AND ANOTHER THING…

A GHOST IS WRITING THIS. A man that is out of form is as much use as an apparition. That’s me; for I am what is referred to as out of form. Except, at least privately, I contest this. No one is about to sit down and listen to my problems unless I am willing to pay £100 an hour; and if you can afford to pay people £100 an hour, then any problems may recede, if only fleetingly, depending on whom you pay and for what service.

Actually, I don’t think there is such a thing as being out of form. What happens is that from time to time we fail to obtain optimum results. No, this is not some sort of political spin; it is recognising that things cannot go our way all the time. This happens in every walk of life. It happens to jockeys who lose three photo-finishes in a row. To cricketers bowled out early in a couple of matches, to footballers who keep hitting the bar – the list goes on. What these little reversals tend to do is make us lose confidence in our abilities; it is as if some wicked witch has visited us in our sleep, removing what powers we possess so that we can no longer do what we used to take for granted. Except we can. Good jockeys will ride winners, batsmen will hit sixes; strikers will score goals. Lack of confidence is a killer blow; once confidence is lost it is a case of abandoning all hope ye who enter here!

In my case, what has gone awry is that I have not acted correctly on what turned out to be lucrative information. Horses I struggled to justify backing won at big prices. The trouble with news for outsiders is that by design, such beasts are hard to fancy. Why else would they be so attractively priced? So a certain amount of blind faith is required. Had I acted, even in a small way, I would have set myself up nicely for a serious crack at the forthcoming Flat season. Instead, I am in a vicious circle, wary of backing messages of a similar improbable nature, because missing crucial winners at prices varying from 16’s to 6’s means such a little spell is unlikely to be repeated. My inaction is a reminder of the complexity of this difficult business. To win you have to do everything just right. You not only have to nominate the correct horses, you have to back them, whilst filtering out those most likely to lose. I shall whinge no more about my personal circumstances; betting stories featuring what went wrong being second only in the boring stakes to rambling acceptance speeches at award ceremonies.

The important thing is to keep a perspective. Nobody has died. I am not in Afghanistan with bullets whizzing above my head. I have not really lost any hard cash. I have missed backing winners because I failed to like the look of them. End of story – move on! It does not indicate I have lost my touch for finding winners – I have tipped plenty of them recently on Bush Telegraph. What you tip, as in what you say, is not necessarily what you do! Tipping provides a safety net for the tipster. It is liable to make him look very clever or very stupid – as can anything consigned to print – but in this case, only the bank manager and the bookmaker know the true story.

Reversals are Nature’s way of bringing us down to earth. Without them we would all think we were clever, and as we are mostly foolish that would never do. Although in public, most of us are able to create an impression of being sane and in control; mostly we are stupid, particularly when in private. I would go so far as to say we are all inherently stupid and that the only thing that distinguishes a buffoon from a wise man is that the wise man is the less stupid of the two.

Reversals are meant to be humbling. They make us re-evaluate certain aspects of our lives. Me, I am thinking it is about time I behaved less like a hostage in a South American jail and more of a human being. My life is sifting away in my little office as I gawp at horseracing; so two months too late I am making a couple of resolutions. I am resolving to keep in regular contact with my true friends who tolerate my stupidity and think non-the-less of me for it. We meet few enough real friends in a lifetime after all. I am going to be more tolerant of my fellow planet-sharers. This may exclude those partaking in Red Nose Day – an event it seems to me designed to allow people a licence to pursue their darkest fantasies. These usually involve men attired in stockings, suspenders and copious amounts of make-up in return for persuading acquaintances to part with cash for obscure charities. And you are supposed put a red nose on your car, expose yourself in public, or indulge in something you always wanted to do but for which you could never find the time.

Now for something more uplifting: Cheltenham fever is gripping racing folk early this year. It may have something to do with this having been such a miserable winter. I fear that, and the fact so many dark horses will turn up for the Festival, will make it more challenging than usual. There is the bandying of names unfamiliar to me; but that can be excused, as I am primarily a Flat man. I am okay with the runners in the Champion Hurdle (is Ashkazar a big price?) and the Gold Cup, although there is the small matter of nominating the winners of these most prestigious of events.

