AND ANOTHER THING…

 A UFO?

WELL THAT’S it, another Christmas gone, another year consigned to the wreckage that is history. Any hope that 2009 may surpass its predecessor is looking as shaky as a raft preparing to sink in a stormy sea. There is the economy, events in the Middle East, a pipeline that appears to be more hot air than gas leading from Russia, and Britain’s high streets threatening to become ghost towns. Nine days gone and it is not looking promising.

A propeller blade is mangled on one of those wind contraptions in Lincolnshire. Bright lights are spotted in the sky – it must be a UFO! Considering we know there is no life on the Moon, it is impossible for there to be any on bubbling hot Venus or Mercury, and the signs are there is none on Mars, the question has to be asked: Just where have these alien craft supposed to have come from: Alpha Centauri; somewhere from the constellation known as Seven Sisters? It is more likely to be a missile from Seven Sisters Road in East London. Any alien spacecraft that reaches Earth has transcended all known laws of physics within our grasp. It takes us three years to reach Mars; the journey to Alpha Centauri would take some 70,000 years. Any being arriving at this planet from somewhere deep in the void has intelligence beyond our comprehension. To suggest they would choose to visit Earth out of all the options available, then pick somewhere in remote Lincolnshire, only to become thwarted by a wind farm, having travelled so far, is surely a contradiction.

Some rugby player, engaged to Princess Zara, has earned a driving ban for climbing behind the wheel of his car the day after a binge at Cheltenham races when he downed the equivalent of twenty-four units of alcohol. I cannot condone or defend the indefensible. But whilst so much advice is dispensed, why are so many of us in the dark as to what these wretched units actually represent? Scrap the units and convert to a language we understand. One bottle of wine equals whatever it equals on a stupidity gauge. Let it range from over the edge, progress to too much, ending up at way too much. Two bottles, three, or four mean blackout and possible death. A single shot of liquor, a double, half a bottle, is a week’s, a month’s, a lifetime’s intake. Spell it out so that we know the damage we are doing to ourselves. And scrap any tolerance of drinking and driving. Prohibit driving after the participation of one drink. Let the same apply to those taking Prozac or Valium tablets. While we are about it, the ingestion of one Viagra tablet entitles the recipient to sit on his own on public transport.

No, it is not looking good; nine days in, 2009 threatens to be even worse than 2008. I am even starting to like Gordon Brown!

Further afield, pornographers in America claim they are entitled to financial aid on a par with banks. It could be argued there is little between the two professions, or that the intentions of both are distinguished only by one letter. Bankers, however, have an aura of respectability, possibly undeserved, although their collective activities influence global economies. Pornography, or its immoral bed-partners, have influenced political careers, but that seems a flimsy basis to bail out those making a living out of peddling smut. The description accorded to Larry Flynt is that of porn baron. He has the jowls to be a baron, the face to be a gargoyle. He publishes Hustler, a magazine I am assured has nothing to do with Paul Newman. Flynt and sidekick Joe Francis, publisher of Girls Gone Wild (not a rival band to Girls Aloud), have presented a plea to Congress to pump (their words – but everything in such an article is by design a double entendre) 5 billion dollars into their industry. It goes on…Mr Francis – tongue-in-cheek we presume (when he removes it from someone else’s mouth or other part of the body that is) – said a cash injection (you see they just keep coming – and again) was required, “to see the industry through hard times”. Now we know he is joking! Does anyone know how you become a porn baron?

Whilst on the subject, a newly married couple were sitting on the edge of their bed in the hotel after the ceremony. The groom asks his bride if she would allow him to try a new sexual position. She shrugs her agreement, aware this is not the first time she will hear such a request over the forthcoming years of marriage. The groom explains he would like to try the wheelbarrow position, which involves him grabbing her by the legs as she steadies herself on her hands. She nods in resigned fashion, adding, ‘Only if you promise not to pass my parents’ house’.

I know this is supposed to be a column with a racing slant. The thing is, there hasn’t been any to speak of. Recently the racing that has survived has taken place in a shroud of fog and mist, something a cynic could claim has always been the case. James Willoughby very sensibly advocates that racing has to revitalise itself in the coming year. I could not agree more. Neither he nor I know quite how we achieve that, although we both admit some sort of division within the sport – similar to that adopted by football – seems necessary. Although we may not know the remedy, we are not paid silly money not to know. That is the province of the BHA members. There are too many racecards for most newspapers to carry comfortably. There is too much racing full stop; but punters should take heart. If there is too much for us, there is too much for the odds-compilers. That means both parties are liable to make mistakes. Our mistakes don’t necessarily cost us money so long as we are careful, because we do not have to play in every race. Bookmakers on the other hand do… cue Spectiat on Wednesday!

AND ANOTHER THING…

And now the bookies can do their bit to help the credit crunch …

THESE ARE DARK DAYS: dark in more ways than one. We wake in darkness and drive home in gloom and there is worse to come. In a month’s time the last embers of light will streak the sky at 3.40pm, meaning the day is pretty much over before it has begun. Then of course, there is the credit crunch, about which the least said the better. We are told that sales normally held in January are poised to start this week in a frantic and desperate attempt to kick-start Christmas spending, and that the government is borrowing money so it can spend what it has not got and is preparing to shower the taxpayers with allowances it cannot afford.

The last part sounds like something out of a Whitehall farce, you know, for those unable to remember, they were the set pieces that contrived to allow Brian Rix to lose his trousers. These set pieces mean that Gordon Brown is likely to lose the country its crown jewels but he has narrowed the gap on the Conservative lead, so that is the main thing.

