AND ANOTHER THING…

April 2009

Self appraisals

FROM TIME TO TIME, if you work for yourself, it is advisable to review your performance. It has to be you because there is simply no one else to do it. If you are in traditional employment, you will receive an appraisal from the next person in the chain of command. When you work for yourself, you are the next person in the chain, and the next after that and so on right up to the managing director. You can buy a plaque and put it in on your door if you so wish declaring that you are the big cheese, the head honcho, the man with whom the buck rolls to a stop.

None of this will make the slightest difference of course because you are just a bloke that has an office attached to his house, who wears a hole in the carpet whilst he tries to figure out how he is going to pay his car tax. So you can call yourself what you like, the fact remains you are some sort of wheeler-dealer trying to beat the system. The only way you make money is to take a slice of someone else’s share; this applies when you work for yourself whatever your chosen vocation. When you work for someone else (unless for the government in its various guises), you are less exposed to such a reality, as you are the tool of the mastermind that buys for X and sells for Y. You are protected from the unpleasantness, rather as the man who tucks into a steak is spared the grizzly details of how it arrived upon his plate.

My unofficial title at present is part-time writer, race-reader and gambler. Put like that it does not sound so great. I like the writing because it is different. I know I make a few crashing errors with my grammar. In my defence, I have to self-edit and that is difficult. Self-criticism is one of the hardest things for anyone. You will find extreme cases on Britain Has Got Talent and the X Factor. On these shows, there are always would-be singers that cannot sing – and I mean really cannot sing. They would have trouble with Jack and Jill. There are crazies with spotty faces and ill-fitting trousers that look as if they have just escaped from somewhere – mad-eyed women that seem likely to produce an axe out of their jumpers at any moment. These people should be pitied I suppose, because in their delusional state they really think they have a gift. Unfortunately, the only gift they possess is the one to make people laugh at them rather than with them.

Most of us struggle to see ourselves for what we are. I believe I read somewhere that nine out of ten people are inclined to dislike you. Turned on its head, if that statistic is true, it means only one in ten people you meet are in the least bit inclined to find you tolerable. It strikes me we need some careful screening from time to time just to put us straight so that we know where we are going wrong.

I decided to conduct my appraisal yesterday after having made a couple of what could only be described as gaffes. I backed two horses that I should not have; therefore, I asked to see myself in my office and made myself stand in front of the desk whilst the boss had a quiet word.

He wanted to know why I had considered Coiled Spring and Tikka Masala bets. The first had shown an awkward streak at Newmarket that I had put down to bad luck. No, said the boss, it was not bad luck. The horse has a temperament issue, or at least there was enough of a suggestion that he had one to mean deletion from any list of horses to back. Tikka Masala was a more clear-cut case. She pulls too hard and is a One Cool Cat, many of whom develop attitude problems. So what made you think they would be on their best behaviour today? And if they were, at the prices what did it matter? Taking a chance is commensurate with the odds on offer and neither were exactly overpriced. You fancied Aypeeyes, correctly identified he was taking a drop in grade, thought he represented a 9/4 chance and yet could have backed him at 7/2. Why didn’t you? Not what you would call a good effort from someone that purports to be – let me check, what is it you call yourself – yes… a professional gambler. Not very professional for a gambler is it?

No. I ignore the obvious and not very professional reference to the Paul Merton line in that annoying advert he does with Stephen Fry.

Then we come to Stone Of Scone later in the day. You fancied the horse, had a good confirmed message for it, yet let it run at three times the price you expected. Just clarify the situation for me. Why did you do that?

I thought the price suggested he wouldn’t win. There are drifters and drifters; this was more like a raft in the Bay of Biscay.

I am having difficulty with your thought processes here. As I understand it, according to you, punters should not be influenced by the price of a horse. If anything, the bigger the price, the more they should have on. Correct me if I am wrong, you had nothing whatsoever on Stone Of Scone.

That is correct.

Not very convincing then are you?

He looked like he was carrying condition and needed the run. He was not aggressively ridden in the race, tending to reinforce he was there to win but such an eventuality was not the be all and end all.

