Dear Diary
It’s day three trillion of the human strangles epidemic and across the nation people are getting little pricks in their arms with more frequency than a family of hedgehogs playing twister. Mother has yet to have hers, as surprisingly she not as old as her body might hint, but I’d pay serious money to watch Herman the German Needle Man give her it – I think that would only be fair on account of the number of times she’s let him shove a needle in my derriere over the years. And let’s be honest mother’s arse is a MUCH bigger target…
Talking of arses I was freezing mine off the other day (see evidence above) as mother decided that “naked” was to be our new normal and left me outside sans jacket for at least an hour or so. The sun might have been shining, but that didn’t mean it was WARM; let’s face it, applying that logic is warped – mother wears jodphurs, it doesn’t mean she can ride. It is still only March peoples and I do not think there is any need for my manicured man parts to be wafting uncovered in the breeze like a bunch of naturists on nemesis.
My pal Bob the Cob was similarly left unclothed and unhappy – as was Barbie Boy, but to be honest he didn’t notice as his coat is thicker than he is – so we stood together and fixed our respective mothers with our best Paddington “Hard Stares”. I do think perhaps they need some work as rather than withering on the spot and bringing my coat, mother came to poo pick so perhaps it was less “hard stare” and more “constipated glower”? Mind you to be fair mother’s ability to read equine body language is about on a par with Steve Wonder so I don’t know why I’m so shocked.
As you read this Herman’s glamorous sidekick will be visiting, along with Cool New Shoes Man (CNSM) to take yet more pictures of the most photographed body part in the world – no, not Kim Karadashian’s ass, my foot – ahead of CNSM fitting me with the equine equivalent of Jimmy Choo-Choos Shoes.
As apparently, unlike me, he is not in possession of superpowers, he needs her to re-x-ray my tootsies to make sure it’s fitted correctly. I’m not sure that they took this approach in Cinderella so I am mildly suspicious that they’re all up to something – if I start to feel like a member of the seven dwarves (i.e. sleepy, dopey or even sneezy) at any point during this little production, I’m changing the script and it wont be PG-friendly. I know what happens to a boy when sneaky vets use lala juice; one minute you’re fine and the next tweetie pie is doing a fly by – not to mention you wake up with a clean man sausage and your mother wafting marigolds and the sort of jelly they don’t serve up at children’s parties around like Kim Woodlouse in a prawn film. It’s not fun peoples, not fun.
In theory by tonight I will have fancy dancing shoes back on again and then once everything has “settled down” (aka mother has onboarded enough gin to self-embalm) then the mothership will climb back on board with the grace and dignity of an overweight elephant on a unicycle. That’s the plan anyway – although as Mike Tyson once said; everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face.
Continued below…
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I do think that we are missing an opportunity to sell live streaming to the relaunch of Hoverine airlines, but the blubbership doesn’t seem keen for some reason; personally I think the world needs to see my dancing set to a moving rendition of I believe I can fly. If nothing else it might get mother some likes on sh**eventers so I think you all need to lobby her hard to stop being such a spoilsport.
I’m off to keep a wary eye on any sneaky needles and Cool New Shoes Man sticking his tongue up my nose whilst pondering do I start things off with a gentle waltz or an energetic jive. Decisions decisions…
Laters,
Hovis