Through it all – wars we have no appetite for; the expenditure of money we cannot afford – racing goes on. And the racing community continues as if there is no world other than that taking place under its nose. Have you ever noticed that in those question and answer sessions so prevalent, featuring racing personalities – Robert Thornton being the latest to be grilled – there is always the question, Do you think there is too much racing? This gets asked so many times it is rather like an obligatory enquiry of a Zimbabwean: Is Robert Mugabe doing a good job?  Sadly, the answer is virtually always the same in both cases, but the mere posing of the question tells its own story.

No one asks me if I think there is too much racing but it is a strange question when you think about it. Forget the Zimbabwe example; it is more like, Are there too many reality shows on television? If you think the answer is yes, the remedy is in your hands. You reply with the remote control and switch the television off.

Today is Sunday and that is what I did. Racing came from Aintree, Plumpton, Towcester and Navan. I pretended there was no racing at all, opting to ignore the whole shebang. You know what? I feel liberated. I am the kid that played truant and got away with it. I could not care whether Officier De Reserve won the Irish race or what won at Aintree. I got on with my life. I probably should not be saying this on a racing website, and many of you may have had a financial interest in the day’s proceedings. You may have been able to make more sense of it than I and had an opinion. You may have wanted to back Officier De Reserve or Gold Reef, or whatever else you fancied. You may have been grateful there were three meetings in England and one in Ireland. But the time will come when I will want to back some hairy beast at Wolverhampton and you will want to bunk off somewhere else, so you will get your own back.

The point is, there is too much racing, of course there is. But unlike too much taxation or thuggery, or not enough money, there is something we can do. We can just pretend it is not taking place. That is to say, we ignore it. Now, I realise years of conditioning means this is not easy. We have been controlled to pace up and down in the mornings waiting for that reassuring clunk of the Racing Post making its way through the letterbox. We need it as a smoker needs a cigarette. We have to at least look at the runners in case something is lurking we have been waiting to back. However; fight back, it is the pantomime season so, Oh no we don’t! We think we do, believe we do, give it no thought and presume it is our duty, but actually, it isn’t. We do not have to indulge. We can say sod it! I am cancelling Towcester and Aintree in the pouring rain and I never liked bloody Plumpton anyway. And Navan? What do we know about Navan?

That is what I said today. There followed a couple of phone calls from contacts who asked what I knew, and when I said nothing and there was nothing I wanted to know, they replied they would see what they could find out. I repeated my case because clearly they failed to understand. I do not care, I said; whatever you find out you can keep to yourself, I am having the day off. I don’t want to know anything. I don’t want to be told some stupid story about a horse I have never heard of that is going to win a race I know nothing about. I don’t want to have a bet!

This was fighting talk and it took a while to sink in. But the joy of it was that after eleven o’ clock the phones were silent and no one told me a damn thing. For all I know the world and his wife had it off today whilst my back was turned; but, you know what, I don’t care! I have voted with my feet, or in this case, my fingers. And I feel so much better for it.

A cook once told me what I suspect is an old joke. He had worked in the Army and when asked what was for dinner by a soldier replied, ‘I have got good news and bad news. Which would you like first?’

‘Give me the bad news,’ said the soldier.

‘The bad news is there is shit for dinner.’

‘What is the good news?’

‘There is not enough to go round.’

That is how I feel about racing at the moment. There is enough to go round but most of it is shit!

So if Debenhams can start their January sales in November, how about the bookmakers, who after all are responsible for most of the slop we are being served, doing the same. Let’s make them work for their money. How about they try a BOGOF deal: Bet One Get One Free. Have one Lucky 15, get one on the house. Have £100 on some three-legged yak, get another £100 to put on another. Come on boys, try it. If we are stupid enough to bet on this nonsense, it stands to reason we have to lose in the long run.

For all my rebellion, I know a lapse is only a few days away. I am absurdly confident that if the weights do not rise Air Force One will win the Hennessy. Right now, I can’t get a 8/13 shot to oblige and I think I am going to crack the Hennessy! Like, right. So come on Lads and Hills, how about it? How about a bit of BOGOF? You know there will only be one winner!

Note from Bob…

Spy is so right! The bookies should give us some more money! I love that idea! … I’ve collected together all the bookies I can find who are offering free bets when you open an account and listed them under (not surprisingly!) the FREE BETS tab.

Some are excellent eg Bet365‘s £200 offer (very shortly to be chopped to £100! and may be £25 soon so get yoru skates on if you don’t have an account already!

Some are miserly, just £10 … maybe Spy could embarass them into opening the satchels a bit wider?

AND ANOTHER THING

Racing and The BBC

JOURNALISTS IN TODAY’S RACING POST are spluttering rather a lot. Spluttering and journalese go hand in hand. Journalists need to be incensed every now and then; it gets the juices and ink flowing. It awakes angst and results in them scurrying to PCs to bash their keyboards, rather like ‘Annoyed Beyond Belief From Tunbridge Wells’. In an industry such as racing that presents little in the way of controversy, especially since the sidelining of Kieren Fallon and Dean McKeown, anything provoking copy is a boon.

As one, the Racing Post has descended on the BBC, admonishing, advising, rebuking, reprimanding, castigating and criticising and finally in exasperation venting vehemence, in disbelief at the news the BBC is virtually to phase out its racing coverage, axing all but the most prestigious of meetings. From 2010, it is to show a mere fourteen days of racing a year. This is bad news for Clare Balding and Willie Carson (both of whom will not be short of alternative work) but may not be the disaster it is depicted as being for the viewer.

Racing will get no coverage whatsoever between the months of October and April. In an aggressive decision of Stalin-proportions, the BBC has concluded that horseracing is not worthy of flagship coverage, especially during the winter. The long-term aim of the programme planners appears to be that all bar Royal Ascot and other high profile meetings from the Royal course, the Aintree Grand National Meeting, the Derby and Arc day will disappear from our screens.