That may be but win he did. As did Aypeeyes, the two horses you chose not to back in favour of two that did not. Let me put it this way: I shall be keeping a close eye on you from now on. This is not the first time such mistakes have been made and I cannot afford passengers. Close the door on your way out and check that your P45 is up to date.

Tough interview! Who do I think I am talking to? I don’t have to take this sort of thing lying down. I have a good mind to go back in there and give myself a piece of my mind. Who do I think I am?

Oh, hang on, I know. That is the trouble with this business – there is no hiding place.

Even so, I am miffed. They need people on the night shift at Tesco; so as a warning, I had better look out or else I might be looking for a replacement…

AND ANOTHER THING…

April 2009

TODAY BELONGS TO GEORGE. No, you are not awaking from some dreadful dream. It is not King George: Kauto Star is not about to make his seasonal reappearance at Kempton, neither is Ascot staging its midsummer showpiece. It is St George’s Day, hardly an appropriate occasion for some of the news that we have endured over the last twenty-four hours.

It seems impossible to pen a piece without at least some reference to the Budget and the Branston’s we seem to be in. No, it is worse than being in a pickle; we are sailing in the frozen quiet on the Titanic within striking distance of the iceberg. Some of the newspapers seem to have prematurely jumped ship. The Daily Express has assumed the possible temporary mantle of doom-monger with their headline of: They’ve Ruined Britain.

I am skating on thin ice when discussing politics and economics. However, it strikes me that success in both is largely dependent on common sense. One has to question the wisdom of borrowing our way out of financial difficulty. Surely, such a concept breaks all rules. If we cannot pay our credit cards, the answer is not to apply for another one to pay back the company we owe. Maybe global economy transcends such elementary rules.

My own political leanings are left of centre but I would support any government that is doing its best for its citizens. This present government has a lot they can take pride in. The health service is better, so I believe is education. Money invested in this nation’s infrastructure has resulted in many of our cities adopting a glistening 21st century look.

On the down side, we are living beyond our means by fighting two wars. We appear hamstrung by The Court of Human Rights. We give away too much in benefits to people that turn up at our borders, having travelled the length of Europe, claiming asylum in the one country that doles out money as if there is no tomorrow. It appears tomorrow has arrived – something it does every twenty-four hours.

Politicians are privileged. Their salaries do not compete with those that can be earned in the private sector, but the spin-off can be enormous. The salary is just the start. They are similarly positioned to the doorman at the Ritz, in that the job is almost worth doing for nothing. Like the racecourse commentators who then write columns in newspapers, run tipping lines and appear on chat shows, politicians receive considerable perks and an influx of cash from several quarters. They pay no tax, can be on the board of companies without actually doing anything, command large sums for after-diner speaking, etc. It is not a bad life with more holidays than a teacher – all  we ask in return is that they play the game. When greed creeps in and they even have to fiddle expenses to watch Sky, they are taking us for fools. It was Abraham Lincoln that stated, ‘You can fool some of the people all of the time and all of the people some of the time, but you can’t fool all of the people all of the time.’

Darling does not seem a bad bloke despite a name that conjures up past editions of Blackadder. I am not sure about Brown. But as we move towards the iceberg, possibly it would help if we all took an oar and tried to steer the ship around it. To an extent, we are all to blame for the current situation. It has been a great ride since Labour took office and for those who foresaw disaster, well their prophecies have been realised, which must be comforting for them. Predicting adversity is rather like those who said that Muhammad Ali and Ribot would both meet their matches one day. It the case of Ali, defeat visited him five times, but only twice in his golden heyday. On the other hand, Ribot retired undefeated, proving that the law of averages will not always make doomists seem correct.

Right now, most of us have benefitted to a degree from Tony Blair’s government and his legacy. Those of us that did not feel the constant urge to splash brick walls with urine had a chance to salvage wages and invest in property we may not have owned pre 1999. Maybe it is time to stop the bickering. It is tempting if you have a platform to be clever and kick the other team. It is the job of the Conservatives to strap on their boots and good luck to them. Maybe they will do a better job, maybe not. But am I the only one that is starting to tire of the tabloid sniping?

