Dear diary,
I am a little cheesed off. Things are not going to plan at the moment and I am more frustrated than a male penguin in a convent (think about that one).
For a start, as I mentioned last week the weather is playing havoc with my hair. My fur is all mangy and the current flurries of wind and snow have caused my mane to resemble Elvis Presley’s hair piece. My tail looks like a bog brush and my feathers are all floofy and look like a set of rejected leg warmers from Fame — in fact, Dolly keeps walking past singing “I want to live forever” and sniggering. Wench.
Between her and the other females on the yard it’s a wonder a boy has any self-esteem left. Frilly is all “come hither”, tarting until you get close enough for her to attempt to eat your face off. And if you’re thinking that sounds sexy, think less 91/2 weeks and more Silence of the Lambs. I swear she wants my ears with a nice Chianti.
Ginger mare is old enough to be my mother, pulls more faces than a constipated hedgehog and seems to prefer the ladies and Dolly plays with my emotions like a cat with a stuffed mouse. Only yesterday she wanted to cuddle up to me at the fence line which I thought was romantic until I realised she only wanted me to act as windbreak.
Seriously, the lack of talent here is depressing: I need some fine young fillies with the low standards, the morals of an alley cat and a penchant for Irish bog trotting beefcake. I’m a boy with needs — is keeping me in such a way that the only thing I’m likely to pull is a muscle not a breach of my equine rights?
Talking of rights how do I go about divorcing my mother? Surely I have grounds under the title of unreasonable behaviour? Or the fact she’s going a bit la-la? The trying to turn me into a dressage princess was bad enough but now I have to put up with her kissing me in public, calling me “angel face” and limping around the yard like a one legged flamingo-esque pompom (whatever misery the weather has caused my fur you ought to see the state of mums hair — she looks like an afghan hound in a tumble dryer).
The other day Hot Stepper had wiped his molasses covered nose down her back and leg thus creating the effect of her having missed the toilet. Added to the limp, the hay that might have got sprinkled on to her pompom hair by persons unknown and the slightly funky smell of wet horse rug and she wonders why people don’t want to stand next to her in the queue at Chavda. Oh the shame.
That’s before I mention her impressive ability to do Bolero with the gate post every time it’s a bit icy or her hopping about the yard with one welly full of water because she failed to move fast enough when I help her break the ice in my water trough. Or even the impression of a goosed chicken (am I mixing my metaphors?) she does when I give her a helpful nudge mid electric fence movement.
I tell you with all I have to put up with in this life I had better be going to be reincarnated as a full service stallion in the next one if you know what I’m saying.
In summary, I look like an electrocuted alpaca, the weather is so pants I’m expecting Noah and the ruddy ark at any minute, there are no women with low standards in my life, my mother is special needs and I’ve not been jumping for months. Oh, and mum is selling my executive transport because that small crying thing that pulls my whiskers is taking up so much time we’re unlikely to compete enough to need the lorry anymore.
Life is utter, utter poo, so I’ve decided to do something about it, exploit my position and advertise for new parents. Submit CVs below, plus I also require a paragraph of no more than 100 words completing the following sentence.
“Hovis I would make the bestest ever new mum / dad (delete as appropriate) for you because……….”
Priority will be given to homes which give good access to females with no morals, good food, a nice horsebox and showjumping/hunting/Burghley/the next Olympics.
I await the flood of applicants.
Yours hopefully,
Hovis