If we examine the BBC’s decisions, they are not so surprising. Committed coverage to National Hunt racing for a corporation that attempts to run a tight ship where scheduling is concerned is a pain. As we discovered this weekend, not for the first time, winter racing can fall foul of the weather. Channel Four found themselves with time on their hands after the abandonment of Cheltenham. I have no idea how they filled the slot, but to a degree that is the point. If they had advertised they were showing a film, a re-run of old Muhammad Ali fights, what shoes women with chunky legs should wear, potential viewers would know where they were and could activate or deactivate their remotes accordingly. Racing is a prima donna activity. It is the Beyonce or Britney Spears of sports. It wishes to appear on its own terms; strut its stuff and leave us awestruck. The trouble from its perspective is it cannot command such devotion from its fans, which it keeps in endless suspense. It waits in the wings before making an appearance. Races are invariably late off; the annual farce that is the Cesarewitch even tries Channel Four’s patience. The horses have to cover the two-and-a-quarter mile trip twice. With the exception of a dogleg, Newmarket is a straight course, meaning the participants have to cross from Suffolk to Cambridgeshire and back. Consequently, the event is late off year after year. Impervious to anything other than their own importance (or at least that is the impression created), Newmarket make no attempt to rectify this situation by either re-jigging the overall programme so more time is available, or placing a huntsman in the paddock with a long-tom beforehand to ensure the participants get to post on time.

Talking of time, I remember an occasion when the Hennessy Gold Cup was taken off air because a horse was galloping loose at its leisure before the start of the event. The BBC had a commitment to broadcast a rugby match at 2.30, by which time the wretched beast, trained by Josh Gifford I seem to recall, was romping around the Berkshire track. Now, short of shooting it with a tranquilizer dart, I don’t know what the solution to such a situation is but the BBC handled it by pulling the plug.

As animals form a large part of racing coverage and they are notoriously unreliable, a schedule that includes them has to be either flexible or understanding. In the case of racing, the BBC is neither. It has other fish to fry and they tend to be fish that perform on cue. Football matches, rugby games, motor cross, Formula 1, cycling, the tossing of the caber, all tend to start when advertised. Some of them may be as exciting as watching an egg boil but they do as advertised on the tin. Racing does not. And because races tend to be run in quick time, they are a nuisance. They catch the casual viewer out. They flash on and off the screen without warning: preliminaries conducted at an almost indolent pace before the sudden injection of speed of a race occurring whilst you are turning down the curry or popping out to the garage to replenish beer stocks. It is not a relaxing pursuit to televise. Settle down to watch a rugby, tennis or football match and it starts and finishes when you expect. You can budget for its coverage, which means the comfortable scheduling of bladder and drink breaks. Racing is haphazard to say the least. And it is not just the animals that are responsible. The attitude that racing can operate within some bubble is prevalent and until those responsible for its management realise they are against sports and pursuits that appear to be better regulated, so it will remain.

It is significant that the BBC is only interested in festivals. Entire meetings such as Royal Ascot make for a full and varied programme. Fashion and celebrity spotting can be included, allowing the coverage to embrace a complete syllabus. Much better than zigzagging to Haydock whilst a racing car is having its tyres changed.

I submit that the BBC’s approach to racing is its own business. The premise that horseracing is owed a living is false. It is a minority sport. It may be our sport but that is our problem. Right now, horseracing is available on Racing UK (who do an excellent job when allowed; that is to say when their schedule is not too clogged up with dross that gets in the way of Cheltenham or Newmarket), and the free to air ATR. Okay, the latter station is littered with annoying adverts, but you do get to see the races in a fashion and it is FREE to subscribers of Sky. Genuine racing fans are accommodated by these stations, their existence squeezing potential viewers from terrestrial stations but are preferable to the nail biting situation created by a cluttered BBC schedule.

It is too late for racing to muscle in on the coverage of other sports. The damage has been done. We cannot have it both ways. The racing channels contribute to racing’s finances. If the BBC chooses to show golf, fishing or The Sound of Music in preference to nag-racing, as I have heard it referred to by non-followers, it is their prerogative.

In the meantime, not the first time, racing must look within and try to modernise. It could start by looking at the television that appears on the front page of the Racing Post today. It looks like an Alba or a Bush – you know the old-fashioned television with a back as big as a small van now superseded by the slim line LCD model installed in most modern homes.

 AND ANOTHER THING…

What’s  happened to the Racing Post …

WE ARE WAKING UP TO various degrees of unpleasantness this morning. This depends upon where you live. Snow and ice in the north, wind and rain in the south; I should imagine it’s the sort of day that makes you think twice about setting off to work – that is if you have any work to set off to.

My commute consists of walking down the hall. Traffic is normally light at this time of day, allowing me to hanger right to my office. I listen to the traffic reports on the radio with bewilderment. Accident after accident; I wonder when the penny will drop for both motorists and police that we simply cannot have a country brought to a virtual standstill on major motorways every day between the hours of 6.30am and 10.00am.

Once I arrive at my destination I discover that for such a non-descript day, quite a lot is happening. Firstly, like many others, my username and password were apparently unrecognisable to the new Racing Post website yesterday. So I have not gained access as such, and am still unable to make much sense of its content even though the logging-on procedure has been temporarily dispensed with. I suspect this new site is a precursor to squeezing more money out of us – the long-suffering consumer. Facilities hitherto accessible are likely to be available at a ‘nominal charge’, meaning expenses will rise further.

The Racing Post may do well to rethink this suspected policy. For those of us that have the newspaper every day, our bill already nudges £60 a month. Frankly, I reckon that is enough for a newspaper. They should consider there are free sites out there: The Sporting Life and ATR websites may not be as comprehensive as the one operated by the Post, but they provide enough basic information to be going on with.