As another quote, Paul Simon in his wonderful song, American Tune, ponders the downfall of his country at the time. In that choirboy tone for which he is so well known he sings, ‘It’s all right for we lived so well so long.’ And as a finale, ‘Still tomorrow’s going to be another working day and I’m trying to get some rest, that’s all I’m trying to get some rest.’

So for now, Ribot is unbeaten, the iceberg looms but is yet to be struck.

I had thought about making a cheap-shot joke about being all right as I can manage the fifty percent tax; but that is what it is all about. Whatever our politics, whatever our calling, this is a time to pull together. It is something we have had little practice in, but Ali shrugged off his defeats and came back – until the end that is – maybe we can do the same…

AND ANOTHER THING…

April 2009

READING BETWEEN THE LINES

I LIKE Reading Between The Lines  – as a title I mean. I thought I would try it out as an alternative to And Another Thing to see if my words flowed differently with a change of emphasis. This is merely a trial you understand; it does not mean that I am dumping my former epithet. I might even alternate between the two alter egos to see if it brings me out of my shell a little, allows me to emerge from the closet for a while. Not that I am gay, in truth I am not even remotely happy at present. The Scots have a word for it which, not being fluent in Scottish, I cannot spell. So I will just say it phonetically. It is dreek. As it is Scottish National Day at Ayr, I thought a word from the same language that gives you neeps, tatties and haggis might be appropriate. Trying to master a semi-abbreviated tongue seems easier than solving the Scottish Grand National.

Yesterday I was at Newbury and it was more like the Hennessy meeting than the first Flat meeting of the year. The runners swirled out of the mist down the straight and many of them went up and down on the spot as if they had just clouted the last ditch. Although I lent the bookmakers some of my cash, which is always galling when you have suffered for your art as well, I came away with a few definite pointers for the future.

If you are prepared to get blobs of rain on your glasses and shuffle from one foot to another to stamp out the chill, paddock watching is rewarding. Spotting horses that are not fully fit and then seeing them run with a great deal of promise is a sure-fire way of recognising future winners. Of course, each of us that pursue such a path is convinced they have seen something missed by others. They may not have missed it but chosen to ignore it based on the fact they knew more than you did. That is the game – the game of reading between the lines. And reading between the lines is something of a British pastime, so it is something we are accustomed to. How many times do you have a conservation with an Englishman and then have to slip away quietly to decipher what was intended? Contrast that with the upfront approach of the Americans. They seem capable of bluntly expressing what they mean in two minutes whilst we bluster all round the houses to intimate at a point. We use such phrases as, just remind me, or, so to recap. Our American cousins seem to hit the nail on the head and move on.

So I read between the lines at Newbury yesterday and came to various conclusions which appear in Track Notes. There is a small race in Lofthouse, Sonny Red should win a big handicap, Brief Encounter is of interest next time, Candy Ride and Dhushan look nailed on for their maidens. What’s that? You thought the same but didn’t have to stand in the drizzle to arrive at such conclusions. Well, good for you!

There is more reading between the lines required today. Trainers make statements in the Racing Post as to the chances of their runners. They use a kind of code which is universal in racing circles and once cracked can be easily translated. They say they are looking forward to running their horse. That means they think it will be fun day out for all concerned until the bills arrive. We all look forward to plenty of things, most of which never materialise.

Then there is the trainer that gives with one hand and takes with another. He will love the trip but I am not sure about the ground means he probably won’t win.

I have him as fit as I can for his first run translates to he definitely won’t win.

He really is better of six than today’s five means he is being prepared for something else.

I couldn’t be more happy with him is not quite the dollop of encouragement it sounds. Being happy with a horse is distinct from thinking he will win.

No, give me the Mick Easterby approach. I laid this ‘oss out for two years. He is sixteen pounds lower than he should be, is in the form of his life and I am having my bollocks on him. How many bollocks do you get for the pound by the way? What with deflation and the crunch (no, not a good choice of word in the same sentence I know), I suspect they have dropped in value somewhat. However, it still equates to a serious wager.

