AND ANOTHER THING…

THIS SHOULD BE AN EASY WEEK! Aintree is always easier than Cheltenham, which stands to reason when you consider it; we are in a better position to assess jumpers now as events at the Festival dispensed with some of the guesswork. To a degree, we know the pecking order; all we have to decide is which horses will adapt best to a faster track on quicker ground. Some Cheltenham runners had Aintree written all over them – the Triumph Hurdle third is one that springs to mind. To make it easier, Aintree is a word comprising of only seven letters, making it simpler to spot than Cheltenham, which does not always fit along a horse’s bridle.

For many, this is the last major jumping fixture of the year. I know Punchestown is to come but there are limits! Let’s just leave it here shall we? Whereas at Cheltenham we were looking for horses that could cope with an undulating track and races run from trap to wire, now, on the Mildmay course, we want animals with a bit of sense; horses that are not all brute force and bravado, but that can bunny-hop and produce acceleration from the last. There is no punishing hill, no downhill fences to survive when they are travelling at their fastest. Aintree places more of an emphasis on speed, even in the event of rain-softened ground – something that is looking increasingly unlikely at this stage.

As for the Grand National itself, that is a one-off. For this, a mixture of a hunter chaser with the turn of foot of a two-miler is ideal. Most hunter chasers are on the wane so that rules them out, but the ability for a horse to get into a lobbing rhythm and just hunt round for a circuit and a half as if riding out with the Thorn, or whatever those red-coated tally-ho boys call themselves, is an attribute. A horse that can shrug off the parade, laugh at the absurdity that is the Chair, hop over Becher’s Brook and skip over Valentines while still on the bridle has it made.

Those that tear across the Melling Road towards the first fence as if they were carrying a Lancer at Balaclava are doomed. They will use up too much energy and if surviving the first gradually wilt as the race unfolds.

The Grand National is very much a tale of tortoise and hare and in this case, for a race that can last in excess of ten minutes, the tortoise often has his day. Having identified the tortoise as being Comply or Die last year, it seems unlikely I shall repeat the feat this time round. I shall attempt to pull it off even so; it is tradition after all and nominating the Grand National to all your non-racing friends, who invariably think you only have to look at a racecard to identify winners, means you will dine out for a week or two. Frankly, I could do with that.

And I am cheap. I don’t need a Clement Freud-style dinner; it doesn’t have to be Marylebone either: a curry or Sunday lunch at the local golf club will do fine. I do not need turbot poached in pears, quails’ eggs in wine or Benedictine. Just a couple of square meals would do.

With that in mind, I have looked at the race. The first thing that strikes me is that it doesn’t look to be a quality field. Most years the race contains an apparently well-handicapped horse – something the handicapper would require to carry in the region of an extra ten pounds if he could based on updated figures. It does not make them win, but to anyone with a formbook such a presence is off-putting. I remember going for a punt on Garrison Savannah who was about a stone light and he could only finish second.

The formbook and official figures are all very well in conventional races, but winning the National requires a special type of horse. Very often, such an animal is not apparent until it has floated over a few Aintree fences as if born for the task. Although those that have run in the race have a record of returning to the scene of the crime successfully, it is my contention, you want a horse jumping the fences for the first time. Those that take to it can offset any weight differential with rivals. Those that have endured the marathon that is the race often remember and can fret beforehand. But there is one other vital component required because good fortune – the wings of luck – are crucial.

Backing the winner of the National is all about putting your money where The Archangel Gabriel has put his because divine intervention of some sort is essential. I have it on high authority he is the celestial body that bets. This is apparently his one weakness. Now, I do not know why the Archangel Gabriel should bet, after all he does not need the money. But bet he does. And whatever the Archangel Gabriel backs has a charmed run. His selection lobs along, taking the fences in its stride, avoiding stricken rivals and is always in exactly the right place. Consequently, it can often be named as the winner a long way out.

The angel did get it wrong a couple of times and had to cheat. You remember that incident that occurred to Devon Loch in 1956? The Archangel Gabriel had backed ESB. Rumour has it he engineered Devon Loch to do those infamous splits in order for ESB to gallop past his rival on that cruel run-in.