This next paragraph comes with a warning. Tidal Bay is one of those horses I rarely call correctly. I thought he was opposable in last year’s Arkle, before that in another event at Cheltenham and again first time out this season. But facts have to be faced, he is a pretty good racehorse. Doubts surround Kauto Star (I have always questioned his so-called supremacy); until Denman he had never met anything of any great merit and won a poor Cheltenham Gold Cup. Therefore, Tidal Bay looks like an ideal alternative King George winner to me. Now he is to run over two miles at Sandown on Saturday. He may well win, but it is close enough to Boxing Day, particularly if he has a hard race against Master Minded. But at a time when bets seemed to be rationed sparingly, Tidal Bay is on a short-list for Kempton at present.

It is a sign of the times that the Ascot executive are pleased and relieved that Betfair are to sponsor one of the major Flat races of the season in the King George VI & Queen Elizabeth II Stakes. At one time such a situation would have been unthinkable. I remember when the part sponsorship of the Royal Meeting was pooh-poohed for fear of an Ann Summers Ascot Stakes. Although Ann Summers would doubtless describe their business as uplifting, the raising of eyebrows is not, as I understand it, their intention. Now Ascot’s great showpiece, sponsorless since the De Beers pullout, is to be financed by the contentious betting firm, doubtless to the gnashing of immaculately maintained upper-class teeth. Epsom face a similar dilemma, having to rattle a begging bowl for next year’s Derby after the disconnection of the Vodafone alliance. Epsom appear confident of announcing a new sponsor before Christmas. I notice with interest that their managing director, Nick Blofeld, made this prediction. It is the surname that is a bother. I don’t suppose we face the Spectre Derby do we? Will Mr Blofeld welcome his new sponsor whilst stroking a white cat with the immortal greeting: ‘We have been expecting you …?’

And through all this, a new racecourse is being built in Wales. Not the most obvious venue one would have thought considering the state of the ground at Chepstow on many an occasion. And to anyone having to cross the border, the title of this racecourse is unpronounceable to all but Tom Jones and Charlotte Church: Ffos Las. It sounds like somewhere in Spain to me. Didn’t we have a lovely time the day we went to Ffos Las; it does not have the ring of Bangor does it?

AND ANOTHER THING…

What were Newcastle thinking …

IN CASE IT HAS ESCAPED the attention of those that manage racecourses, this is the winter. I should also state that the weather has taken an unseasonal turn for the worse. I am no clerk of the course. I do have a garden (well two actually – front and back – but I am not showing off it is not Highgrove) and I know when the ground has been so hardened by frost that it needs to thaw out before I lay hands on a spade. If it has rained for forty days and forty nights, I also know that my garden is waterlogged. I do not need to get up at 7.00am to ascertain this.

So what were Newcastle thinking when on Saturday, after degrees of minus seven overnight, they thought they could race? An inspection scheduled for 8.00am was put back to 9.00am, as if a warm current of air or a zephyr from the Gulfstream was likely to waft across Gosport Park in the extra hour, thus removing all the white stuff that seemingly clung to every blade of turf on the track. Even the two Channel Four presenters, shivering in the covered grandstand, could hardly contain their pessimism. It was obvious to an idiot that beyond the glass panelling of the grandstand, a terrain resembling Siberia offered no prospect of racing taking place. But we are back to that silly season again when racecourse executives believe in Father Christmas, waking to a frozen racetrack that will magically melt into a raceable one within three hours.

Unless they have erected a massive marquee under which a succession of gas burners have been pumping out heat all night, when temperatures dip to the extent they did at Newcastle in the early hours of Saturday, racing ain’t gonna happen. But year after year, we have this ridiculous situation of inspections (most of which are formalities anyway) being put back, until, come race-time the bleedin’ obvious dawns.

I had thought after the debacles of Huntingdon and Warwick, to name but two last season, that some effort would be made to ensure early decisions were reached. As we approach the shortest day of the year, racing starts earlier. Therefore, decisions ought to be made in good time for race goers; but more importantly for trainers, owners and jockeys. There is no point in horseboxes, each gulping copious amounts of diesel, or racing professionals, heading to various frozen destinations only to discover that racing is impossible halfway to the venue or on arrival.

I know it is disappointing for the brogue-wearing fraternity, but this is all part  of the craic that is National Hunt Racing. I have friends who are perfectly happy to arrive at a snowbound or frost-hardened venue so long as the bars are open, Guinness is served and racing shown from the surviving tracks. I cannot claim to understand this but then true jumping fans are a different breed to those of us that go racing in suits and ties and drink Pimms.

Newcastle’s extreme optimism was followed by Carlisle subjecting the racing public to a similar piece of incredulity when they suddenly decided their course was waterlogged on Sunday morning. I cannot claim to know too much about this particular episode as I has already mentally cancelled all racing on Sunday, and was long gone when the clerk of the course squelched his way to what I presume was an obvious decision. Racecourses do not waterlog in a matter of hours. Neither does the A339 to Newbury. What happens is that it starts to rain and it fails to stop. Gradually, a build up of water accrues and it becomes evident, as the rain is showing no sign of letting up, that those areas prone to flooding are filling with water. So if a racecourse looks like a rice field in the monsoon season, racing is not going to take place even if the rain stops immediately. As a layman, this seems elementary information.

I am not a doctor. Some of you may find this surprising considering I appear to have a remedy for most if not all things. But I don’t need to be one to know that if I bang my head on a brick wall, or hit myself on the foot with a hammer, it will hurt. The same logic applies to those that state I am not a groundsman.

