Dear diary,
I write this from my sick bed in horsepital, but fret not for I is fine; mother’s bank balance is on life-support and mother’s nerves may never be the same again, but I’m fine. I shall explain more about my stay at casa del Bungle and Zippy in a minute, but first, let me pick up on my tales from the cult event Your Horse is Alive where my narrative has reached Sunday.
So, having been publicly pampered and preened, having had my tail turned into a dazzling Disney-esque designer derriere and then been royally snogged by the four-legged legend that is Viagra, I had gone to bed on Saturday night feeling slightly violated. This, however, was nothing compared to the violation felt by us all the following morning when she-who-must-be-obeyed and father came down and found the truck had been broken into and all my tack stolen. Mum was devastated, not least because I’d had my bridle for years (she is actually quite a sentimental old trout) and secondly because she was actually going to have to tell dad how much my saddle had really cost…
What devastated us all more than anything was the fact we’d had a cunning and wonderful surprise up our snowy white feathers; I was going to reunite with my friend Jonty Evans as his new steed and show off our dance moves together; two Irish heavyweights who had come back from the brink, reunited to show the world what happens if you don’t give up. Mum was gutted that this now couldn’t happen, but the wonderful Mr Evans said I could still go into the arena with him on foot which was awesome.
In the meantime, news had spread like wildfire as to dastardly deeds of these donkey doodoo dooshbags and many people began to try and help us find tack to fit my manly physique. There are many many thank you’s but not least to the amazing ladies from WOW saddles, Cavaletti and Bliss of London, who all came rushing to my aid. I very much enjoyed modelling some stunning saddles, while mother turned even whiter and muttered “don’t moult on it, drop it or breathe in its direction” to me from between clenched teeth. But as you all know, tack should be road tested with a rider in a safe environment and we just didn’t have time to do that. No matter how wonderful the incredible Mr Evans is, asking him to get on a horse of my undeniable talent and power for the first time with untested tack in a packed arena wasn’t responsible, so we had to abort the plan. If, however any of the aforementioned companies ever need a model for their wares then they know where I am…
So, twice on Sunday I sauntered into the arena as Jonty’s surprise star guest to rapturous applause and adulation only marred by the fact I wasn’t strutting my stuff as we had planned and mother was in there with me with a microphone. Honestly people, will you stop giving her communication devices — she’s getting way way above her station, forgetting who the talent in the relationship really is and spouting as much poop as a baby on diet of dates and figs. People wanted to see ¾ tonne of magnificent manly equine muscle on parade not an overweight, two-legged blonde Afghan hound — this was Your Horse is Alive not Crufts…
Despite the theft of all my tack, for which I can only hope Karma kicks the ass of those responsible, I had an amazing time once again, meeting so so many of you for the first time and saying “hi” to some old friends.
Two of you wonderful Hovites paid a crazy amount of money to ride me to support Jonty’s chosen charity (naturally I am worth it, but still it was very, very generous) and we raised a huge amount for my chosen charity, Bransby Horses (who so need our help at the moment due to the devastating floods in Lincolnshire wiping out 40% of their grazing land). The kindness of people at the event and afterwards (a special mention to the team at Millstream Saddlery who sent me such a kind and wonderful gift to replace some of my tack) has been humbling so a genuine thank you.
After the excitement of Your Horse is Alive a trip to the house of Zippy was never going to quite live up to the previous weekend’s antics (even minus the Viagra snogging) but that’s where I headed on Sunday. Despite being sound at YHL I have been suffering from intermittent lameness, otherwise known by mother as periods of “being enough of a theatrical fanny that Ronaldo wants lessons”, in which I would hobble from the field on three legs only to make a miraculous recovery the minute it became clear that the mention of the “hounds” meant more me being chewed than them being chased…
I had surgery earlier this year, but instead of finding a Kevin the Keratoma they found Marvin the mystery mass, which was removed, but over the past few months Cool New Shoes Man had strongly suspected that Kevin had been lurking in my foot like a fart in a wetsuit — silent, subtle and potentially deadly. This time therefore, I was put under a general anaesthetic and put into a CT scanner to see if Kevin could be found. From what I can gather, a GA seems to involve me going to sleep in a padded room and then waking up some time later to mum being so strung out she’s in need of a padded room herself, along with a new jacket with interesting cuff detailing…
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Needless to say, Castaway Kevin was located this time (not least because he’s clearly been studying growth at the same school as mother’s ass) and has now been removed. As I haven’t had sole taken away this time, I haven’t got a hospital plate on and as soon as I granulate (just call me Demerara) then Cool New Shoes Man can fill the cavern of Kevin in and I can get fit again for my favourite philanthropic fans to ride me. At the time of writing this I’m still up at Zippy, Bungle and George’s place but am hoping to get home on Sunday with a fair wind and some decent healing vibes.
Laters,
Hop-a-long Hovis
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