on the zero to successful scale it worked about as well using a sieve as a wine glass…

Unfortunately from there, things went downhill faster than Eddie the Eagle – and without about as much style. For the washing of my somewhat mucky feathers revealed that I might, possibly, sort of have been chewing the back of my knee again, resulting in a sore patch and all round scabbiness.

Let’s be clear. I am a big, brave horse to whom most people can do most things, but I am not keen on anyone being near the back of my knee. I do find that my habit of doing the can-cans as soon as anyone even looks at it does make this matter quite clear – most people can recognise that being on the receiving end of one of my kicks would make a Jean Claude White Van Man film look underacted. I weigh nearly 750kg, people – I could put you on the moon without the aid of a space craft…

Anyways, what I mean is most sensible people would thus back off and leave the issue alone. But this is my mother. I need say no more.

She called up reinforcements in the shape of Crazy Self-Employed Lady, her clippers and the night night stick and we then engaged in combat; mother hanging off the twitch and my headcollar like a barnacle while evading my increasingly powerful Chuck Norris-style round house kicks like Ben Stiller in Dodgeball (same hairdo and unsavoury attitude) while CSEL destroyed my feather and my self esteem with her clippers. For 20 very long minutes it was a clash of the titans – my strength vs their strength of character and resolve. There was only really ever going to be one winner.

So, as I type I have clean feathers, one of whom is so massacred I will be going everywhere backwards to avoid being used as the next runway for Heathrow and am the star of many “free to any home” adverts.

Mother was last seen eating her own substantial body weight in prescription painkillers, washed down with wine and her tears, muttering about taking up knitting. I am concerned one of my launches of her into the stable wall may have induced concussion or something?

I am sure at some point she may calm down, but if she doesn’t then it’s been nice knowing you all.

Laters,

Hovis

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(Image credit: Karen Thompson)

Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘It’s day 237,549 of winter…’

Hovis — Fri, 15 Mar 2024 07:00:24 +0000

Dear diary,

It’s day 237,549 of winter. My feet are now developing webs and my ability to breathe underwater is now at least on a par with a whale. The last sighting of the sun was around the time mother could fit into single figure clothes sizes. The last time we actually managed seven days consecutive turnout was a decade ago and like hope, any memory of what colour my legs actually are, is fading rapidly.

I am so over this winter now. When can we get to the spring bit? And then the summer bit when we switch to moaning about the heat, hardness of the ground and flies?

Between the weather, the ginger ninja continuing to be more high maintenance than a Kardashian in a lift and mother bobbing off this last week, it’s fair to say I am pretty hacked off. And hacked out as mother left strict instructions for Crazy Self-Employed lady to commence working me like Dolly Parton. This has involved hacking around the village without any form of wing person, nor sacrifice, while everything around me is either bonking or trying to kill us; her total lack of admiration for my lightning fast reactions to a man up a ladder the other day was frankly disappointing. When added to her insistence in walking past a house which is being renovated, when I was clearly communicating a different view, just goes to show the lack of respect, she has for me.

Talking of a lack of respect, I hadn’t told you where the mothership and her much-suffering other half were this week. Cheltenham.

Watching THOROUGHBREDS jump over flappy fences.

I honestly haven’t been so affronted since Herman disappeared up to his elbow in my back passage in 2019 without buying me dinner first. Basically they paid a fortune to spend two days watching spindly-legged scaredy cats sprint round in circles between a couple of hedges in a big field before they were once again wrapped in cotton wool, thermal vests and given sufficient counselling to get over the fact that a worm passed wind in nearby Prestbury. The thoroughbreds I mean – mother doesn’t need a thermal vest, nature gave her quite sufficient natural padding…

Apparently, this trip did necessitate her taking more boots than a centipede at a tap dance contest, a fair few handbags and several coats that cost more than my last vets bill. And my vets’ bills have built the west wing of Herman’s Towers, lest you forget…

She did at least appear to refrain from wearing anything resembling a hat, but I do suspect that’s only because she couldn’t find one big enough. Plus, all those feathers on top of all her curly hair would mean she ran the very real risk of looking like a walking bird’s nest. My mother is many, many things, but sartorially elegant is not one of them…

