Dear diary,
So it’s with great sadness that I have to report that once again the UK equestrian team isn’t going to do very well at the big party in some place called Rio. Why? I hear you ask. Well the reality is people, that either due to thundering oversights on behalf of the federation people-in-charge-type-people or the delivery skills of the mail services my invite has not arrived. How anyone can fail to understand the large differentiating factor I would bring to the eventing or indeed showjumping squads (Charlotte-what’s-her-face and Viagra can keep the stressage bits if it’s all the same to them) is beyond me. No other nation would field anything quite like me and the fear I would strike into the hearts of the competition in the warm-up rings alone would be enough to guarantee some of them would retire before they even put hoof in the ring; let’s face it if you’d just played chicken over a jump with ¾ tonne of feathery finery then you’d probably need to go and have a lie down too…
It’s a sad state of affairs when no one is brave enough to admit their past mistakes of not inviting me to such events, and just ask me to represent Queen and country. I would have said “yes” people, you only had to ask. Instead the might of Mr What’s-it-Whitaker and Mr Fox-in-a-hole are having to do their best on sub-standard mounts and with no feathered firepower. *Shakes mane* It’s a sad sad state of affairs indeed.
So to help me cope with the disappointment of once again missing out on making showjumping history I have been mainly eating grass and trying to avoid doing anything that resembles flat work.
My latest cunning plan involved waiting until Cool New Shoes Man has boarded a plane to Israel before taking a chip out of my back foot and loosening my front shoe such that Aunty Emily was worried to do anything with me for fear of damaging a national treasure. Mother however has no such reserve — she fetched her emergency shoe removal kit, gave the offending shoe a good yank, phoned CNSM and agreed that all would be fine until he got back next week.
From the glare I received I’d place money (if I had any) there will be no carrots in my tea and that in order to ensure she “protects a national treasure” I won’t do anything more exciting than work in the school on the soft surface all weekend. Damn it, I didn’t think this through…
She-who-must-be-obeyed informs me that plans are well afoot to launch my new book in November and to go and meet my fans. I am therefore hopeful that someone might be able to kidnap my at Your Horse is Alive and smuggle me out in an extra large carrier bag for a life involving jumping and loose-moralled mares instead of meagre rations and stressage.
Mum did smugly note that due to the “in during the day and out at night” regime that Dolly, Orange-prancy-dude and Orange-fire-breathing-dude have been subjected to that I’m looking quite “trim”. “TRIM”? I’ve seen thoroughbreds with more meat on them than I’ve got. I could be a poster boy for starvation and neglect. I’m hoping to see as many of you as possible at the event — if only because statistically that improves the odds of someone taking pity and wanting to take me home…
Continued below…
Like this? You might also enjoy reading these:
Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘I’m a melting hunk of manliness formally known as Hovis’
Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘I am not a filthy, feral, feathered fool’
Hovis’ Friday Diary: I think Team GB has forgotten to invite its secret weapon
Anyway I’m off to enjoy my grass rations while it’s not so hot and we’re not confined inside. I’m getting wet but heh, its better than starving to death…
Laters,
Hovis