No such luck with the clues today. The always-informative Saeed Bin Suroor (why does he call even hacks sir?) suggests Shaweel will improve for the run.

Brian Meehan tells us nothing about Neshri except that he has a Guineas entry.

Marcus Tregoning doesn’t really wish to run Finjaan on poor ground – which is what he will get. He as good as tells us it won’t win, but sums up by saying he likes the horse a lot. Does that mean they will be sharing a whisky tonight and having a game of backgammon?

Reading between the lines, there is a lot of it about at this stage of the season…

AND ANOTHER THING…

April 2009

WELL, IT IS ANOTHER WEEK, although strangely not many THINGS are occurring, save for the fact that the usual spray of messages from Newmarket seem to be costing punters money. Maybe the title of this should be MORE OF THE SAME, or for Motown fans, IT’S THE SAME OLD SONG.

Cynical? Not me; resigned more like. It happens every year. The Derby horse we have waited half the winter to see gets beaten; second strings from big yards beat the first strings. That is the Craven meeting, but we flock to it every year like migrating starlings. And every year we say: let’s wait and see how things develop – which yards are performing and have the ammunition before we get the wallet out; but every year a case that is so strong is constructed for the likes of Native Ruler and Invisible Man that we fall for them. We know we shouldn’t, we have heard it all before, but somehow this time it is different. Messages, whispers, talk, call them what you like, are only the opinions of others. Just as boxers do not spar with champions, good horses often work with those that will stretch them but are not in their league. Therefore, unless work-watchers are au fait with work patterns, what they see, or even take part in, can mislead. For example, Cover Up used to work with some of the best colts at Michael Stoute’s yard, but he was a two-mile handicapper. Messages can be a boon; equally, they can lead the punter down a rocky road and if they are not careful over a craggy cliff.

On the plus side, the Craven Meeting is a celebration of the proper return of Flat racing, but like uncorked vintage wine, a season needs to be savoured and not gulped down in one go. A long term looms. The first Newmarket meeting should be treated as a showcase rather than a licence to strap on those betting boots and start punting as if the end is nigh. Of course the end may well be nigh, but I suspect it will wait a little longer than next week or next month or at least until after the St Leger. Not so long ago people used to parade outside racecourses hoisting placards warning of the evils of gambling. Now such a pursuit as tame as placing money on a horse must rank in the bottom half of a list of sins to avoid. They seem to have invented plenty of new ones since then.

The trouble with messages at Newmarket is that they tend to be in the public domain. Information is most effective when only a limited number knows the content. So when the Gosdens, the Cecils and the Stoutes fancy a horse, particularly if it is running at Newmarket, it is safe to say most people who make it their business to seek out such information will know it. Therein lies the problem for the punter. Because only the privileged few know the best information, it is more likely to emanate from a small or unpopular yard. And unless that yard harbours a Group 1 winner camouflaged in a maiden, chances are it will not win. Therefore, we have a conundrum – because at the Craven Meeting everybody seems to know everything. It is a matter of pride. Flat racing aficionados have had all winter to prepare for this. Under no circumstances are they about to let it slip by without them being fully informed. As the season progresses, enthusiasm and betting banks dwindle, attention wanders to other matters, but right now, there is no value unless the process of original thought is invoked.

Therefore, we group on day one, regroup on day two, and if we are lucky break even, remember where we left our respective cars, find they have not been vandalised and return to our homes relatively unscathed.

This year the trials went according to the script. Fantasia won impressively despite reservations that she was not fully wound up. Delegator was fully wound up, it showed when the spring was uncoiled, and he ran away with the Craven. There were hiccups along the way. I fear Native Ruler will not be a player in the Epsom Derby and that Invisible Man is no Raven’s Pass. I liked Rockhampton and would back any Ballydoyle representative that is his superior.

The Wood Ditton continues to attract woolly mammoths. This year’s herd looked unlikely to cause a betting stampede. Certainly, Errol Flynn will not be assuming a starring role if his run was anything to go by.

The two-year-olds looked okay. I thought the maidens were a little disappointing.