Eleven years later, there was that pile-up at the Canal Turn when Foinavon escaped all the trouble. Gabriel made a mistake that year. Apparently, he mixed up the colours and thought his selection, Honey End, had made a bad blunder at Becher’s. In his attempt to provide his selection with a second chance, he overdid his tactics, but that is another story. Suffice to say he bestowed the race upon Foinavon in error.

Finding out what Gabriel has backed is difficult and invariably only apparent in running. I suggest there are two horses likely to be on his shortlist this year. The first will only run if fortune decrees and that is Maljimar, currently unlikely to make the cut. The other is a definite runner unless a huge hand descends from a purple sky and strikes him down. That is State Of Play, who looks the sort to lob, hunt, and step over the fences. He tried his luck over the Mildmay track two years’ ago but, having been prominent for a long way, found the searching pace and his weight too much. It should be a different story over the Aintree fences where he can settle into a gazelle-type lope.

A fresh horse that has only run twice this season, State Of Play, a former Hennessy winner that handles firm ground, has the look of having been laid out for Saturday.

All that remains is to convince the Archangel Gabriel that he is worth an investment. After that, it is a foregone conclusion…

APRIL FOOLS’ DAY – WHAT IS NEW?

I HAD THOUGHT ABOUT writing something appropriately absurd for April 1st or as it is known April Fools’ Day. You know how it goes, the, I Was Abducted By Aliens type piece. In racing’s case, thestories could be, ‘Miniature Racecourse Scheduled for Hyde Park to Accommodate Thoroughbred Pony Racing: Trained Monkeys to Replace Jockeys: Frankie Dettori to Ride for Godolphin in Australia.

On reflection, based on the news stories in circulation at present there is no need – the old adages that truth is stranger than fiction, or that the lunatics are taking over the asylum, seem applicable.

On the racing front, they are building the sixty-first racecourse at a time when the sixtieth has gone bust. The BHA continue on a kamikaze course with the law courts. Dubai million-dollar earner, jockey Ahmed Ajtebi, was frogmarched out of this country by immigration officials on a technicality. Meanwhile people that have eaten or flushed their passports down aircraft toilets arrive at our borders claiming asylum. Presumably, they hold up pre-written cards as a great many do not speak English. Perhaps they should claim they have ideal qualifications to live IN an asylum. These people, impersonating Bluebeard in his various forms, some with manuals on how to construct a bomb and with editions entitled Death to Infidels in their luggage, are welcomed; some given four-bedroom houses and Toyota Land cruisers.

Jacqui Smith, as Home Secretary, is partly responsible for this, but has other problems right now. The downloading of a couple of porno films by her husband is a personal matter between him and Ms Smith. What is shocking is the fact that as a duo they thought it acceptable to download anything at the taxpayers’ expense. Clearly, the state is funding their service provider use. Why? Is she saying that if she were not a government minister she would not have a computer? I am self-employed and need a TV and a computer for my work but claim for neither. As I do not live in a cave and have access to electricity, I assume the taxman would expect me to have such items whatever my business. I am not a government minister and do not earn a government minister’s salary. Ms Smith’s argument that she was unaware of her claim or her possible assertion that, because she needs more than one home, she should have more than one computer is irrelevant. This expenditure comes with the job. She should pay out of her salary and the other benefits that go with her privileged position.

More craziness looms with the G20 Summit and these planned demonstrations. Why do we put up with them? At the last such march – mostly full of loonies – some nutcase dressed in green and apparently in a world of his own, gyrating or spacing out to music was questioned by a television interviewer. Interrupted in the middle of some weird St Vitas’ dance whilst whatever substance pinged around in what was left of his brain, he spouted expressions last aired in the sixties. Old Marxist/ Lenin phrases such as redistribution of wealth, proletariat and evil capitalists resurfaced. This Summit is actually rather important. We can do without a contribution by Swampy and his mates who take it as an excuse for a day out and the chance to be on television.

Another such group we tolerate is Plane Stupid. They managed to bring Stansted Airport to a standstill in January, sabotaging business and holiday travellers alike. I guess the airport security should be asked how, if they cannot protect the runway against spotty students drunk on their own self-importance, they can safeguard it against terrorists?

