Dear diary,

I am writing this hiding under a hedge, hiding from my mother, mini-mother, dad and even the boss lady. I am quite simply in fear of my life, my manhood and my feathers; I need urgent rescue and repatriation to my home, the Emerald Isle, as soon as possible, and not because I booked with Thomas Cooke. Oh no. It’s far, far worse.

So last Saturday the world was a normal place. During the week I had been worked by Aunty Em, lunged by Aunty Em and snitched on by Aunty Em, because apparently my inability to keep all four feet on the ground had made her reluctant to straddle me for fear of being catapulted into next week. Mother was not amused. Apparently good sharers are hard to find, and what with me either being sick note or borderline psychotic, mother is concerned that Aunty Em might come to her senses and will go and find something “more normal” to ride. Piffle. Who in their right mind would want to drop to sloppy seconds after they have ridden the greatest unrecognised equine talent this side of Mr Ed?

Anyway, I had been washed to within an inch of my life the day before (more on why, in a minute), so I thought little of it when the piebald pikachu was dragged in for his bath. Clearly it was annual “clean-your-horse-so-they-can-go-and-roll-in-the-field-again-and-make-you-cry” day.

It was only when I saw dad getting out my executive transport that I started to realise that the miniscule moustached monster might be going out to a party. Determined to make my feelings on this matter clearer than a glassless shop window, I legged it to the front of my field to ensure that the full voltage of my disapproval could be aimed at the pint-sized pain in the posterior. Which is why I got a ring side seat to the greatest display of humiliation any equine has ever seen.

He’d gone into the barn looking like a feral tramp; covered in stains of a highly questionable nature and rocking the hairdo of Dougal after a day in a soft topped car.

He came out looking like the love child of Barbie and a My Little Pony.

He was a glittering (literally) testament to the power of whitening shampoo and elbow grease and the inability of a mother to tell a little girl that unicorns don’t exist.

He was PINK.

And I don’t mean he looked embarrassed (although by god, he should have been) or even sunburnt. I mean he was PINK.

He had a pink mane (humiliating) and pink feathers (sacrilege) and WINGS. Glittery WINGS. And a sparkly horn, but to be honest in amongst the rest of it, that bit almost looked normal.

I will be honest for a spilt second, I wondered if I’d been smoking grass rather than eating it. I have never in all my 16 years on this fair earth seen anything like it. He was neon PINK.

Mini-mother was attired with her own wings, tutu, glittery face stickers and a grin that could be seen from space. I have to say her steed was not as depressed as I would have been — I can only assume he either hadn’t seen a mirror, had secretly always wanted to be known as Applejack Princess Sparkles or was so horrified he was catatonic. His street cred was seen running down the drive screaming like a passenger in Stevie Wonder’s car.

I saw him get loaded onto my trailer and have never been so grateful in my life that I didn’t have to be seen in the postcode area as the now glittery gremlin.

By all accounts, mini-mother fairy and her pink pony came second, but honestly there isn’t a rosette in the world that would make up for that level of humiliation. As for any of you Hovites that even suggested that I could equally make a great unicorn, then shame on you. I am a magnificent muscled machine not a multicoloured maned mannequin. Shame on you. I will be honest — at the moment, anyone comes near me with anything resembling a spray can and I’m jumpier than Wesley Snipes near the tax office.

Continued below…

Hovis’ Friday diary: ‘woe is me, winter is coming’

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