Dear diary,
So, the furore that surrounded my announcement last week shows no sign of abeyance. The southern divisions of the Hovite Army are positively beside themselves with excitement that I am straying so far into the depths of the south (it’s ok people, I have been vaccinated), while the northern contingent are in varying states of depression and are demanding a highland tour. Meanwhile, Aunty Em and the General of the Hovite Army herself have been seen practising their curtsey and browsing shops for suitable attire and headwear.
Which brings me onto the first point of contention of the week. The mothership. And her posting pictures of me in a tiara and a crown all over my Facebook pages. Oh, and Instagram. #godsavewhatsleftofmystreetcred. A TIARA?! Seriously? What that woman brands as “being humorous” is used by the CIA as a replacement for waterboarding. What’s worse is you lot encouraged her — can we just be clear here about who you’re supposed to be fans of? Encouraging me being dressed up like a Disney princess is not being fan-like; it’s animal cruelty. You should all be very ashamed. I will take apologies in the form of polos and carrots only and at several hundred likes of each soul-destroying picture then that’s a lot of carrots.
To be clear however, I am seriously excited about going to Windsor. I, the bogtrotting beast with questionable parentage, has been asked to hang out in the Queen’s back yard. That’s seriously cool by anyone’s standards. The hobnobbing with the stars of dressage, showjumping, showing and carriage driving is pretty incredible too, but I’m sure they will manage to get over being in the presence of a global superstar once they realise that I talc my feathers just like normal folk. I’m also pretty sure the humans will be vying to put their horses in the stable near mine and clambering to come and hang out with me when they recall my track record of both equine and human coaching. Face the facts:
• Two nights next to Nip and Tuck Shop at YHL2012 and the horse becomes a prancing superstar.
• Geoff Billington rides me at YHL 2016 and cements his name as a household superstar.
• Jonty Evans comes for a cuddle and some advice at Belton 2018 and wins the event.
• Ros Canter does the same and has the best year of her career.
• Mary King rides me once, feels what real horsepower is like and is addicted for life — nearly having a dust up with Geoff Billington at YHL2018 for stealing his ride.
The reality is people, I’m like Midas — only more ginger than gold and more likely to turn your bank balance red rather than black. But my advice? Priceless.
On the subject of the people lucky enough to have sat on me, I also understand that Her Majesty is a wonderful equestrian and so I’m wondering whether I should ask her if she wants a jaunt? If only to see how white mum can actually go? I’ve never tried polo either, so am equally willing to partner with Charles, William or Harry, although if I’m honest, I’m not keen on the polo rig — all those straps and buckles are a tad too Fifty Tastes for me and I don’t mean hay…
Views on which member of our wonderful Royal family would make the best partner are welcomed along with someone figuring out how their security detail could possibly keep up with my feathered fury. I do think one sit on me and the knighthood is in the bag — Sir Hovis of Feathersville does have a wonderful ring, don’t you agree?
On less exciting news I have this week caused more consternation by starting to bleed from my foot wound, leading to the boss lady looking pensive, mother looking suicidal and Herman the German faking man flu to avoid having to come and deal with either of them. Instead, he sent his far more glamorous sidekick who was a) far nicer smelling and b) far more amenable to me leaning on her than Herman usually is. She was worried but not panicked, but did refuse to sanction me being turned out anytime soon, much to my utter disgust. I may have accidentally mistaken her hair for hay and pulled, but that was in no way related to her condemning me to another week in a stable when the sun is shining, the grass is growing, and spring has sprung. Honest…
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Herman is due today, so we shall see if he has recovered sufficiently to remember the first thing about this vetting lark and thus can be convinced to let me out for more than 10 minutes a day. I think secretly the boss lady would be quite relieved also as apparently trying to hold on to ¾ of a tonne of rampaging equine muscle is not the sort of HIIT workout that is sold with a video and a pumping sound track. I don’t know — personally I think my moves to “Staying Alive” could be a chart-topping success; if Gemma Collins can do one than so can I, surely?
So, fingers crossed for a better vet visit, recommendations for a royal partner welcomed and quite frankly, someone finding me more suitable headwear than a tiara.
Laters,
His Highness Hovis
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