Dear diary,
It’s day lord knows what of the human strangles epidemic, but frankly this past week something far more important is on the minds of the nation. No, not the interior decorating penchants of the baffling blonde barnetted herd leader, but more sausage-gate and the gripping (in this case, sadly literally… and in marigolds…) drama of the butchery of my baby making machinery.
So, last week I told you of my dilemma in a way that apparently caused leg crossing across the land — the sensitive males of my fan group in utter sympathy, the heartless women in an attempt to prevent weeing themselves with laughter. I personally fail to see the humour and have to inform all of you who have referred to me as “Wee Willie Wonky” or “Willie Wonka” over the past week, while sniggering like a seven-year-old school boy saying the word “bonk” will be hearing from my lawyer. Once I find one that is…
My mother’s blistering lack of sympathy and frankly narcissistic tendencies to make all this about her (and her woefully damaged bank account) did mean I pretty much refused to speak to her in the early part of the week — which she might have actually noticed if she hadn’t been away with work. As such, by the time she reappeared on Thursday as the boss lady was washing my feathers, I had mostly forgotten about what was coming and got somewhat excited that we might be going on a jaunt, a feeling which was amplified as Aunty Em tried valiantly to put my travel boots on as a large transporter pulled onto the yard. Buoyed up with anticipation, I skipped up the ramp with all the enthusiasm and ignorant innocence of Babe heading to a BBQ, and we were off.
I have to say the level of disappointment on arrival at the other end gave me insight as to how mother must feel every time she gets on the scales, but it was slightly offset by the amount of high class ladies were tied up in the car park. As a sea of skinny thoroughbred heads turned my way as I cruised down the ramp like a 3/4tonne model (mother adds “tank”, but that’s just rude) I did briefly entertain the idea that I could be here on stud duties. Then I remembered that a) I am gelded and b) the rest of the sausage was about to get salami sliced, and suddenly the mood went blacker than mother’s heart.
I was kidnapped by a very nice nurse and led into the barn where mother wasn’t allowed to come for fear of the young trainee vets being scarred for life. Or Covid `— one or the other, but I know which one I favour…
The upshot of all the poking about the vet did of my man parts after slipping me enough loopy juice for not only tweetie pie but also a squadron of pig pigs to be doing a flyby my ears, was he didn’t really know what the growth thing was but that didn’t stop him cutting it off swifter than an out of favour royal. After which I was led to my executive accommodation to spend the night. Thankfully by this stage someone had realised they had a celebrity staying over and so I spent the next 12 hours doing what I do best; smooching, schmoozing and selfies. When the vet rang mother the following morning he did try and dissuade her from coming to fetch me with a view that they’d all quite like it if I stayed there but she’s like the Terminator (always comes back) and so sadly my stay at l’hotel del Oakham came to an end the following day when one of my minions (sorry highly qualified veterinary nurses) led me out to the transporter with the heaviness of step last seen on the Green Mile.
Continues below…
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Even more annoying was the view from the vet that due to the size of my man parts (why thank you) and the accompanying Hovis sausage cave that I’d probably not noticed what he’d done. EXCUSE ME?! You’ve sliced my sausage with a scalpel, and you think I’ve not noticed? Mate I’d been fantasising about your imminent demise more than what I could do let loose in the round pen with the very frisky filly in the bedroom next door. And that’s saying something. One sneeze from you and I’d have been neighing falsetto for the rest of my days — trust me, I noticed. Anyway I wasn’t allowed box rest and no time off work which frankly was more depressing than watching the departure of my street cred as mother showered me in kisses in front of a lorry full of wannabee eventers in the car park. Life sucks harder than a turbo powered Dyson at times.
Anyways, I’m back home, my sausage is minus a slice, I’m still only allowed to walk about the school for a thoroughly boring whole 10 minutes, it’s raining so hard I’m expecting Noah any minute and mother is still hanging about like the smell she tried to blame on the dog. Please send help. Or carrots. Or both.
Laters,
Hovis
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