Dear Diary,
Well the day is almost upon us! On Sunday 27 September my fourth book Hovis’ Friday Diary: The Fast and The Feathery is released upon the world like a literary tsunami.
It follows hot on the heels of my previous three books and once again is sold with 100% of the proceeds going to Bransby Horses (charity number 1075601).
Mum will be up at the Bransby Autumn Fayre, poncing about like she can take any credit for the masterpiece of hilarity that is my work and even worse signing books like it’s her right to do so. I have long since accepted my mother is a limelight hogging free loader so it comes as no surprise but please people don’t encourage her — ask where the real author is when you see her.
For those of you who either can’t get there or don’t wish to see the fraudster herself, then you can order all of the books including the new one from the online shop at www.bransbyhorses.co.uk. They will ship anywhere around the world so for those of you on foreign shores don’t feel left out. You are an integral part of my world domination plan so don’t be shy. Priced at £5.99 the money from the sale of all the books goes to helping equines less fortunate than me to have a brighter future. Apparently this fact should make me feel good inside. I have to be honest, carrots work better in this respect but I don’t like to burst mother’s philanthropic bubble. Bless her.
For once I’m being serious when I say that over the years the support from all of you has been truly amazing and so I hope you can find it in your hearts (and to be honest your wallets) to support us again.
Anyway enough of the seriousness — people will think I’ve turned into an Arab or something…
So other than preparing for the booker prize nominations to be announced what have I been up to?
Well mainly being worked within an inch of my tiny Irish life by my satanistic mother in an attempt to fitten me up. This has involved trotting poles, lots of transitions and a minor worrying moment when I caught sight of myself doing such a poncy collected canter I had to do a double take in the arena mirrors and promptly fell over my own feet. I would like to say I didn’t kiss the floor but the arena sand that was coating my tiny moustache would have made me a liar on that front. Amazingly mother didn’t fly out of the front door but did suggest I have a career in the finance sector as she struggled to right 750kg of flaying muscle with the power of her forearms. If you’ve met mother you’ll appreciate that she’s no stick insect so in my mind she was fully equipped to rescue me. Not sure she quite saw it that way…
Herman the German Needle Man upset me greatly last Friday by sending one of his needle waving minions to look after me instead of coming himself. He had told mother he was sending a lady but I did figure he was having one of those days *whispers* the ones we don’t talk about in public. But no, he actually meant he was sending a lady. Admittedly she was very very nice, said I was lovely and was far, far easier on the eye than Herman himself but still. I feel that him being away is a pitiful excuse and I’m starting to think his priorities need straightening out. First he makes cracks about my weight and my ancestry and now he’s standing me up — I think the romance is gone. I have made a mental note to stand on his foot the next time I see him.
Mind you Herman is not the only person in my bad books — I could have a naughty step for half the Hovite Army this week. Call yourselves FANS? What on earth are you all playing at? When Aunty Becky posts pictures of potential cross-country colours on my Facebook fan pages I expect you all to behave like responsible and caring admirers and head her towards colours that I will actually be seen dead in. Just because she has a penchant for dressing her boy in pink does NOT mean that I should be subjected to the same horror.
Besides which I, in certain lights, might possibly have a slight (very slight) hint of copper (not ginger, just to be clear) to my colouring and so would look absolutely ridiculous in pink. I want something in manly black to go with my cool NAF rug and black travel boots. At a push I could do green as a salute to my Irish roots but PINK? Those of you who even suggested it — consider yourselves suitably chastised.
Anyway I’m off to go and babysit the American dude around a little hack and then chill, awaiting the presents and adoring fan mail to pour in as the world once against appreciates my literary genius.
Laters,
Hovis
