Dear Diary
This week finds us sadly still seeing horrific pictures from Ukraine, but at least funds, help and assistance in all forms, are being shown and delivered from around the world. This just plain baffles my simple equine brain – that a species can be capable of such hatred and such love just seems so bizarre. Until I think about every mare I have ever known and then it becomes much clearer…
Seems to me then that a good dose of moody mare might need to be administered to Putin in short order. Once again, I do volunteer my mother for the job – for a start anyone witnessing me attempt to avoid being wormed will tell you that if the woman wants to put something in your mouth she will and to hell with how big or clever you think you are. She’s also used to dealing with megalomaniacal pains in the ass with delusions of grandeur and an ego that writes checks their capability can’t cash – honestly Barbie Boy is good training for this sort of thing…
Talking of the pint-sized palomino, he has NOT stopped yapping on about going cross-country training the other weekend – honestly the amount he’s blathered on about it I’m surprised he isn’t a little hoarse – bada boom! Thank you! I am available for weddings, bar mitzvahs and a gig presenting the Oscars…
Anyway, in all honestly if I have to listen once more to him harp on about him and mini-mother’s brilliance at jumping, I might barf… or choke since I can’t physically actually barf… come to think of it that’s one I’ve not tried before… anyway, the point being that I have been ridden by an eventing legend. And if mother hadn’t have been such a killjoy, we might even have jumped the four-star cross-country fence that I locked onto with the ferocity of a fat fighter eyeing up a crème egg – to be fair I’m not sure what was stronger; the force of mother’s wrath or Mary’s outside leg, but either way I was pushed off course and a moment in equine history was missed. It was the world’s loss I can assure you – I would have gone over that fence in a way few would ever have seen. So when blondie is prattling on about jumping what was effectively a stick on the ground with mini-mother clinging on to him like mother clinging on to the last vestiges of her “yoof”, then you can understand why I’m not impressed.
Apparently, there is some eventer coming to the yard this weekend to teach some jumping classes – I was hopeful that I might be allowed to attend until I saw Karen the killjoy’s face and realised that there’s about as much chance as mother fitting her ass back into single figure dress sizes. Apparently, I am too old now and incapable of doing anything without running up a vet’s bill higher than the number of complaints about Mr Smith getting all Muhammad Ali on Chris Rock – which sounded less Hitched and more like Men in Black-tie getting all Wild Wild West to me.
Regardless of mother’s missive, I am pondering throwing some serious audition moves in my field to get the eventer lady’s attention – if she’s as good as they say she is then she’s going to recognise real talent when she sees it. I’m sure the participants of the lessons won’t mind either – after all there are very few born with the talents I have and witnessing it for free whilst aboard their own pale imitation of equine perfection will be a real treat. I’ll let you know how that goes…
I’m therefore off to prepare my moves, get my feathers cleaned by a suitable minion, and try to keep Barbie’s ego under control. I may be some time…
Laters,
Hovis
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