I, in the meantime, was left at home with the ginger sicknote and my snitchy minder, who regaled mother with tales of my spin and shoot off antics while she sipped champers and watched highly-tuned flight animals do what nature intended. And yes, the irony wasn’t lost…

Anyways, I am off to synchronised swim practice in the bottom paddocks while fantasising about being allowed to run away very fast and have people yell encouragement rather than abuse. Basically, inside my large, feathered body is a racehorse dying to come out – just like inside mother is a thin person. Who mother ate for breakfast…

Laters,

Hovis

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Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘you know what they say about boys with big feet – expensive hand-made shoes…’

Hovis — Fri, 08 Mar 2024 07:00:32 +0000

Dear diary,

Dare I say this actually out loud? Perhaps not.

* Whispers * Ok, so who has finally managed to sooth the soul of the crazy weather woman? And more importantly, how? I’m thinking the sacrifice of several Welsh wazzocks and a vat of wine? Am I right?

Whoever you are frankly you deserve a hoofhood. Because this week I’ve actually been out EVERY day! Now admittedly the ground is still stickier than the moments mother tries to reverse park the trailer with an audience watching and I sense Mother Nature is poised on the edge of petulance but heh, I live with my mother so I’m used to slightly unhinged, hormonal women – I’m just glad to be out of my stable.

If I squinted with my good eye, I managed to find the odd bit of the green stuff sticking up in the mud like the last die hard party animals at a particularly muddy Glastonbury and while my feathers are now blacker than mother’s heart it was so worth it – freedom tasted great. We are all longingly eyeing the summer fields which are a) not muddy and b) FULL of grass, but apparently we’re not allowed on them until at least April for fear we trash them as well. This is particularly apparently aimed at me due to the size of both my feet and my ass which frankly is sizeist – a boy cannot help needing to actually stand on the ground and you know what they say about boys with big feet ladies… Yep, expensive hand-made shoes…

So, the nights and mornings are getting lighter, every living creature apart from me is furiously bonking (let’s be honest, the last thing I pulled was a muscle in 2010) and there is green stuff sprouting up like hairs on mother’s chin. Perhaps, just maybe, if we all creep about quietly and no one makes any sudden movements, we can keep Mother Nature calm and she will let Spring, you know, like spring?

The only problem with this improvement in the weather is that the two women in my life have decided that this means I need to start doing more work. Well, I think they said something more akin to “quit thinking I’ve retired” punctuated with some choice Anglo Saxon adjectives but net net they meant the same thing. Apparently the “get the oldie active” campaign is about to kick off, but in yet another stunning display of unfairness this only applies to the old, broken four-legged one of us and not the decrepit diva of the two-legged variety. Mind you, getting her fit would be a trick worthy of David Copperfield – I think the last time mother was seen moving at anything above a limp was when her and Aunty Mary had to break into a trot to make last orders in Shagaloof in 1998…

Anyways, apparently my campaign starts this weekend with Crazy Self-Employed Lady taking me hacking this weekend. She was going to take me this week but instead chose to stab herself in the arm with a blade while opening a hay bale. I know, I am surrounded by women who frankly need minders – between her and mother combined, their IQ might just rival that of a garden gnome. It’s a cross I bear peoples, a cross I bear…

Anyways, I am off to see if I can pounce on any more blades of the green stuff surfacing like submarines from the sea of mud, perhaps have a roll just to see if I can make mother cry with the mud pack sticking to my ear floof and brace myself for whatever madness the weekend brings.

Laters,

Hovis

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Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘I’m not angry, I’m just very disappointed’

Hovis — Fri, 01 Mar 2024 07:00:28 +0000

Dear diary,

I am sad to report that my plan from last week didn’t work. I’m honestly not sure if you all merely paid lip service to my stunningly brilliant idea and didn’t wish to sacrifice the sh*tlands, or you just couldn’t catch the ankle biters, but I just don’t think we gave Mother Nature enough to appease her. I know there’s a view which is she might not have seen the gift as one she wanted, but I honestly don’t think that was the flaw in my cunning plan: a plan so cunning you could have stuck a tail on it and called it foxy. Nope, I think you all didn’t try hard enough. Just know I’m not angry, I’m just very disappointed.

