AND ANOTHER THING

March 2009

An Irish Mystery

THIS IS A QUIET WEEK for those of us working in racing – at least the early part of it is. Monday offers Claiming and Selling day at Wolverhampton. For jump-racing fans I am told several short-price and apparent good things line up at Kempton in particular, and to a lesser extent at Plumpton. Tomorrow there is Flat racing at Lingfield, but the fields small, as are the chances of making any money. There is already the mention of the dreaded words – Gosden, maiden and fancied, although not necessarily in that order. Southwell dishes up a diet of jump racing that only warrants a second look from diehards, and there is another dollop of similar fare at Sludgefield [sic].

The week trundles along in similar but slightly better fashion until a jumping card at Ascot on Friday. It then explodes on Saturday with the start of the Flat turf season, condensed this year to a two-day weekend meeting from Doncaster. Kempton Park stages a premature part-Easter card, and from Dubai, it is World Cup night.

It would appear the early part of the week is a good time to paint the fence, cut the grass and tidy the garden. This is the time to make your peace with God or a pact with the Devil if you feel either is relevant.

If you are married or with partner, it is also a good idea to be nice to them now because they won’t be seeing much of you for eight months. It is Aintree next week, then another relatively quiet and, unusually, a five-day racing week – Good Friday interrupting the fixtures much to the annoyance of the major bookmakers.

After that, it is Craven week and there is no chance of much more than the odd day’s respite until November. You may never see your partner again. She could be packed and long gone by the time you next use the kitchen. You may notice one night, before you turn in with the sound of Nick Luck’s voice still ringing in your ears, you have a lot more room in your wardrobe and on the bathroom shelves and the bed appears wider.

It is a bit like being in jail and your sentence is about to start. If your partner is still with you by May, or even June, they might as well just leave your food – that is if they are still cooking on your behalf – outside your office door. From their point of view, your continued existence is apparent by the replacement of food for an empty tray left for collection. The occupant in that room akin to something from a Hammer Horror movie – ‘The master decried it never be opened,’ – presumably remains alive. You – that is the occupant – become the mysterious master only seen after dark. You lurk within an office equipped with a computer, a television, a desk, filing cabinets and some personal items such as bottled water, Hula Hoops, a can of corned beef, only for consumption in the case of siege or nuclear war. Maybe one of Dracula’s coffins would be handy after all.

Those knowing little of this room no one without an appointment ever enters can be confused. They believe some sort of half-man-half-beast resides within. He may be a tagged criminal, confined to this room as part of his communal punishment.

An occasional whoop of what appears to be delight emanates from this fortress of an office. This is odd as the man is alone, so such delight can only be self-induced. But more often it is the groan of frustration, or the clunking heavy sound associated with defeat. This room hosts a good deal of defeat. Perhaps, borrowing the title from the Bob Dylan song, it should be christened Desolation Row.

The man on the racing channel tells you the horse you backed was unlucky and presses knobs in his cubicle. He has an odd haircut. Like you he does not get out much, so perhaps when he visits the barbershop he has to make the cut last. He does not look over-concerned about your misfortune, so clearly has not backed the horse himself. He is earning a guaranteed wage so it would be a surprise if he backed anything for more than a fiver. He smiles as he checks one of his screens and infers bad luck is all part of racing; but there is a chance to recoup winnings in the following handicap that contains twenty runners. Before that, there is just time to take a quick break. Is there? Yes, the next race on the other channel is not due for twenty minutes.

The break consists of at least two advertisements for insurance. Sometimes the same insurance company advertises twice in one break. Every insurance company you can think of is advertising just now, so there must be more money in insurance than there is in trying to find winners of twenty-runner handicaps.

One of the insurance sites is, according to its geeky users, very friendly. That’s nice. It’s nice to have a friendly website to visit before you give them your credit card details don’t you think? One person strums a guitar, another looks as if finding this particular website has been her salvation. There is another who looks as if he is more accustomed to typing Hot Babes Dot Com into Google than Confused Dot Com. Perhaps he is confused after all, having expected Paris Hilton to pop up on his screen. All agree they have saved hundreds of pounds on their insurance. One says he has saved £200. £200! I only pay just over £200 for an annual car premium, let alone save it! Then I don’t get out much and have a restricted mileage clause.

Along comes Michael Parkinson reminding us that he has met lots of interesting people. He suggests if we are over-fifty we should consider financing our funerals. So we are back to coffins again. Perhaps this is appropriate for people watching a racing channel, but for a man that has met lots of interesting people, surely this is a bit of a comedown for Mr Parkinson. However, it is when you hear Stephen Fry and Paul Merton doing the voiceovers for Direct Line that you know there has to be more money in insurance than there is in gambling. These performers don’t come cheaply.

Why though do these insurance companies target people that watch racing? If they are watching racing, chances are they are gamblers. If they are gamblers, they do not give a fig for insurance. The only insurance they are concerned with is the type that keeps Mr Luigi from visiting them in the dead of night asking where his money is. There is no mention from Messrs Parkinson, Fry and Merton that their employers underwrite that. They cover our water pipes bursting, our cars getting crunched by articulated lorries; they want us to have a courtesy car if we crash because we lose our no-claims bonus and will have to pay even more for the next premium, but they don’t insure against concrete overcoats.

There used to be a popular saying that countries get the television programmes they deserve. Obviously, those that advertise on At The Races think we deserve insurance against stupid and elementary accidents – such as falling over on a shop floor or using the wrong ladder to climb a roof. Alternatively, they think we may be so uninsurable that we will snap up any policy thrown our way. They also think we need to stop smoking or are about to kick the bucket.

As I write, the first odds-on shot of the day, You’re The Top, has obliged at Kempton. Back on At The Races, two car insurance adverts have figured in between a squirrel trying to persuade us to invest in an ISA. Then there is an advert for cheese for those of us likely to be wasting away in our offices whilst we watch racing. Then it’s Accident Insurance, followed by another sort of insurance and ‘Everybody has an opinion, what’s yours worf?’

A 66/1 shot won the Claimer from the even-money favourite with a one-time Group-placed horse finishing last. Two dubious propositions in First Avenue and Dreamy Sweeney obliged as I was told they would; but I knew better and did not back them

Normal service is resumed: I know what my opinion is worf.