I assume the Supreme Novices’ Hurdle is the first race on the opening day. This is the race where the crowd, mostly mistakenly believing they will leave Cheltenham richer in all things material and spiritual, cheer heartily as the runners are sent on their way by the starter. They do this on the opening race every day, but the volume gets turned down as the meeting progresses. Anyway, the favourite for the opening race on the opening day is Cousin Vinny. I have never heard of him. Is he a horse or one of Edward Gillespie’s long lost relatives?

I believe the Arkle comes next. I have heard of him (or Himself), but fail to recognise Golden Silver, Original, Follow The Plan and Made in Taipan. Have they despatched a contingent from the Far East this year?

Still on the first day, judging by the participants, the Cross-Country Chase looks like it is a satellite race due to be conducted on the Isle of Man, a place, rather like Wales, where letters are plucked from a Scrabble bag to make nonsensical names. Dix Villez, Drombeag, Freneys Well, Banister Lane and Tawnies figure prominently. Who are these people?

Before he rendered me nearly senseless, I once shared a few drinks with David Nicholson, so know a little about him. I knew never to match him drink for drink and that he was charming and engaging company and a man who had no side or prejudice.  I don’t know anything about the third-favourite for the race named in his honour. She is Quevaga. I suspect that is Spanish for something to do with bullfighting, but apparently Willie Mullins is the trainer, so maybe it has some other form of connotation.

In the William Hill Trophy Handicap Chase, Can’t Buy Me Time (song by the Beatles?) is favourite. I hope it will not be more of a case of Help! by this stage of the proceedings.

The list illustrating my ignorance continues. On Wednesday, there is Niche Market, Komati Kid, Mikai D’Haguenet and Alexander Severus all quoted in the lists. They are animals or otherwise of which I have no knowledge. Surely for those contemplating an ambitious wager in the Coral Cup, a reverse forecast Psycho and Mr Thriller would seem appropriate and topical, considering Paul Merton’s impending series on BBC concerning Alfred Hitchcock.

Whatever the results I suspect there is an element of dancing on the Titanic about those making the pilgrimage this year. Win or lose, they are determined to have a good time, as they never know when they might get another chance. They will wish to splash their shoes with Guinness or Magners, to squirt Moet on Viyella shirts built to withstand such misuse, and to laugh in the face of adversity as the losing tickets pile up. At night, I suspect racegoers will cock a snook at bad results as if they are trophies they have shot. They will be partying and whooping like it is 1999 to quote Prince, painting that little town cradled in the Cotswold Hills not purple, but a bright shade of red.

I am above such behaviour. Quaffing champagne and laughing at my betting misfortune is the equivalent of Sir Alan Sugar guffawing at the demise of Amstrad. In addition, there is of course, no point in me turning up. Being a ghost, my presence in the evenings is likely to turn the colour a whiter shade of pale.

AND ANOTHER THING…

YOU KNOW SPRING IS ROUND THE CORNER when the Racing Post carries a page and a half of adverts for accommodation in Cheltenham. Only the Irish could claim they have premises located in Birmingham City Centre with direct trains one hour away from the track. Actually, I have a three-bedroom bungalow south of Newbury that is an hour-and-a half’s drive away, and can whisk any would-be racegoers in style to Gloucester in my Japanese equivalent of an Aston Martin. It is something I could be persuaded to consider just so long as they do not puke Moet and Chandon in what passes as my back seat.

I have a decent wine cellar, am a good enough cook at five dishes to fool anyone for a short space of time, and it is likely such a venture would net more income than fiddling around trying to back winners at a place where my record is average to bad.

That is the thing with these big meetings. How many winners can you expect to back in four days? Two? One? More like none! Because the short-priced horses, however much you fancy them, are not value. So you try your hand at the bigger priced ones and they lose. It is a vicious circle!