So may I make a suggestion. To prevent this will-they-won’t-they-race scenario reoccurring over the coming months, why not adjust our present situation. Forget prolonged prevarication in the hope of one of nature’s miracles occurring before the opener. If a racecourse is not fit for racing by 8.30am and no independent weather forecast stating conditions will dramatically alter is available (and on the head of the forecaster be it), the meeting is automatically abandoned. No headless-chicken squawking, ‘It should be alright – fingers crossed.’ The racecourse is deemed unfit for purpose on that specific day and racing is off, cancelled, abandoned, finished.

In Monty Python terms the Norwegian Blue parrot with beautiful plumage is defunct; bereft of life; it has passed on: it is no more – it is dead!

And Another Thing

A tale of two christmases …

AT THIS TIME OF YEAR, everyone tells you what to do. It is not a good time to be a turkey or a woman as it seems both suffer in different ways.

I suspect a woman’s Christmas begins sometime in December, but according to Nigella Lawson it starts in earnest on Christmas Eve. For both species (turkey and woman), it is a season of sacrifice for what is in essence one meal. I have seen Nigella’s itinerary for Christmas Day, ready for implementation by millions of women, and her instructions resemble those the legendary Ryan Price used to hand out to jockeys. In fact, her approach is rather like a trainer dispensing orders in the parade ring prior to the Grand National.

There is a brief parade of utensils and condiments, an assembly of ingredients, culminating with the removal of the turkey from the fridge twenty-four hours in advance of the big day. That does not sound too demanding but one or two participants may start to get edgy. Then it is giblets in the pan, which will boil and simmer on a stove, steaming the kitchen windows and stinking out the house in the process. This lasts for two hours. Stuffing has to be prepared; cranberry sauce strained. You have to do something with panettone cheese and mix up Italian sausage to make stuffing. There is a warning for women that this is non-negotiable. This means no pulling-up, no refusing; no unseating – keep riding at all costs.

By now, the runners are approaching the tapes. The giblet water, destined for stock, needs attending to. And there is the equivalent of saddle, irons and girth-checking: there has to be sherry, carbonated water, champagne, the fridge organised and, remember, this is only Christmas Eve. Maybe the turkey, quietly defrosting to room temperature in the midst of madness has the better deal after all.

By Christmas Day, the Starter is fidgeting on his rostrum. Some of the runners are over-excited – too frisky, overawed in the knowledge they may have bitten off more than they (or worse case scenario, anyone else) can chew. Grim looks are exchanged. The shirt does not fit; she does not want a basque and stockings as a present – they were not bought for her benefit anyway! The cardigan is the wrong colour, the perfume not right – she knows it was on offer at Debenhams and has been for two months. Three copies of Mamma Mia is two too many.

Through such adversity, the woman of the house is ready for the off. The tapes twang upward, the starter shouts, there is no cheering but she embarks on the lonely journey. She is peeling and cutting potatoes by 10.00am in accordance with Nigella’s self-confessed brutal schedule. She has made that interminable crossing over the Melling Road and is approaching the first.

In the background there is the sound of people only on Wii, children pushing Chinese-made fire engines on a collision course with the skirting board. The phone rings; Dad has a Gordon’s; there is the pop of what sounds suspiciously like a champagne cork, leaving mother wondering whether he will last until early afternoon, as she also detects the clinking of bottles of red wine as they are transferred to the airing cupboard to warm. However, there is no time to concentrate on the opposition so early in the race. The priority right now is to get into a rhythm, maintain it and keep out of trouble. There is the cry from Mrs Simkin at No 42 as she hurtles to the ground at Beecher’s, but it is every woman for herself now. Survivors are preparing the turkey for its final journey, trimming sprouts and seeing to stuffing.

Dad slyly tops up his Gordon’s from the stands.

From hereon in, everything is set in irreversible motion. Potatoes have to be parboiled at 11.00 precisely. The turkey is oven-bound at 11.30. This relentless schedule continues. Ahead there is basting, more parboiling, dredging, draining, chopping, in fact anything ending in i-n-g is likely except the one thing dad might like. At mid-day, after completion of the first circuit, it is acceptable to have a glass of wine or a cup of tea. The table has to be laid, a Christmas pudding steamed, parsnips maple-roasted, sprouts boiled.  I cannot go on…

It is only 12.50 and goose fat needs heating for potatoes. The Chair looms; Dad has opened some Rioja. The kids are bored with I Pods, Nintendos, X Boxes and new Nokias, on which they have annoyed everyone in the house and all their friends.

The inferno continues in the kitchen. The pace increases. Those left standing are jostling for position. It is not merely a question of survival any longer. Chestnuts have to be warmed in butter; there are parcels of chipolatas to wrap, gravy to be made; people are ringing the doorbell. This is a nightmare! Yet the schedule demands everything must on the table by 2.30 for what Goddess Nigella terms as LUNCH!

Why do women have to embark on such dangerous activity alone? Men, be under no illusion, the making of the Christmas lunch or dinner – call it what you will – is a matter of utmost importance to any lady of the house. It is a massive undertaking and one for which they receive little thanks. It is stressful, it is lonely, leaping all those fences and avoiding so many pitfalls single-handed, but they do it despite the fact those eating what has been so precisely prepared are usually halfway out of their heads by serving time.

This is the one day when women claw back all credibility. Yes, they can multi-task; yes, they can organise; yes, they can stare an abyss of adversity in the face and succeed. From the Melling Road dash to that agonisingly long run-in with its cruel elbow that has changed the complexion of many a National, they negotiate the obstacles and storm to the line; exhausted, frazzled, half a stone lighter whilst everyone else is that amount heavier, they have lasted the course. Whilst those they have served lick greasy lips, splash down wine and pick up shredded turkey thighs, the female cook delicately forks a few choice cuts of white breast, drinks half a glass of wine and a full glass of water. The preparing of the Christmas dinner is the female equivalent of a man attempting to affix a pair of shelves that are straight. Only they can do it!

