Dear Diary
It appears that there is indeed a god – no doubt female, mercurial, slightly unpredictable, and at times very hard to understand, but all powerful none-the-less. And capable of delivering the goods when needed.
For the past few months whilst I am still stuck doing walk and trot work in the school, the preening perfect ponce-a-lot palomino has been whisked here there and everywhere with gushing praise being lavished on him at every turn. If his ego got any bigger it would almost rival the size of the mothership’s derriere – and trust me that makes the Kardashian arse surgeon weep with envy that he could never produce something so magnificent… or large…
But it’s fair to say this last week that the golden child’s halo slipped so far he could have worn it as a necklace or perhaps even lower… such that it wouldn’t be sunshine shining out of his ass but the dying glow of a fallen angel. I haven’t been so amused since I watched mother trying to schmooze Martin Clunes with a vibrating wand down the back of her pants whilst frantically signalling a star struck and thus totally oblivious Aunty Em for assistance.
So, what crime did the ginger ninja commit I hear you ask? Simples. He did a Top Gun (the original) – felt the need for speed, executed a flyby, didn’t look out for his wingman and ejected her at pace. Straight into the log he was supposed to navigating them both over…
Thankfully mini-mother was absolutely fine (despite being a lot less round she bounces an awful lot better than the mothership), but Barbie Boy was in bother. His story was full of excuses about straightness of the entry line (seriously mate, mother’s “lines” to jumps were so wonky they could have hidden behind a corkscrew and not cast a shadow), and the number of strides being incorrect (again mother couldn’t count a stride if someone lent her fingers to use), but it was fair to say they were ignored about the same way as my manly needs.
For all my willingness to take on my mother’s wrath on a regular basis, I can also spot an opportunity to suck up more than a newly charged cordless Dyson so thus when I was tacked up and the mothership began the protracted process of getting her leg over – seriously they unblocked the Panama canal faster than her hips open these days – I did stand still. Mostly…
I might have bounced a tiny bit, but I managed to restrain my urge to re-enact a Las Vegas Chorus Girl line-up (feathers and high kicks peoples – I am qualified on both counts) and thus exited the school some 20 odd minutes later with mother softly cooing what a good boy I was whilst I gave Barbie boy the sort of smug grin that makes Tom Cruise look humble. What can I say? I might be a bit older, a bit greyer, a bit more in need of the odd cheeky bute every now and again, but I’ve still got it. I know mother and I might have a heated debate about what “it” actually is, but the main thing is I am now back as king pin whilst the previously perfect pint sized pain in the ass is in the dog house. At least for now life is looking pretty good.
Talking of “pretty good”, work is still ongoing on my next book which has a working title of Hovis’ Friday Diary: Laughter, Lameness and Lockdowns. I preferred Lockdowns, Lameness and Lazarus Rising, but mum says that makes me sound like I have a god-complex. Personally, I don’t see the issue with this – it’s hardly as if anyone will do me for trade descriptions is it? – but your views are welcome. Let’s be honest mother can’t exactly be trusted when it comes to using her brains – her IQ is only rivalled by garden tools on a good day. And value range ones at that…
Let me know your thoughts or further suggestions.
Laters,
Hovis
You may also be interested in…
Hovis’ Friday Diary: ‘I am more fed up than a republican at a Royal Garden Party’
Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘Mother’s growl would have frozen the blood of the grouchiest of grizzly bears’
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