Cheltenham is unique. Races are run at breakneck pace so it is vital horses can establish an early rhythm. Some can, some can’t; but throwing such a wild card at punters can upset the best thought-out plans. Form at Sandown and Haydock can become irrelevant. No, there are easier, if less spectacular pickings to be had mid-week at Southwell. But I shall get caught up in the hysteria no doubt, joining the throng in a search for a winner or two. Cheltenham is infectious. After that initial roar as the tapes flick up for the opening race – after that first glass of Magners or Guinness, and the endless quest for a lavatory that is useable – all reason flutters away to hover above the hills of the Cotswolds.

There is half a page promoting Cheltenham preview nights, where racing personalities all sit at a big table – rather like knights at an old Court – in front of a packed audience in a little room, becoming progressively more pissed as they drink glass after glass of red wine, all tipping the same horses.

But never mind all that, we have three clear weeks to go yet and three weeks is a long time in horseracing. The adverts are an encouraging sign. Ahead lies Super Thursday at Nad Al Sheba, The Winter Derby at Lingfield (unless they ran it while I was on holiday), the start of the Flat, and World Cup Night. The nights are drawing out, the spotlights in my office have survived another winter and are getting less use; we have two months grace from paying the bloody council tax – we have made it!

The Daily Mail has a lot to answer for. Their crusade to spread gloom and despondency throughout this land may have much to do with the surly and resigned nature of its people. Even if this country were run by a government requiring its citizens to work for two hours a day, three days a week, and ensured they were fed, housed and looked after appropriately, you can be sure the Daily Mail would find something to complain about. Now, in case some of us may actually be interested in what happens in Hollywood on Sunday night, they have run a piece that declares the winners of all the award categories at the Oscars. Apparently, this information has been leaked by a website. In my naivety, I always thought that the votes were sealed, that only the highest echelon in the Academy saw them as a final entity and that the counting was recorded on the afternoon prior to the ceremonies. However, I suppose that could have all changed. What the Mail purports to have revealed is hardly a revelation. They claim that the 1/100 shot Heath Ledger has won the Best Supporting Actor – well there’s a surprise – and that Kate Winslet has won Best Actress and Slumdog Millionaire Best Picture. Wow! Who would have thought it! What a scoop! Why, a treble on all three at current odds pays 8/11!

I once quoted a well-known bookmaker who refused to bet on anything that could talk. You can see what he meant. Whether the Mail turns out to be right or barking up another tree without roots, it is likely betting will be suspended and some of the anticipation of the award ceremony removed.

As well as the adverts for accommodation at Cheltenham, today’s Post seems to be moving into fresh pastures. They carry an advert on page sixty-seven for Sky channel 900. Personally, I rarely get above 432, but apparently Channel 900 promises fun from Playboy TV. Other channels included are Spice (I presume that is nothing to do with cooking), Climax (yes, I think I remember that) and Adult (some might question whether I qualify).  All for only a £1 for 12 days.

Now that sounds like a decent offer! And if I am to be entertaining ‘sporting and discerning gentleman’ for the duration of the Cheltenham Festival, it could be the sort of thing that will keep them quiet at night while I am attempting to sleep prior to the morning Cheltenham dash. I think that in the interests of business, I might just give it a try – purely to see if it will be suitable for my overall hospitality package!

       AND ANOTHER THING…

SO THEY ARE AT IT AGAIN! The BHA, with all the perseverance of Inspector Clouseau and one suspects an equal amount of bumbling, try once more to nail their men. Or so they say! To a degree, it is difficult to know the likely outcome as the BHA formbook of miscreants nicked is such a slender volume. This time they are again charging Miles Rodgers, jockeys Fergal Lynch and Darren Williams, along with a new face in the frame, trainer Karl Burke.