The weather was nice, even if the wind was a bit keen. After a winter on the all-weather, it felt strange having to check if it had rained as the forecasters said it would. Of course it didn’t, meaning they were hopelessly inaccurate yet again.

Now the circus moves to Newbury for the Greenham and the Dubai Duty Free. In three weeks time they will run the Guineas. That means two Classics will be settled before we have had time to sort out our summer wardrobe and paint that fence.

I wonder if the government will consider bringing forward that five grand offer for anyone buying an electric car. I don’t want one of course. Who does? People with shares in electric companies, milkmen, burglars planning silent getaways in the middle of the night. Can you imagine all these overgrown milk floats abandoned, uncharged on the sides of roads like discarded fridges?

But the five grand. Now, there has to be an angle somewhere there. Buy the car, assume it does not depreciate that amount in a year and sell it on. Take the five grand, say you will buy a car and open another Betfair account instead.

Nice one Gordon, I think it could catch on…

AND ANOTHER THING…

April 2009

HERE WE ARE AGAIN, bank holidays loom, two of them in the space of four days. For racing folk, bank holidays – or public holidays as they are now I suppose – do not mean extra leisure time. They normally mean a bottleneck of race meetings, more work, more stress as all around everyone else winds down – the paper shop opens later – the papers may or may not turn up on time, but we have to work all the harder to keep pace.

I don’t expect anyone to organise a collection here. But I am sitting in my office flicking through the Racing Post on Thursday and thinking the authorities have made an effort to ensure that we have a little time between the end of racing on Thursday and the resumption on Saturday. Folkestone start early – at 1.40 – and finish at 4.10. Wincanton have a similar approach, starting at 1.50 and ending at 4.20. This is unprecedented. Racing is over at about the time schools finish. For once stable staff and punters alike can eat at a reasonable time, with no night racing enjoy a glass of wine or two, maybe even spend an uninterrupted evening with the wife and get to know her again. Perhaps she will dust off that old PVC nurse’s outfit and bring out those high-heels the way she used to in the old days when she wanted something…

But hang on, there is Ludlow lurking in the background. They start at 2.30 with a selling hurdle and end at 5.30 with a hunter chase. I have a choice and shall watch neither race. To be frank I would prefer to see a Columbo re-run. But for those working in betting offices or having to attend the Shropshire track for one reason or another, it strikes me this is a piece of Luddism by the Ludlow executive who seem determined to throw a spanner in the machinery. Perhaps they are concerned about a low sun or a high moon in Shropshire. Perhaps they are on a different time zone there. Maybe they forgot to put their clocks forward for spring.

Stable and betting office staff are worked to the edge. They treasure every hour they can spend away from their desks or on the road. This doesn’t mean they dislike their jobs, but in an industry in which they are overworked it makes sense to grant them free time where possible. A break, however small, will be welcome now and then. An early finish today at least gives them a chance to enjoy a flying start to a precious free day tomorrow. Then along comes Ludlow to ensure some racing employees will be engaged in the usual rush before a whole day of rest. Are we back in the Middle Ages here?

Possibly unaware that racing folk have little leisure time, www. DoubleDateFirst.com has decided to use the Racing Post’s classified section to advertise their services. The idea is that you muster up a friend and this company arranges a double date free of charge. How generous of them.

This is a quiet day. I am not placing any bets, so I access the website. It contains photographs of men and women that form the dual packages. I didn’t spend too much time looking at the men. But the women are all ridiculously attractive. I mean, where is the fat bird that no one dances with and last had a date when she was in primary school? Where is Ugly Betty? She is not there. Melanie, Stacey, Catwoman and Brandi are. They don’t look as if they would have any trouble arranging dates to me. I would imagine most of them would only have to walk down the street or sit on the Tube for some hapless male to make an approach of sorts. Perched on a stool in Starbucks, I would give it about five minutes before some city dealer is asking how they like their mocha. So what are they doing on a website looking for dates? And what is this agency doing offering such a bonanza of beauties for free? Could it be the Racing Post has been duped here?