If the pair of shelves fail to line-up or are slanted, which they will be, a man will shrug it off. If anything, his failure is worth repeating in the pub or over subsequent meals. Yet should a woman produce a less than perfect Christmas meal Armageddon is nigh. It is not often I find myself siding with the female of the species but I sympathise in this instance. Wives, partners, girlfriends have not served an apprenticeship for this sort of cookathon. They are not Cunard-trained. Yet they get little if any help from the male members of the household, all of whom lounge around quaffing wine and waiting for the kitchen fairy to deliver the feast. If the woman is lucky she will get some assistance with the washing-up and put her feet up with a glass of something around five o’clock. No wonder they flick through travel brochures during December.

Men, on the other hand are marking time. Christmas for them is a diversion. If they like racing it is something of an intrusion. The 24th and 25th of December are the two days that come between Fontwell and Southwell on the 23rd, and Kempton Park on Boxing Day. During these two blank racing days, they have longer than usual to devote to studying the form. Whilst Mum is in the midst of bone-cracking kitchen action, Dad is drawing up plans to attack the enemy at Kempton Park.

And this is a two-day meeting, which allows them plenty of opportunity to pick their selections with care and, should things not go according to plan on the 26th, they get another chance the following day when the Coral Welsh National is also staged.

For men the two blank days therefore need treating with caution. The automatic assumption is that because there is no racing there is no excuse to sneak to the pub with one’s mates, or to lock oneself up in the spare room with the television. This means in exchange for the Grand National that is the Christmas dinner, men need to tread carefully. Under no circumstances, forget the Christmas card. The present of a new pair of wellie-boots for the garden may be crap, but God help you if the card is missing or the words inside wrong. It needs to express the right sentiment. You could present the woman in your life with a piece of Cartier jewellery but the card needs to contain certain words and phrases. It is not a greetings card, wishing her a Happy Christmas and a Prosperous New Year. This card has to extol love and, although written by some fresh-faced graduate in Delhi, it has to appear to have been composed specially. And never, ever, under peril of death, send a joke Christmas card: nothing to do with age or flatulence. That sort of thing is for Leroy down the pub.

Put the paper hat on; let the mother-in-law in without comment. Look at photos of grandchildren that all look the same, with enlarged heads that could belong to deep-sea groupers, and try not to confuse the sexes of the pictures on show. ‘Isn’t she lovely,’ is not so clever when its name is Henry.

It is most likely to be the drink that will let a man down. Start too early and you are doomed. You will sway in your seat at the dinner table, eat a meal you have no recollection of and snore loudly in a semi-conscious stupor once you leave the dining table and your bottom encounters a soft sofa or armchair. This is unavoidable if the intake of wine has exceeded a bottle, followed by an after dinner port or brandy. Treat alcohol like a horse that needs holding up – that is to say not holding up to your lips on a constant basis. No; restraint is the watchword.

The object for racing folk is to make it unscathed to Boxing Day. Avoid dredging up family grudges, arguing with the wife, killing the kids and you have survived.

As for the King George VI Chase, I suggest it is a race only to bet in if you have a strong opinion about Kauto Star. As far as I am concerned, he is the friend I never got to know. Is he one of the best chasers in recent times or has he got a soft centre and merely been lucky in that he has rarely been seriously tested? Certainly, the Gold Cup he won was sub-standard, but horses can only beat what opposes them. After Friday’s race, for which he is a backable 6/4 in places, he may be the equivalent of the last unopened present discovered under the tree. You could argue three miles against a hotchpotch of rivals of undetermined ability over such a trip presents an easy target; or you could conclude he faces a stronger field than he is used to. Stamina doubts aside, Voy Por Ustedes, and Imperial Commander have the potential to test Kauto Star. But there are doubts, as there are about the enigmatic Old Vic, another to add to the mix.

It is beginning to look a lot like Christmas, or a benefit for Kauto Star. The biggest danger would appear to be the likely principal player – Kauto Star. He will probably win, but we can surely do better over the festive period from a betting point of view.

And Another Thing

2009 AND ALL THAT…

With most punters denouncing 2008 as a bad year, hopes are high they will be hailing 2009 as a good one. It is that time of the year. Off with the old and on with the new…

Here goes – Spy’s Almanac for the coming year…

JANUARY: The Prophet – you know that man that dresses like a pantomime character from 1,001 Arabian Nights with a startled look on his face suggesting he has caught his wife in flagrante delicto with the leading man in his dressing room – realises that it is not a ball of the crystal variety he requires. Nicky Henderson has a blank first Saturday of the New Year causing his immediate placement on the trainers’ cold list. Binocular is floated to 10/3 for the Champion Hurdle, Punchestowns to 5/1 for the World Hurdle and Zaynar withdrawn from the Triumph Hurdle betting. Denman demonstrates his wellbeing by winning a point-to-point at Larkhill and is tips-on for the Gold Cup. The Dubai Carnival starts mid-month and, because of atrocious weather conditions in this country, Nicky Henderson sends a team to Nad Al Sheba, more to put work into them than anything else, resulting in a first-day treble. This prompts a major plunge on his main Cheltenham hopes, forcing Binocular to odds-on and the other two to regain their places at the head of the market for their respective races. Tony McCoy is spotted smiling in Lambourn. Nigel Twiston-Davies has a third at Sedgefield and declares there is nothing wrong with his horses.