Moreover, I’m still wet. Because SHE is still moody, hormonal and positively mean – and to be clear, I mean Mother Nature here and not my mother. Although to be fair the description does fit…

We had a few days when she maybe had been given some chocolate, or wine or perhaps valium and all seemed slightly positive and minorly upbeat – and by that I mean we just had some mild drizzle as opposed full water boarding – before normal services resumed. I thought my mother could be a decrepit diva brim full of rage at times but holy hell she is a rank amateur in comparison.

So unless all of you grow a set of cahones and actually try to offer her some more pint-sized offerings, we just have to wait her out. At some point she’s got to get bored of this game – although at the moment she’s got the staying power of mother at a bottomless brunch…

As I said last week, I try to be a haynet half full kind of a guy, so I am hanging on to the small signs that spring is en-route. Bonking bunnies, fornicating fluffies, sha**ing sheep oh yeah and the flowers – lots of flowers starting to appear – and some small signs of the long missed and not oft seen for months, green stuff.

Now because I am a man and thus capable of coping with anything that any mad (usually female) throws at me, all of these things I take in my still-rather-long-even-though-I’m-old-and-slightly-broken stride. The same is not true of the small ginger pint-sized pain in the posterior who has been causing all sorts of stress these past few weeks.

Two weeks ago, he came in lame; and because he is small, ginger and Welsh, he is by nature a complete drama queen and he didn’t do it by halves. Unlike me who actually broke my leg and the only person more surprised by the X-ray than my mother was the vet, who only minutes earlier had told mother there was nothing to worry about… well ‘ard that’s me.

Anyways, because the ginger ninja has PMS, apparently it makes him more prone to laminitis, so all hell broke loose. There were nerve blocks, there were trot-ups, there were X-rays, there was crying, there was snot (and that was just mother before she’d even seen the bill) and much drama. Anyways, net result is he hadn’t got laminitis, his pedal bone wasn’t doing any re-enactment of the exorcist and basically, he’s just a wimp. Well, the vet said he’s caused soft tissue damage to his feet in the deep clay, but let’s be honest, that is a bit wimpy. He’s been on box rest with a big deep bed for the past two weeks, and since none of us have been really going out due to the fields looking like the set from Never Ending Story where the pony dude was lost to the swamp, he’s had company. This hasn’t stopped him being a total pain and bleating about being bored every 20 seconds. Honestly, the amount of box rest I’ve had to do, and he whines about two weeks?

I’m therefore hoping for a temporary let up from Mother Nature’s tirades for the weekend if only to escape to my bog-like field away from the Welsh Whinger.

If anyone sees the woman upstairs just ask her if the issue was she wanted her sacrifices a little bigger? Say 12.2hh and orange? Just sayin’…

Laters,

Hovis

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Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘Go forth and capture’

Hovis — Fri, 23 Feb 2024 07:00:02 +0000

Dear diary,

Right, enough is enough. I am fed up to my still-amazing-and-frankly-the-only-part-of-me-that-still-works back teeth of this flipping rain. It’s as if someone has given Mother Nature a Guinness Book of World Records (other beers are available, I believe) and she’s trying to outdo herself every month. It’s about as funny as the mothership trying to tell a joke – which is to say not very at all, and often verging on positively painful. The only time mother is actually funny is when she claims she can ride…

So, I have a plan. I’m sorry, but as Churchill said “it’s the greatest good for the greatest number” – and the dude is a dog who rides a skateboard, so I think we should listen… Mother Nature is quite obviously hormonal, mercurial and possibly homicidal (think mother with a hangover and no access to a McDonald’s), so we need to appease her. Forget chocolates, flowers and such like – we are WAY past that. And in my book, nothing says “we love you”, “chill out sister” and “quit going all rendition water boarding on our ass” quite like a mass sacrifice. I know. My brilliance knows no bounds, but you all forget – I’ve been with the mothership for over 18 years. I know how to handle mercurial, irrational powerful women…

So, here’s the plan.

It’s got to be the Sh*tlands.

There, I said it. But let’s be honest, you were all thinking it.

