Dear diary,
So last week I was in the dog house and to the more sensitive eye it might seem to many that I’m still there. The reason? A visit from none other than Evil Army Man himself.
Now those who haven’t followed me since all this began (like really people, where have you been? Oh and you can catch up on all FIVE of my books available from the online shop at www.bransbyhorses.co.uk) will not know about Evil Army Man.
Evil Army Man was the most evil of evil people. He first came into mum and I’s life back when the love of my life (now sadly over the bridge) Fit Mare and her mum used to use him for lessons when he drilled them and the rest of the RAF equine team within an inch of their lives. Clearly recognising my great talent even then (I was only four) and equally recognising that I’d had the misfortune to be sold to a complete muppet (for the absence of doubt I mean mother), EAM agreed to be our coach.
I honestly don’t know who he scared the most — me or mother. My older brother Poofbags used to try and hide every time he saw him coming (which is rather hard when you’re a 17.2hh mountain of dark, well-bred Irish Draught poofiness).
Anyway, it’s fair to say after teaching me for a few years, the man realised he was never again going to deal with anything that approached either cross-country or showjumping the way I did and regrettably, but understandably, he hung up his coaching hat and concentrated on his proper job — being an equine dentist.
Mum has mourned the loss of his teaching for years — by all accounts he had to have therapy for years to get over teaching mother…
Anyway, he’s been my dentist for nearly 10 years which is why I have such sparkly pearly whites, but it doesn’t exactly mean I enjoy having him with a Black and Decker in my mouth.
So you can imagine when he rolled into the barn earlier this week, I was both pleased to see him (we do manly hugs unlike CNSM who has been known to snog me) and not pleased to see him.
Before they headed down to me, mum and Aunty H disappeared into medium-sized ginger dude’s stable with the determined air of two women on a mission. Much swearing could be heard, the faint sounds of wrestling before a few moments later, mother and Aunty H emerged looking rumpled but victorious. A few seconds later the ginger dude’s head appeared with an expression that could be best described as like a bulldog chewing a wasp. To be fair mother has a similar effect on me but I was later to find out they had in fact doped him with some bright blue loopy juice. Lucky bugger.
Anyway, attention swiftly moved to me and EAM geared up like a miner; for the record, I know my mouth is big but I’m not sure there was any need for the boiler suit, the head torch and the belt that looked like some form of safety line? I mean what was the man preparing to do? Rappel down my tonsils and lasso my larynx?
Mum head collared me but all parties agreed it was totally unnecessary — I might be big, brooding and occasionally bolshy, but I’m a dream for dentists, farriers and even evil needle wielding Germans. So I showed the ginger dude how we professionals handle EAM up to his elbow in your knashers, with dignity, aplomb and the occasional desire to know what would happen in the hinge on metal mouth opener failed…
Continued below…
Hovis’ Friday diary: my rapid descent from being on top of the world…
‘The come down from great fame moments stinks.
Ginger dude spent the whole time looking like a hippy at a Take That concert — stoned and slightly bemused by proceedings — but on the whole didn’t disgrace us all either. I think thought to be fair he was taking his lead from me. I mean who wouldn’t?
So next week, yet more bodily havoc is wreaked when Herman the German comes to start IRaP. I’m honestly not sure how much of his “ice ice baby” I can cope with? Someone pass me the blue loopy juice…
Laters,
Hovis