FEBRUARY: The Racing Post website is finally comprehensible. Although nowhere near as easy to navigate as its forerunner, most services offered are now chargeable. Interest rates plummet to such an extent that those with a clean credit history are paid by banks to take out loans. This practise ceases with the discovery many recipients are using the money to invest in US dollars, as the city boys reckon before long it will be dollar for pound, cent for pence. Ironically, a dollar used to be slang for today’s equivalent of twenty-five pence sterling. The Government publishes a pamphlet entitled How To Avoid Going Bust. Tips include not borrowing more than individuals can afford, and sidestepping ventures that sound simple in theory, but those where costs are liable to escalate beyond control. Sound familiar? The Dickens-created Mr Micawber quote from David Copperfield opens the booklet: ‘Annual income twenty pounds, expenditure nineteen shillings and eleven pennies, result happiness: Annual income twenty pounds, expenditure twenty pounds sixpence, result misery.’ Wise words, but wasted on those not familiar with Dickens or under the age of sixty for whom pennies are an unknown quantity. This coincides with the pound reaching its lowest rate against the euro and dollar. Snow and ice threatens racing for the latter part of the month, leaving Cheltenham clues in limbo. Ladbrokes float the idea of manufacturing mechanical horses that can function on ice; but for now, they bring back Escalado in all their shops. The fact that the blue horse wins an uncommon amount of races in the last week of February results in a BHA inquiry.

MARCH: The weather relents in time for Cheltenham. Punters starved of racing go berserk on the first day. Binocular is backed down to 4/6 for the Champion Hurdle and wins pulling a cart. Ladbrokes, the only firm to offer evens in the morning, admit to taking a pasting and rumours are afoot that Gary Wiltshire, John McCririck and Barry Dennis are about to make a hostile bid for the betting arm of the company, to be renamed Fatblokes. Master Minded pulls off a similar trick to that of Binocular in the following day’s Champion Chase. The hostile bid gathers pace over several glasses of Guinness and a couple of bottles of champagne, in the case of McCririck, as the trio observe long Ladbrokes faces after racing. However, this is Cheltenham and rain of biblical proportions threatens the last two days of the meeting. Whilst we in this country consider the ground barely raceable, the Irish claim it is no worse than yielding, pleading for the meeting to go on; go on, go on – which it does. Punchestowns falls at the last when clear in the World Hurdle. Kauto Star ploughs through the fence in front of the stands on the first circuit of the Gold Cup, mistakenly assuming it is the last. This catches poor Ruby Walsh by surprise and he is unshipped. Exotic Dancer refuses at the top of the hill, leaving a horse with an unpronounceable German name to win at 100/1. Ladbrokes declare they have recovered losses with interest, resulting in the quashing of the hostile bid, forcing Messrs Wiltshire, McCririck and Dennis to resume gainful employment. Denman wins at Barbury Castle and is declared to be on course for a tilt at regaining his Gold Cup crown in 2010.

APRIL: Aidan O’Brien wins the Grand National with Galileo, whom he declares was getting bored with the same old routine at Coolmore and needed an outing to freshen him up. Paul Carberry rides. Such is Galileo’s superiority that he is half a furlong clear at the Chair, and is pulled up for a breather and to ensure he gets the trip before giving chase to the field for the second circuit. Despite a mistake at Valentines, he is back in front before the Melling Road. Godolphin responds by announcing they are to train the eight million dollar purchase, Pluvius, and the similarly expensive Jalil with next year’s Cheltenham Festival in mind. Frankie Dettori states he has other winter plans and suggests Kevin McEvoy might like to return from Australia for the assignment. McEvoy is not available for comment. The Craven meeting at Newmarket signals the return of Flat racing in earnest. The usual stables fire their big guns with the usual unexpected results. Horses that looked close to good things for major honours sink without trace, replaced by once-raced maidens who, unheard of a month ago, are promoted to single-figure prices for the upcoming Classics. This trend continues in the Classic Trial at Sandown on what will always be known as Whitbread Day. The race itself, which has changed hands several times since the brewery pullout, goes to Cloudy Bay.

MAY: The Aga Khan wins both Guineas, causing a shortfall in the national economy. To avoid embarrassment, Gordon Brown, buoyed up by watching a DVD of Casino Royale, suggests that the Aga Khan visits Downing Street to play a hand of poker – double or quits. Brown loses and ups the ante by throwing the keys to his car and those of Chequers on the table. He loses again. Only after intervention from Buckingham Palace are the crown jewels protected. Gordon Brown declares there is no problem and that he will merely borrow the necessary cash to pay our debts. As the card game was conducted on his turf, the cabinet is quick to point out to the Prime Minister that taking a leaf out of the cheating Goldfinger’s manner of card playing might have been preferable to using Casino Royale as his template. Gordon Brown responds by declaring he has a cunning plan. From now on, the cabinet will form a Saturday syndicate and, with funds that can rival the Findlays and Nevisons of the punting world, attempt the Tote Scoop Six. This coincides with the publication of Dave Nevison’s latest book entitled, A Right Rogering. It does not actually have anything to do with betting, concerning as it does the sex lives of the travelling Tote girls and the racecourse catering staff.

JUNE: The BBC attempts to fill our screens with their coverage of the two-day Derby meeting. Unfortunately, it is subject to constant interruptions from a little known show-jumping venue and a darts competition. We see a recording of the Oaks, won in a desperate finish by Leocorno from the short-priced favourite, Fantasia. Winning jockey Ryan Moore is noted smiling after the race for a second or two. The BBC manage to show the last two furlongs of the Derby, which is won by Aidan O’Brien’s sixth string, the unraced and unpronounceable EurystheusofTiryns. When asked how such a name came to be, Mrs Mangier, who is charged with the task of naming thoroughbreds for Ballydoyle, explained he was the king that set Hercules the twelve impossible labours. Pressed further, she reveals having been told the horse was not much and might win the Turkish St Leger one day. Michael Tabor avoids using the horse’s name in the post-race interview. The BBC has another stab at bringing racing to the nation two weeks later at Royal Ascot – that most English of all occasions, resplendent with fashion, popping champagne corks, the presence of royalty and, oh yes, a few horses. Such is the state of the nation’s finances that there is a renaming of many of the races. The Queen Anne Stakes opens the card but the inclusion of the Prince Faisal Stakes, the Emir Of Qatar Cup and the Sultan Of Saudi Arabia Palace Stakes leaves some racegoers confused. The Queen seems equally affected. Betting on the colour of her dress on the first day is suspended after a flood of cash for white is vindicated when she arrives resplendent in a dish-dash.

