Dear diary,
It’s day I-really-don’t-care-anymore-but-please-make-it-stop of the human strangles epidemic. As the spring weather starts to arrive, small bands of socially distanced feral, extremely furry humans are being increasingly spotted roaming the countryside alongside the usual horror of MAMILs and the odd brave soul doing the “coach potato to chip” or whatever it’s called. What with the lack of groomers available and a gross dereliction of the Wicks workout, what is evident is frankly most of the blokes just need a football called Wilson and the females are clearly less naturally palomino and more patchy *American word for girl parts*. For my part, I’m just glad I’m still on yard arrest as I’m pretty sure what with mother’s unclipped locks and other personal grooming slippages, I’d be the unfortunate star of a remake of a hither to unseen Star Wars prequel — The Wookie Rides Forth. How she dares take the scissors to my barnet when she won’t do the same to hers, once again smacks of the sort of inequality normally only seen when comparing my feed bucket to sloany pony’s dinner.
Only this week she decided that having “trimmed” my face and ears to the extent I resemble the results of a drunken tryst with Edwards Scissorhands in the pitch black, that it was now time for the cat hairs on my derriere to be subjected to the same treatment: it’s fair to say, that if there were any more steps then I probably could apply for a grant for a chair lift. What was even more concerning is when the attention then strayed to the wispy long hairs that gentle frame the entrance to my man sausage cave; let me tell you fellas, nothing in this world will garner a more rigid immovable posture than your mother wafting sharp implements around your nether regions like Stevie Wonder at a fencing lesson. I don’t think I so much as breathed for the whole time that the psychotic scissor sister snipped near my sausage — and never ever have I been so terrified of a sneeze, I can tell you…
On Friday, Cool New Shoes Man came out to measure me up for some special shoes to support my slightly wonky foot and to allow mother to regain her pilot wings. I had a significant pedicure while mother tried valiantly to persuade CNSM that he and I should partner up in a 2021 remake of Champions. Picture it now: run-of-the-mill farrier meets wonder horse, beats cancer and becomes NAF Farrier of the Year, then rides said wonder horse who has had more comebacks than Take That and is fighting back once again from a career ending injury — all played out to a moving musical score and a tear jerking ending, in which Herman the German emotionally reads out the parts of Herman Towers my vets bills have paid for, while mother ceremoniously burns £50 notes in front of the moat. Honestly, I think on this one she’s actually right — it’s the film the world needs right now. I am prepared to do a Tom Cruise (no, not wear lifts in my shoes and do my close ups standing on a box) by doing my own stunts and I’m sure once the life insurance and will beneficiary has been checked by his long-suffering fiancée then CNSM would be prepared to do the same. If people are prepared to pay £40 each to live stream Tyson Grumpy hit Anton du Joshua in the mush, then surely they would be prepared to pay similar to watch CNSM mount ¾ tonne of equine perfection and for me to give him the ride of his life. Which to be fair, if marketed incorrectly, could put us on the prawn channel so we need to be extremely careful…
Anyway, CNSM remains slightly unconvinced on the idea that mother’s plan has legs and so any help to persuade him will be welcomed. If nothing else then if this fails, and in the absence of a deluge of test pilot CVs materialising post-last weeks plea, mother is going to have to ride me and going on the fact she’s already limping worse than Long John Silver having stood on a Lego brick, it is only going to end in tears. Probably mine…
I’m off to work on my script in more detail and figure out how I can position myself to graze without the world seeing the damage lockdown has had on my locks — it’s a mane and man garden massacre peoples. Send help.
Laters,
Hovis
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