Dear diary,
A question, if I may? Has the man upstairs totally lost his marbles? In the past few weeks I have sweated more than a Shetland pony tethered outside a supermarket, been wetter than a squirrel in a water butt and then to add insult to injury he sends the white stuff and temperatures cold enough to freeze my man sausage to the size of a chipolata.
Is he hormonal? My fur doesn’t know whether it’s growing or falling out and as a result I look like I have mange.
Added to which I am in the middle of my seasonal change from soft seal pup grey to strawberry blonde (I am NOT ginger) and the accompanying mottled affect in my coat is as usual making me look like I’ve got some sort of dodgy fungal growth. As mum always says, I am a mouldy Hovis loaf — mind you, we all know my mother isn’t funny…
So, as I told you last week, I now have my racing plates back on and am setting forth on my mission to educate the world about the speed and prowess of us larger-built types.
Admittedly, my hacking buddy — the annoyingly talented, but high-stepping pansy Hot Stepper — is a little fitter than me at the moment. But a few weeks of my aunty Sammie’s boot camp should put pay to that.
Meanwhile speculation continues as to who/what my father was on several internet forums. Mum maintains that my dam wasn’t fussy and dad was likely to have been the mule that pulled the local milk float — if you listen to her he was probably three legged, partially sighted and definitely cerebrally challenged.
Her view is in the minority though and the current thinking appears to be leaning towards dad having been a thoroughbred — and yes, mum did cry tears of joy when she told me. At least I think she was crying — Billy said it looked more like she was wetting herself laughing to him, but close inspection of my sawdust revealed no wet patches, so the old bugger was obviously wrong.
Anyway, at first I was affronted by this. Do I wet my knickers when a pigeon passes wind in the next county? No. Do I leg it if a worm sticks its head out of the ground three fields over? No. Do I go lame if my foot passes within 50m of uneven terrain? No. Do I shiver pathetically if a raindrop falls within a square mile of my buttocks? No. Thus surely I am not part wussy thoroughbred. But then I got to thinking…
If I am part thoroughbred, would I be allowed to these elitist parties that only the skinny, non-feathered equine elite are invited to? For example, mum tells me there is some festival on at the moment where these thoroughbred types race over fences that fall down if you hit them. While it sounds sort of pointless to me (fences that fall down? I know they’re delicate little flowers, but really) it got me thinking that I quite fancied flattening a few fences, kicking a few thoroughbred asses and then pulling the ladies at the hay bar while showing them what a real man looks like.
Since I am still waiting for William Fox-in-a-Hole to give me a call reference being his Burghley steed (I can only assume he’s lost my mobile number) then maybe racing is my calling? I’m a demon stubble racer, so this festival place should be a breeze. Mum was telling me about one of the races, which was won by some dude with a ridiculous name — Stormy Insect or something.
Slightly off subject, but what is it with these highly bred types and their daft names? Flatlands Dorrito, Viagra, Stormy Insect. The only one with a decent name was The Tank. Now that was a real man’s name, so maybe now he’s retired the punters need a replacement? Step forth The Destroyer. So I reckon I shave my legs, don some slimming spanx (well they work on my mother’s big bum), find myself a jockey that wont hyperventilate before she’s even mounted and hitch myself a lift to this festival place. Well the way I look at it if I have to resign myself to being part thoroughbred I might as well be a racing mongrel.
So, I hope you’ve kept your eyes peeled on the TV during this festival thing. If you think you saw a larger than average, mouldy looking, suspiciously feathered, muscled machine hurtling past in a blur, it might just have been me.
Laters,
Hovis