This is a tricky one! The BHA alleges they have a portfolio that traces back to 2004, when Tony Blair was still Prime Minister and we were all four-and-a-half years younger. Their case has taken five years to compile and resurfaces fourteen months after the Old Bailey acquittal of Lynch and Williams, along with Kieren Fallon in that West End hit, Pink Panther Goes To Court. Lynch and Williams (which is the lyricist and which the musician is unclear) are to be charged with instructing Rodgers to lay certain horses they rode. The races in question – only a small selection apparently and such records usually fail to provide an accurate picture – are divided in two. A list of twelve horses that were supposed to be lays include a 9/1 winner but exclude Notnowcato. Those that figure provide a level stake profit of two points for an outlay of twelve units. I make that the equivalent of betting at 1/6. I would suggest that is not a sterling endorsement for this as an operation. If these horses were lays – which has far more serious implications for the sport – as the biggest price was 4/1, it has to be said they do not have the look of anything more sinister than one person’s opinion. True lays need to be short prices. This list of twelve does not contain anything of that nature, meaning Mr Rodgers et al could have been taking advice from Harry down the chip shop. Once again, as occurred with the Kieren Fallon case, one gets the feeling that the BHA do not seem to understand the rudiments of betting; therefore any case they submit is liable to be seriously flawed.

What is apparent is that there is a pattern to their list. Either Lynch or Williams rode all of the horses supposedly on the lay sheet; and Bryan Smart and Karl Burke trained all bar three. This should not come as any great surprise as Lynch and Williams were presumably close to horses from the Burke and Smart stable. Fergal Lynch is now close to Philadelphia Park as he is riding in America after the Panorama programme insinuated he was a crook. So the musical has turned full circle, as Lynch finds himself a train ride away from New Jersey and Damon Runyon territory. Ironically, Runyon wrote that major film and Broadway hit Guys And Dolls, which was based on a short story called Pick the Winner.

There is a second list from the alleged mastermind, Fergal Lynch. This time there is no discernable pattern. They have the look of a random catalogue of bets, the sort most of us receive in the post every fortnight from our bookmakers. It purports to comprise of fifteen Lynch-inspired bets. Six won, nine lost. Now if these were win bets, Lynch is not a bad tipster as they netted a profit of over fourteen units. Possibly Lynch could consider launching a premium rate tipping service when he returns from the States, even if it is based in Pentonville.

It is tempting to assume that in Rodgers, Lynch and Williams found someone prepared to indulge their inclination to bet.

Jockeys are not supposed to bet for obvious reasons. These days they are not supposed to express an opinion but do so on a daily basis both on television and in the press. Trainers are permitted to bet but most of them are too busy chasing their bills to find the time. Karl Burke trains a hundred horses in Middleham. He dresses and speaks well and gives the impression of being the epitome of an ambitious young trainer whose life revolves round his horses. Like many a trainer in his position, from time to time, he may find himself in the company of potential owners he would rather avoid. But chasing such characters is the nature of the beast he rides. He is an in-between trainer, operating outside the money belt of Newmarket and Lambourn, attempting to carve a slice of new money. Without knowing the man personally, I would be surprised if he was anything other than a hard-working trainer with a limited knowledge of betting.

The sins of the double act that is Lynch and Williams are that they appear to have been caught infringing the rules. They are in difficult positions. Sometimes, to stop the whispering and accusations it is as well to admit the supposed crime or misdemeanour. Admit and some. Embellish it even. Nothing shuts newshounds up quicker than an admission. Yes, I am as gay as a theatre full of drunken actors. Yes, I had sex with my au pair and she hasn’t been able to stand up straight since. Yes, I made money out of the deal; now can someone send me literature on a second home in Monaco? However, sometimes a denial is the only option. If you are suspected of breaking the law or impinging the rules of your place of business, there is only one course of action – denial – Richard Nixon-style and hope David Frost fails to show up.

The case against Lynch and Williams is that they assisted Rodgers in a fraudulent practice, specifically the laying of horses on Betfair. Lynch is singled out as failing to ensure Bond City ran on its merits at Ripon in August 2004. These are serious charges and if unproven, could result in several members of the BHA needing to brush up their CVs. Clearly, by its reluctance to join the cast, the CPS and the City of London Police are either unconvinced or, still smarting from the Fallon debacle, not keen to repeat that exercise in court, leaving the BHA to reach its own conclusions.

