Dear diary,

I want to start this week’s diary with a message to my Windsor cuddle buddy Charlotte-What’s-her-face-in-a-garden. Because as “interesting” as my week has been (more on that in a minute), hers has been worse. Now to be clear, I dislike stressage, I think the poncing is overrated and should be merely restricted to the small bit of ground between jumps or, in a worst case scenario, used as a locomotion style as you piaffe past tractors of terror, leg-yield away from diving-bombing pheasants (ideally so quickly you leave your mother suspended in the air like Donald Trump’s blimp) or murder yellow perils with the power of your one-time flying-changes. However, it seems I am in the minority in my distrust of a sport that encourages one to look like an over-caffeinated Michael Flatley at a rave, and as such, my friends Charlotte and Mr Nester have done a huge amount to encourage people to ruin their horses’ lives and make them do never ending circles and for Britain to be seen on the world stage as some of the best stressage riders in the world.

What happened this week is unfortunate, and rules are definitely rules. It happens, accidents happen — my mother sliced my chin open last week while trimming my beard and no one took to social media to suggest that she was cruel (she is by the way — have you SEEN the amount of grass I have to survive on?). Charlotte might be the public proclaimed queen of prancing ponies but she’s a human being — one who has with humility accepted her punishment and not once tried to suggest she should be treated differently.

So, my message is simple — to those who have supported her, then continue to do so. One mistake does not mean years of loyalty and respect to that phenomenal talent has been misplaced. To those who feel the need to take to social media and comment negatively I ask simply this — for proof of two things; that you have never ever made a mistake as a human being, and for you to be qualified to comment at the ins and outs of riding those kind of horses at that kind of level. And let’s be honest here, I’m pretty sure none of you could produce it. So, by all means have your opinions, but leave them for over a cup of coffee at the yard rather than plastering all over the internet.

And from me? I show my support in the only way I can (and God you have NO idea how big a display this is…). Charlotte — I think you’re an incredible rider, albeit with a warped sense of what constitutes fun, and I would be honoured if you ever wanted to ride something with more power than you’ve ever sat on before and slightly less wimpy than your standard delicate dancing diva. You bring your hat and the music and it’s a date; I come with my own leg warmers…

Anyway, I shall climb down off my very sturdy social media soapbox (use the force for good, peoples) and instead discuss the absolute wuss that is my adopted little brother. For because of him I have spent the last week being treated as though I have leprosy, been scrubbed with antiseptic to the extent I smell like the output of an explosion at a bleach factory, kept in splendid isolation, and even worse, not allowed to snog anyone. He’s like a cold shower with a side serving of bromide.

What has the black and white bijou bovine done, I hear you cry? The answer my friends is snivelled. One night getting rained on all night and the delicate little flower has man flu; the pint-sized piebald’s nose started running like a tap and he and I were isolated faster than yoga instructor with flatulence issues. The vet was called, Herman’s glamorous assistant arrived at pace and snotbags was poked, prodded and violated, which amused me immensely. I was then also violated which didn’t. I’m fine. Why do I need things poked up my posterior? Perverts. He apparently was also deemed to be fine and suffering from a “chill”? I have to say chilled was the last thing he was when he awoke from la-la land (unlike me he can’t be trusted to take it like a man and was sedated for the violations such that he didn’t cow kick) — I haven’t seen so much air under someone’s feet since Granny saw a mouse in the hay barn. To be safe however I was disinfected, separated from the boy blunder boogie (which was wonderful) and separated from my ladies (which wasn’t).

Not content with damaging my love life, he’s had the week off work while I have been ridden daily by Aunty Em and the Boss Lady – but only in the school and only after everyone else was out. I feel about as loved as a cactus at a balloon modelling conference.

Continued below…

Hovis’ Friday diary: peoples if the monkey is this slow, then I hate to rain on your parade, but I think it’s dead

Hovis has his suspicions and so presents some evidence, which he is not happy about

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