Dear Diary
So, the world has been buzzing this week with everyone utterly excited at a newly awaited chapter in the entertainment world, a reemergence of true giants with a long history of giving the fans what they want; yes peoples! That’s right. I’ve announced a new book… oh and some band called Oasis is having a reunion or something?
This latest literary masterpiece will be the ninth book from my rather large pen and will pick up where my last epic Hovis’ Friday Diary: Laughter, lameness and lockdowns finished, at the end of 2021.
The working title is Hovis’ Friday Diary: What’s the story, medal glory (I iz nothing but down with the pop references) and as per all the others in my impressive back catalogue all the proceeds will go to charity – I don’t take a bean, and despite her ample girth perhaps giving other views, neither does mother.
We’ve been at this a long time now so hopefully you are all up to date with all the previous eight books but in case you’ve been lost down a mine / under a rock / serving a lengthy sentence for crimes against fashion after wearing your riding gear and a pair of crocs to Waitrose, then all of my previous hilarious diaries are available at bransbyhorses.co.uk in the online shop.
More news to come on launch dates, where I might be going to do said launch, who I might be letting tag along and other such gossip will be available in due course so stay tuned to my social media pages…
So, whilst I have been sorting out meeting my publishers, my clever art work persons and the like, mini-mother has arrived back from various holiday jaunts (and no the apple clearly didn’t fall far from the tree – the mothership goes away AGAIN today so don’t expect a diary next week) and is bringing back the pint sized pain in the posterior, the ginger whinger, into work, having allowed him several weeks off over the summer.
To hear him complain you’d think he was being publicly flogged instead of allowed to have fun jumping in the school, something I’m no longer allowed to do as apparently “the mind might be willing, but the body isn’t”. I assume this means mother as I am admittedly of more advanced years than I used to be but I still have more bounce per ounce than Tigger on a caffeine high after a few lines of Columbian marching powder.
As I spent my summer as chef de squeak for the British Eventing Team in Paris – did I mention that at all? – I thought I would give him some hints and tips in the field the other evening. Mother snapped a few photos of my pep talk and it appears that due to my batman fly mask I didn’t see the little urine extracting eunuch yawning throughout my brilliantly technical briefing.
Just goes to show that the Welsh wonder is as gormless as he is short – here he has access to the greatest coach in the world and he treats the whole thing as a joke. It’s a good job he’s in a different field I can tell you or there would be an ass whooping… although whose is debatable as admittedly he’s an aggressive little git with serious small man syndrome so mum might have to do it for me…
Not-so-mini-anymore-mother did come for cuddles and some advice from me which did mollify me a tad – she’s always been the brains of the outfit that’s for sure.
Anyways I best be off to proof read my manuscript, stand by for the film offers and think about who I could use as a stunt double – maybe they could kick Barbie Boys ass for me?
Laters,
Hovis
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