So last week I took you up to the evening of the Saturday of Your Horse Is Alive where I made a triumphant return to the place I was born to be – in the main arena, in front of hundreds of adoring fans – unfortunately with the mothership both in attendance and on the microphone. Honestly the sooner I get rid of the untalented one of our duo, the better…
Sunday morning dawned bright and early as my mate Vinnie the security guard came round at zero dark thirty for cuddles and a chat, but it was another hour before my minions turned up with my breakfast – something which to be honest displeased me immensely. I thus decided that I wasn’t feeling the most co-operative for the remainder of the morning and that a star like myself is entitled to behave like a diva when I wish. Look if it’s good enough for Mariah then it’s good enough for me, right?
Note to self; Mariah clearly doesn’t have a mother like mine…
After I had summarily dragged my Aunty Mary from one side of the stage to the other during my morning grooming demo, refused to stand still for Aunty Em to demonstrate various products, tried to take a chunk out of mother’s very ample derriere whilst she was talking poop (only Aunty Mary’s lightening reactions saved the day on that one as mother was totally distracted regaling my adoring
fans with some codswallop about my daily routine) and then steamed through a barrier to share a young girl’s Fanta with her, it’s fair to say I was so far into the dog house that I now answer to fido and roll over on command.
Aunty Mary was bright red from the exertion of trying to hold ¾ tonne of muscled magnificence with only a headcollar, Aunty Em was covered in the chalk I was supposed to be wearing on my legs to the extent that Head and Shoulders offered her a job as a “before” picture, and mother had literal steam pouring from her ears.
I was walked down to the grass at the bottom of the road for a talking to the likes of which my young fans should never have to hear and some suggestion was given to the fact if I didn’t start behaving my life expectancy was going to be measured in minutes. I know at times mother is so thick she makes breeze block look intelligent, but you cannot fault her vocabulary. Admittedly none of it is repeatable, but the sheer volume of words she knows for suggesting that she’s not my number one fan is incredible.
After she had finished venting her spleen, Aunty Mary had got her breath back and Aunty Em had been wiped down such that she didn’t resemble Casper, we headed back to the stables where I meekly met with my fans and tried not to annoy mother any more than I had done thus far.
Lunchtime dawned and I was still alive, which was something to be taken for the win given the mood only hours earlier, and more over a new envoy from Mr Hester arrived. Clearly not happy with the holding statement I had given him the day before on his offer for me to go and coach the British Stressage squad, then he had deployed a big gun – none other than Viagra’s groom himself, Alan
Alan came to see me (we have met before when Viagra shoved his tongue down my throat several Your Horse is Alives ago – without so much as buying me dinner I hasten to add) and brought gifts. It appears that the tongue fest of 2019 must have been a career high for Viagra as he sent me some of his own new treats – blueberry ones. They were delicious and nearly made up for his rather forward behaviour, but I was still on the fence if this was enough to sway me to the dark side of stressage.
Admittedly Alan was nearly as persuasive as Mr Hester had been the day before and I am very tempted – so anyone reading this from British showjumping or indeed British Eventing had better get a wriggle on with their offer as they might be about to miss the horse lorry here.
I welcome your thoughts on which camp I should gravitate towards in my new coaching role – which one has more mares?
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