Seek and you shall find. Racing is a pond with deep and murky waters. It always has been. Any pursuit that involves betting is shady. Similarly, most businesses are about money, meaning those in a position to handle it often have sticky fingers. Government – both local and national – is probably the worst example of misappropriation of cash. Only during the past seven days, Jacqui Smith, the Home Secretary, has faced charges she has, if not actively broken the law, misused parliamentary privileges over her expenses in respect of dossing in her sister’s house in the capital whilst claiming the maximum for a second home. It would seem there are plenty of privileges within Westminster. What is disappointing over the Smith affair is that we, the taxpayers, the people that provide the privileges, have a right to expect better from a member of cabinet and one holding high office. However, she has not, to the best our knowledge, laid horses on Betfair that she knew would not win. Now had she done that, forget the £100,000 plus she has taken from the public purse, she really would be in trouble.

Meanwhile, the BHA are intent on some form of re-run of the Old Bailey trial that saw them so discredited. They contend they have a packet of incriminating evidence against the persons named. They face a tough task on two counts. Firstly, they have to construct a case on a subject that is beyond most barristers’ comprehension and make it stick. Secondly, they will be relying on circumstantial evidence. They may have their way with Lynch and Williams. They are soft targets after all. Rodgers is impregnable it seems to me, unless he is to be charged with entrapment. Karl Burke is now subject to innuendo and worry. Unless the BHA is to drop a bombshell, they are likely to drag horseracing through more bad publicity.

Paddy Power often open a book on the most unlikely of events. I wonder what price they are offering about this case being thrown out of court, or of Burke being acquitted.

AND ANOTHER THING

Holidays

IT IS GOOD TO BE BACK! Really! It is my conclusion that a fortnight is too long to be away, especially if you are merely lazing in the sun. Such a confession is good news for me. I make my living from backing horses, and once it becomes a chore, my performance becomes affected. As it is, after a week of temperatures close to a hundred in Goa, India, I was aware of sinking into a rut. It was a case of pool, sun bed, sundowner, Singapore Slings and Gimlets under the stars, then curry for dinner. Fourteen nights – twelve curries. I think I may give it a week or two before I try another Rogan Josh!

And I think I will restrict future holidays to no more than a week. There are no plans although, like last year, the long-term strategy is for a few days in Los Angeles in November for the Breeders’ Cup, so long as it can be financially justified.

India is a favourite winter destination of mine, but is becoming increasingly popular and more expensive. As a country, it thrives on a confusion that does not always sit well with visitors. For example, the airport in Goa – no bigger than, say Southampton or Stansted – contrives to ensure that the three major international flights all arrive and depart within ten minutes of each other – resulting in bedlam. There is no air-conditioning. To heighten the anguish of passengers, the fans either don’t work or are not switched on. Pale-faced, surly Russians mix in a sweaty stew with Brits from the Manchester and Gatwick flights. We don’t like the Russians and they don’t seem to like anybody. They are very white and scowl a lot. Unless you speak the language, rather like the Japanese and Chinese, no utterance from them is comprehensible. The women wear perfume that smells like sweet chocolate, the men aftershave that does not smell of anything much, although it does sometimes seem as if a horse has piddled in their midst.

Leaving India developed into a mad scramble. Three plane-loads of holidaymakers were all trying to burst through one exit gate as the Tannoy-announcer panicked the disorganised tangle further by warning flights were about to depart. There was a time when I would have accepted such lunacy as part of India’s eccentricity, presumably inherited to a degree by the British Raj. Now, I imagined officials behind the glass looking down on us struggling travellers with wicked smiles on their faces. Sorry India, but this is no way to treat tourists whose money you court.

As it turned out, although we were late jetting-off due to contrived chaos, it transpired we arrived at Gatwick with about an hour to spare on Sunday night before the weather closed in. So returning produced a close shave of dissimilar but equally dramatic proportions of departure.

