Dear Diary,
By the time you read this I will be hobnobbing with my fellow stars at Your Horse is Alive and hopefully meeting as many of you as possible.
The fact that I am there will, of course, be something of a miracle – not because of my little ill-advised experimentation with colic that I told you about last week – but more because mother and Aunty Emily are in charge of logistics and have the navigational skills of a blind lemming in a sandstorm.
This week has been a full one of preparation, primping, preening and pontification – well for me it has been anyway. Ask any celebrity and they will tell you they need to make sure they are ready in both body and mind – you think Jenny from the mounting block just chucks on any old rag and slaps on a bit of makeup and turns up on the red carpet?
Clearly acknowledging that one of us needs to look like a little less they have been dragged through a hedge backwards after a hard night on a bench drinking buckfast, the mothership booked me into a mobile spa. A nice lady from YR Equine turned up with her fancy van and proceeded to de-hair me with the speed and ferocity of a fat fighter opening a packet of custard creams before pulling my mane with the enthusiasm of a bell ringer on commission. Honestly, the speed she got me naked was remarkable and she didn’t even buy me dinner first…
After removing my hair faster than I can empty mother’s bank account, she then proceeded to scrub me within an inch of my life in something that made me smell like I should be served with custard. And I don’t mean spotted dick, you filthy-minded herberts…
The girl was good – I tell you, by the time she’d finished, my feathers gleamed more whitely than Simon Cowell’s veneers. What they looked like by Thursday night was a whole different matter, but since I can’t levitate then what did they expect? Luckily Aunty Em is also a very good scrubber and what she can’t sort then mother fakes by throwing more chalk and white powder at me than used to be seen at a Happy Mondays party. As long as I don’t sneeze, then we should be fine – if I do then the stables will resemble the beginning of Stars In Their Eyes…
Anyways, the best bit came after the scrubbing when the lady put me into her heated love wagon to dry off; I was like a Hovis hot pocket in a toaster on wheels. I have to say, it was all very civilised. None of this barbaric cold water and mother in marigolds manhandling my manhood. Oh no, this was much more fitting to a man of my status – warm water, fragranced essences and a solarium to dry off in. All while being fed hay and told how gorgeous I am. What was there not to like? Mother seems to think this was a one-off due to Your Horse is Alive and the embarrassment of turning up with a feral-looking creature desperately in need of a haircut and a bath. Now unfortunately I still do have to take mother, but at least one us is looking like the professional that I am…
I do feel that this lady needs to be my permanent poofer, qualified coiffeur and wonderful washer as frankly she understands my needs and doesn’t give me a cleaning experience, which is more akin to being water boarded than bathing. Just call me L’Oreal because I, peoples, iz worth it.
So, I am clean-shaven, gleaming white and ready to see you all. Come and say hi, make mothership think that you all believe she writes my books, have a selfie with me and put the icing on the cake of your day.
Seez you all there.
Laters,
Hovis
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