I often flick through the classifieds even though I know I am unemployable on any number of counts. I am not looking for a job as I have one, or at least what passes as one. As I do not have a property to sell or lease, am not qualified to work for the Bloomsbury Stud or do not wish to apply for the position of Senior Trader in Leeds, my attention was drawn to this Doubledate stuff.

Just as I am not qualified to work for a company, it strikes me that, even if this ad is on the level, I would have a problem with its double date concept. Right now, what with my car languishing in a commercial garage racking up a bill, my one mate lounging around in Marbella for reasons best known to himself, I find myself as the original Billy No mates. Only my name is not Billy. But even if I could get in touch with Brandi or Catwoman, how could I meet them when I have no one to go with?

AND ANOTHER THING…

April 2009

WELL THAT’S IT THEN: next stop Newmarket for the Craven. The Grand National meeting, sponsored by the John Smith’s company, has to go down as a success – for the bookmakers that is.

John Smith’s have made an excellent job of sponsoring this meeting, although I suppose it is a sign of the times that they were showing re-runs of those rather amusing, ‘You’re Barred’ adverts rather than any newly shot ones. That is rather a shame as they have hit on a winning formula: ‘No bleepin’ gadgets, no women’s telly’…Pity someone did not bar me from picking up the phone.

We went into day three all square, punters having punched bookmakers to the ropes on the opening day. Day Two went to the layers, but Day Three was a knockout.

Bouggler (I could think of another name for him) was an unconsidered winner of the first race, foiling Copper Bleu. Kalahari King was a sensible winner of the Grade 1 Novice but was weak in the market as support developed for Tatenen, Made in Taipan and Song Of Songs. Solwit (again I could think of another name that would fit) was entitled to be thereabouts in the Aintree Hurdle but was not the choice of most punters. Don’t Push It was only one for those that kept the faith. Then the killer blows: 100/1 winner of the Grand National, followed by two 66/1 shots to round off the card.

Mon Mome is a strange name for a National winner. By a stallion known as Passing Sale out of Star Of Lion [English translation], a better title than one meaning My Blockhead or My Urchin could possibly have been found. Still, I don’t suppose he cares too much. He returned to the packed enclosures to race-goers thumbing wildly through their race cards to see if there had been a mistake in the colours. He was number 15 on the card. To the left of his name were his form figures, resembling hieroglyphics or maybe a New York telephone number- 872812. But hang on, with the benefit of hindsight there were a few clues hidden away in this particular urchin or blockhead’s history. He had won five races, one of them at Aintree. He had beaten Star de Mohaison at Cheltenham and twice bumped into Racing Post runner-up Possol, beating him once and finishing second to him on the other occasion. Maybe he wasn’t the total buffoon after all! But carrying eleven stone; no, he could not win. This makes me wonder whether we should have a panel of adjudicators that sit after every race. If they fail to make any sense of the result, they just alter it. In this case the National would be awarded to Comply Or Die from My Will and State Of Play with Mon Mome placed a homeless fourth. They seem to have this power in Formula One but I can’t see it catching on in the sport of horseracing. So Mon Mome it is then. Venetia Williams seemed to take it all in her immaculately crafted brocade jacket stride, and jockey Liam Treadwell looked as bemused as the rest of us.

Culcabock was the first of the 66/1 winners, beating Issaquah. Both were unconsidered by those in possession of a form book. Both are also places. Culcabock is located in Inverness where a group of four-and-twenty chaste women were reported to have come from – whereas Issaquah is a town in Washington that’s literal meaning in native Indian is “the sound of birds”. It sounds and seems like a nice place if you are a bird or a sightseer.

In keeping with the craziness of the day, Sitting Tennant – nothing to do with The Pet Shop Boys – but a concocted name incorporating one of the owners, A Mr or Mrs Tennant, rounded off things and provided another female trainer with a winner at this meeting. I mention this because as well as Venetia Williams’s National triumph, on Friday Mrs Wadham and Mrs Robeson were appropriately responsible for two winners on Ladies’ Day.

So its been a good meeting for the girls, the bookmakers and horses with Spanish names [Voy Por Ustedes, El Dancer], place names and horses with just plain unpronounceable titles like Comhla Ri Coig.

How was it for you?