They serve no purpose, are evil knee kicking monsters with little person syndrome and are close enough to Satan to have real meaning as a gift. Besides which, they scare me and damage my manly pride that I have been spotted making strategic exits from their vicinity. I’m sure there are a few exceptions and I am prepared to discuss them (I was quite partial to little Lemon from Le Matchy Matchy and so I will send her a step to stand on) – we can always substitute for small Welsh ponies of the ginger variety…

Unless I hear otherwise, I shall assume we are all in on this plan and operation round up is underway. I would suggest using food and a net – they are harder to catch than greased weasels and move like small, furry Frankels. As any equine professional will tell you, you need to be stealthy and cunning – cornered they are like the love children of Kung Pu Panda and Chuck Norris with all the pent-up rage of a PMS sufferer denied access to Cadbury World. Be careful peoples, be very careful.

While I know that there may be a few non-horsey types who still labour under the illusion that the small satanistic psychos are cute and thus may be horrified, but a) they’re wrong and we know this, b) if they are daft enough to be suckered by the equivalent of an equine Ewok then their IQ is probably on a par with a garden tool, and c) we need to remind them of Churchill. This is about the greater good – and by that I mean those of us whose height is greater than that of a stunted Shih Tzu. The good part is slightly harder given that the previous category will allow ginger mares in, but one problem at a time here peoples, one problem at a time.

Trust me friends, we can end this misery and spring will be here – have I ever let you down? Now, go forth and capture.

Laters,

Hovis

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Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘This, my friends, is revenge time’

Hovis — Fri, 16 Feb 2024 07:00:34 +0000

Dear diary,

I know that I am blind as a bat in my right eye, but I could have almost sworn I saw some blades of grass in among the sea of mud in the fields the other day. Now, I could have been wrong, and it could have been an Irish worm en-route to supporting the rugby, but for a brief second there was glimmering hope that spring might be around the corner after week 34,573 of the British winter.

There is little other hope as the mercurial one continues to drench us on a daily basis; I actually think the only time I was ever this wet was during the epic mother meltdown of 2021 when Herman the German and Cool New Shoes Man drew lots as to who had to tell her I was about to meet my maker. Although there was more snot back then than there is now, which I suppose is a small thing to be grateful for…

In the meantime however, like most places across the country, anything smaller than 14hh is being issued with arm bands and an emergency life raft on a pull cord for fear of drowning in the divots. Us more muscled and manly specimens are being moaned at for causing said divots and are being requested to float to our fields like Mary Poppins – any jokes about blimps will not be well-received here for the record…

I think at some point back in the past 10 years I remember my feathers being white for longer than the five minutes it takes to get from the wash room to the stables, but it’s a distant and faded memory now sort of like when mum thinks about being a size eight…

But instead of being negative I am choosing to focus on the fact that the nights are very slowly getting lighter. Unfortunately I can still see the pint-sized pain in my posterior well past 4.30pm now – the clouds with legs have been seen playing piggy back games in the fields and, if you really really squint, some green stuff can be seen emerging from the quagmire. Spring might be getting ready with about as much oomph as mother trying to put her socks on in the morning, but just like her, it is going to get there some time soon.

Which of course then presents the annual fun of the “festival of freshness” in which riders across the land compete to see how many times they can use that word (usually between gritted teeth) as we, their noble steeds, piaffe sideways with the knee high action of a Las Vegas chorus line and all the “whooaa” obedience of the legendary Shamrock…

The daisy reins, martingales and other S&M paraphernalia will all be fetched out of the “emergency brakes” bag in the back of the tack room, post-Christmas failed diet arses will be wriggled into sticky bum jodhpurs and tack shops across the land will put the order in for air jacket refill canisters. This, my friends, is revenge time for all those antlers, bells, tinsel and other festive indignities; nothing says don’t dress me as an elf as well as cantering sideways down the road with the speed of a Japanese bullet train and zero control.

Let’s be honest, there’s a window of time when spring is springing when we have a get out of jail free card for behaving like a Class A tw*twomble and my god is it fun!

So take a deep breath, ignore the rain pouring down your nose and start plotting your moves.

Laters,

Hovis

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(Image credit: Karen Thompson)

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Rude. Just rude.

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Anyways, I am off to co-ordinate the sacrifice. Please don’t be selfish – operation Shitlands for Drylands is critical to us surviving the next few months, so give generously.

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As we start the serious countdown, stay tuned to all social media and remember to use my hashtags (yes hashtagS – because I am just too big to only have one) to show support to everyone; #HovisInParis #HovisHereToHelp #HovisWithUs. Be like butter knives peoples and spread the word.

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