Hard luck betting stories are old news. I nearly left on a high. The Saturday of January 17th – my leaving date – featured a Lucky Fifteen on Group Captain, Titan Triumph, Turkish Surprise and Sunset Boulevard. Not being on hand to play each leg, there was little else I could do but try my luck in one attempt at a miracle bet. It nearly came off. Sunset Boulevard won at 9/1, with the other three running well and going close at big prices. On a different day, it could have been a case of a major victory. Although only returning a small win, the bet reinforced my belief that I am capable of making my own luck. This is not an attempt to talk myself up; however, self-belief is so important in this tumbledown business. When we lose, it is important to justify the bets struck, not to worry the house is about to be huffed and puffed away. My brush with triumph left me eagerly awaiting the next attempt. Although not able to participate, the win of Silver Mist in Dubai last Thursday was gratifying. Again, this is not a piece of self-advertising, but I did give him a positive word last time when he won despite a poor draw and racing over an inadequate trip. He proved marginally too strong for Third Set in a better contest. Whatever happens on the domestic front, Dubai remains a favourite hunting ground of mine for a raft of reasons, and I look forward to the remainder of the Carnival.

Walkon upheld what looks like strong juvenile form when winning at Cheltenham. He seems progressive and as if he could be even better on a less exacting surface. By all accounts, the powerful Henderson team introduced a very useful novice at Kempton. Tidal Bay, a horse I regularly fail to call correctly, probably failed to handle atrocious conditions over three miles at Cheltenham. His trainer, Howard Johnston, seems affable enough but makes some hard to justify decisions.

On the flight home, copies of Saturday’s Daily Mail were distributed. There was a nasty little article about the increase in slaughter of failed racehorses. We live in a world full of injustice and cruelty. Nevertheless, this sort revelation – predictable though it may be with the increase of racehorse ownership in such hard financial times – is like a telegram concerning a serving soldier in the Somme. It is personal and concerns all of us that make any kind of income from this industry. Far from being encouraged to participate in a sport that is beyond most people’s means, potential owners should reconsider. Owning a racehorse is close to madness unless you are Robbie Williams or David Frost. Chances are you will end up with a horse that will never come close to winning a race and even if it does, will never recover anything other than a small portion of its cost. Buying the beast will possibly prove the cheapest transaction made. Anyone who owns or part-owns a racehorse will find that barely a day will pass without some form of affiliated bill dropping through the letterbox. A bad horse costs as much to train as a good one. Costs for services you had hitherto only heard of will manifest. Farriers, vets, Wetherby’s and box-drivers all need to make a living and you will discover you are it. Even a horse that is not injury-prone (which most of them are) will cost at least £12,000 a year to train without all the add-ons. Potential owners are lucky to get away with twenty grand a year. Balance that against payments for a high-powered sports car, sending a child to private school, taking four luxury holidays a year with change and paying a Cheryl Cole look-alike to read you the Racing Post in stockings and suspenders each morning, and it is little surprise owning a racehorse is not at the top of any list of desirable acquisitions.

So I returned home, driving through a snowstorm that was already building up and slowing the M25, spotting a snow leopard somewhere through the swarm of flakes. Heading west, conditions improved but by Monday morning, a blizzard had left our Hampshire village dangerously white – quite a change from the oven that I had left on the sub-continent. But we are at the right end of the winter and let February do its worst: It is a short month, one that does not even require a council tax payment.

There was the mail. Usual stuff, mostly offers for a parting of the ways between my money and myself. There was nothing from the Inland Revenue, no accounts from bookmakers but the winter energy bills were waiting, disguised in white envelopes. The demand for money is set out in computer-speak. There is something sinister about the way the companies use words to whisper menace. We all know we have to pay the money, but the claim comes in a supercilious, almost menacing and leering way. You read the bottom line for a service you must have but that you have no control over. Suppliers are the equivalent of Micky The Fish at the door asking where his bosses’ repayments for that extortionate loan are. Mr Luigi don’t like to be kept waiting! Only in this case the approach is less direct but equally effective. Pay up or you may find future supplies expensively metered or threatened. Now you can imagine the soft-spoken – possibly female voice of a computer – speaking the slightly stunted spliced together impersonal words: This is your gas/electric bill. Please pay us £303.03. Thank you.

Not at all. My pleasure!

Why doesn’t such an approach work for the rest of us who have to fight tooth and nail for every dollar?