Dear diary,
Well to be honest, I am astonished. I never knew so many of you were filthy-minded mucky puppies. I write about interesting things like my views on gelding and gelding relationships, my charters for when I become prime minster, and the state of religion in the hay barn and no-one is interested.
I mention, in passing, my man sausage on a national website and suddenly I am recommended by loads of you, hailed as witty and entertaining, and adored by the masses. Perverts, the lot of you.
Moving on to other none-related news, my mother has had to go to horsepital for an operation on her hip. An operation that is apparently all my fault — allow me to explain…
Some years ago Mother had one of her rare flashes of confidence and decided that we were going to go showjumping. I should point out two things at this point: firstly competing against ponies over embarrassingly low heights hardly constitutes show “jumping”, more show “stepping”; and secondly the use of the word “we” implies mother actually does something during these outings. Well besides hang on, heavy breathe and close her eyes…
Anyway we arrived at the venue only to discover the show “stepping” was on grass, which usually sends Mother’s breathing into ‘Puff, the magic dragon’ 
territory. What was worse is that even to my untrained eye (I was young and naive back then), the turns looked very tight and it was clearly set out for young children on very small ponies, not mid-life-crisis-suffering-women on Irish bog trotting beefcakes with the turning circle of the QE2. I’m not called The Destroyer for nothing.
As I recall Dad did try pointing out that this was all going to end in disaster. But Mother, not to be deterred, and never one to admit she’s wrong to Father, carried on, warmed me up and entered the course at a brisk no-nonsense pace.
All went well until we got to the fourth fence. It was on a slight hill and I decided to use the natural contours of the ground to aid my impressive aerodynamics. Mother, however, wanted me to jump slightly uphill in order to “give us enough room to get to the next fence”. In summary we argued the toss. Mother was determined. I weigh over half a tonne. Guess who won?
I went one way, Mum went the other; she hit the ground and rolled over like Chuck Norris from a moving army truck. Only with a little less finesse and a LOT more swearing.
This was not the only time I have heard Mum suggest my dam wasn’t married to my sire, but even I have to admit her use of adjectives was impressive, both in terms of fluency and ability to tirade for so long without any intake of air. Certain members of the local Pony Club learnt a whole new vocabulary that day and I do believe mother and I now have a life time ban from any events at that venue.
Admittedly me thundering around the rest of the course sans mother and attempting to mount one of the small well-groomed ponies didn’t help. Especially when the District Commissioner’s daughter was still sat on said fine frisky filly. In my defence I was only four and a raging mass of hormones: these days I do at least wait for the rider to get off first…
So years later Mother has had to have a large mass removed from her hip, something she blames me entirely for. She’s out of horspital and moping about like Long John Silver with haemorrhoids. The unfairness being blamed for all this knows no bounds and once again I implore any of you with a heart to consider adopting me. I’ll promise to keep away from small ponies…
Yours,
Hovis
Illustration by Pilar Larcade
