Dear diary,
OK, enough already. For the love of whichever deity you believe in, will whoever is peeing Mother Nature off please buy her some flowers, take her for dinner and tell her her ass looks fine in her frock. ANYTHING to calm her the flip down.
Honestly, the other week it was storm Hufty Mc Pufty fleeing the North as my mother headed in its direction, now it’s some dude called Ciaran ripping up the south coast like a bunch of stags in sh*galoof. Trees are down, rooves have blown off and frankly my mane is a mess. We’ve been inside for longer than that Wikileaky man stayed inside that embassy with any attempt to venture outside resulting in a rug wedging up one’s derriere faster than wind blowing up the M1. My feathers were blowing so wildly, the RAF dude who designed the Eurofighter was threatening to sue me for corporate espionage, as even he couldn’t achieve that much vertical thrust with a lot of engine power and a bigger purse than mother owes Herman the German Needle Man. My tail was spinning round so violently, I’ve got an audition as Budgie the Helicopter’s new sidekick next week and I’m pretty sure I’m wearing my bum hairs as a moustache.
All in all, it’s fair to say while I’m always up for wild nights, this isn’t what I had in mind – it’s hard to appear alluring to the ladies when my mane looks like Donald Trump’s toupee doing a Mexican wave while water cascades down my face like Halle Berry during an Oscars acceptance speech.
As a result of this ridiculous demonstration of the mercurial moods of mothers, it’s fair to say I’ve not been doing a great deal. Pointy fingers lady came and tuned me up at the weekend ready for Your Horse is Alive, which was good; mini-mother walked me up and down for her while she stared at my bum and all seemed fine. Then mother took over to trot me up, which resulted in physio lady yelling “stop, stop” in a very worried tone, and then replying upon mother’s worried look that she needed to end the trot-up as she couldn’t bear to see such lameness and suffering. Mother turned whiter than Casper until she clarified she meant mother…
I, in the meantime, demonstrated what a loss I am to the Royal Ballet by wrapping my leg around my head, her head and mother’s with an ease that would make Darcy Bashful green with envy. I was “tight” in my shoulders so she gave me a very, very enjoyable massage, which I was later to find out mother had videoed and posted all over Facebook. Can I be clear? Yes, to the uneducated I might look like a gormless lip wobbling womble, swaying about like Stevie Wonder, but in actual fact I was tuning my inner chakras to ensure maximum healing benefit. Honest…
Anyways, I am off to see if I can steal any of Barbie Boy’s haynet through the bars for no other reason than it annoys him and amuses me. I don’t bother eating it – it’s soaked for Pete’s sake, it tastes like cardboard, but it’s raining, I’m bored and when he pulls nasty faces he looks like a small ginger camel, which is funny. So sue me.
Laters,
Hovis
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