JULY: A prolonged dry spell and baking hot conditions mean rock hard ground, and doomists proclaiming Global Warming and the end of the world. For some it arrives immediately after the results of the first day at Newmarket’s July Meeting, where nothing under the price of 12/1 manages to oblige. Parts of Lingfield are used as an overflow for Gatwick airport. The King George VI and Queen Elizabeth II Stakes – now the Emirates Stakes – is run at Great Leighs as Ascot resembles a moonscape. Ladbrokes rethink the mechanical horse idea, stating that each horse could be fitted with a Yamaha motor of finite difference in strength, be named, trained and would resemble a normal horse in every way. The Government is concerned that these horses would not need feeding or working, making many stable staff redundant. The whole idea threatens to reduce the workforce and cause widespread unemployment. Such sentiment has conveniently overlooked the fact that unemployment is running at five million and rising. Ladbrokes agree to shelve the idea but are still keen on developing a prototype on the sly.

AUGUST: Betting offices join a general exodus of shops from the high street. No longer attracting a generation interested in betting on horses, they are used by those wishing to play fruit machines. In an obvious but clever ploy, in that those that play these machines are inherently missing a screw or two, comes the introduction of a new machine that only pays out 10% of the time. It is called The Belcher, as when it does pay out it appears to belch coins. Catch it right, you scoop a pot, but one that represents only half of what is fed into its grinning metallic mouth. The principle appears to match the Lottery and the Scoop Six. Some offices open late at night or early in the morning, when Australian racing is also beamed onto the screens to keep those occupied as they queue in front of The Belcher. Goodwood go ahead with their Glorious meeting despite the fact the ground is fast, verging on concrete. The fields are small, the prices of winners big. All bar the big three bookmakers are now operating abroad.

SEPTEMBER: Keiren Fallon returns to the saddle and promptly rides the winner of the St Leger for Michael Stoute – a trainer that waited until 2008 to break his duck in the last Classic, and now wins it back-to-back. Not everyone is pleased however, as Ryan Moore chooses the wrong one and scowls his way to the weighing room. It transpires that the trainer is not the only one to achieve consecutive success in the oldest Classic. The winner was not a three-year-old at all, but last year’s victor, Conduit, who becomes the only known four-year-old to win the St Leger. Of course, Conduit is disqualified, leaving his entourage perplexed. The BHA and members of the Metropolitan Police interview Keiren Fallon. After the driest summer on record since the last one, the rains arrive, inciting the doomists to change tack and assume Armageddon is nigh. With rain falling on top of baked turf, most racecourses are awash. So, despite the increased number of meetings for 2009, in fact, due to abandonments, the actual number proves to be less than in 2008. Great Leighs stages the Tote International from a washed-out Ascot during the day and an abandoned Chester card in the evening. Southwell is the venue for the Haydock Sprint.

OCTOBER: Gordon Brown calls a snap election and sensationally loses to the Liberal Democrats. They are elected because of radical proposals to cure the ills besieging this nation. The list is long and includes tackling the issues of the day: economy, transport, crime, health, education and world peace to name just six. When asked by Jeremy Paxman what he will tackle first, a bemused Nick Clegg mutters that it will take time. Challenged, he admits it is one thing to pontificate when out of power and quite another to implement policies when elected. From that moment it is clear he is in charge of a clueless government. No change there then! Racing trundles along as if little has changed since the turn of the century.

NOVEMBER: Highlight of the month is the Breeders’ Cup renewal at Santa Anita. European horses migrate to California, connections encouraged by the prospect of racing on the Pro-Ride surface that brought so much success in 2008. The reward is a haul of 40% of all prize-money on offer. This leaves Californian Governor, Arnold Schwarzenegger, somewhat crestfallen when faced with the task of presenting trophies to lanky over-dressed Englishmen in European suits wearing ties.

Cheltenham fails to dry out in time for the Paddy Power Gold Cup meeting. Ladbrokes produce six of their prototype mechanical horses that are permitted to slosh through the sodden ground in what is billed as a race. The event is named; some sort of form produced and six top jockeys booked to sit astride these metal constructions. Things get off to a fair start until they plod downhill and hit a patch of particularly soft ground. They become bogged-down at this point, sinking into the mud up to their ball bearings. Tony McCoy is the last jockey to stop riding, whilst Messrs Murphy, Brennan, Johnson, Geraghty and Thornton pile into the waiting Land Rovers. The crowd retires to the Centaur stand and proceeds to drink the bar dry. The Paddy Power Gold Cup is run through a computer, but reminiscent of the famous malfunctioning HAL from 2001: A Space Odyssey, it spews out a 66/1 winner, much to the disgust of those foolish enough to bet on the outcome. At a dried-out Newbury, Denman wins the Hennessy and is installed as favourite for the 2010 Cheltenham Gold Cup.

DECEMBER: Unseasonably warm weather continues, allowing racing to resume as normal. Meanwhile the all-weather tracks are in need of an overhaul as their surfaces have been so overused they need re-laying. Therefore, after the Boylesports Cheltenham meeting, it is Plumpton, Huntingdon, Ludlow, Bangor and Fontwell all the way to Boxing Day and Kempton Park. Binocular wins the Christmas Hurdle and Kauto Star his fourth King George. But it is too little too late as far as punters are concerned. They denounce 2009 as a bad year and hope to be hailing 2010 as a good one. It is that time of year. Off with the old and on with the new…