The list of foolishness grows. An ISA boasting it will return 3.5%. That is £3.50 in a £100 invested or £35 in a £1,000 or a massive £350 in £10,000. If that was the best I could offer someone in exchange for such a cash commitment, I would be too embarrassed to advertise it.

Recent surveys of schoolchildren reveals a good proportion of them have never heard of Sir Winston Churchill. It is a sad reminder of the mortality of generations. Same ‘yoof’ cannot add, cannot spell and cannot speak proper. They can operate I Players, mobile phones, WIIs and MPVGs or whatever they are; but does that equip them for life?

So April Fools’ day is upon us! I only wish I could be confident it would cease at midday. Somehow, I suggest one will not have to scour the newspapers too thoroughly to discover incredulous items. The problem is ongoing: sorting fact from fiction.

  AND ANOTHER THING…

SO IT’S NEW YEAR’S DAY THEN!

Actually, as you are aware, that is an exaggeration; but you know the feeling. It is the start of something new, the chance to atone for past misgivings and mistakes. In this case it is the start of the Flat – a new racing season instead of a new year. It is a great start: the usual Doncaster meeting, with the Lincoln kick-starting proceedings. Then there is Kempton with the Roseberry Stakes and the Listed Magnolia Stakes, and of course, three-thousand miles away in the Middle-East’s answer to Miami, it is the Dubai World Cup, supported by an excellent international card.

Whatever your persuasion, I suggest such a menu outstrips whatever jumping has to offer at Lingfield and Uttoxeter. Speaking as a Flat man, I only hope those cards do not get in the way of Doncaster on ATR. However, Channel 4 rides to the rescue with coverage from Kempton and Doncaster so it should be all right.

The start of the Flat is a definite article. Unlike National Hunt that trundles on all year round, a seam is broken with the commencement of the turf season. All-weather racing continues but for the most part it plays second fiddle, although that is not the case at Kempton on Saturday. But we know where we are now. This is the chance to make the year count – to rub out all those conveniently forgotten errors of seasons past. A dollop of fortune can make this the year that eclipses all others. Just like the resolutions made on January 1st that are usually broken one-by-one well before Easter, riding the wave of optimism can be a short-lived journey.

Start the season badly and to a degree there is no way back. Just like the ex-smoker breaking the seal on that packet of cigarettes, old habits will resurface and take command. Don’t let it; fight back! We all have failings, recognising them is our first step to cutting them out or at least keeping them under control. So herewith a few suggestions that might help:

We all fall victim to messages (there are more of them on the Flat as so much racing comprises of unknown quantities). Most message horses these days, especially those originating from the big training centres and certainly the big yards, are public property by the time the milkman is making his rounds. Chances are such messages have been embellished on route. That means you will not be the only person to know them. It also means invariably they will be short prices. Try to resist the various rumours this time of year that range from: will win the Craven/Guineas/ Derby to: is a Royal Ascot horse, unless such messages sit neatly with your own opinion.

There is an adage that goes as follows: when you select a horse, you bet a tenner. When the butcher that has been talking to the cousin of the feed man who knows the lad that has been riding work tells you it will win, you risk a hundred. Bad move!

Flat racing is obviously quicker than jump racing so races can unfold in an instant. As a result, it is easy to believe you have clocked an unlucky loser. Whatever misfortune appears to have befallen a racehorse in running, halve what you thought was its impact on the result and you will not be far adrift.

Don’t let morning market moves with the firms or on the exchanges put you off a horse you fancy if it appears weak in the betting. Most serious business is conducted late these days. Runners that had appeared friendless in the early morning market can suddenly assume the properties of hot potatoes when the right money surfaces. Even if it doesn’t, not every race is a foregone conclusion. It is possible to be right when the majority is wrong, particularly if you hold a view or have seen something that has gone relatively unnoticed.

Get all the help you can but remember yours is the opinion you have to live with. For that reason, rely on your intuition, remembering there may be those that know more than you do, but that your intuition has carried you this far in life, meaning it cannot be that bad!

You will make mistakes. Everyone in this business does! Don’t be too hard on yourself, allowing lapses of judgement to affect your confidence. Making a mistake does not make you a fool; failing to learn from it does that!

Take the ego out of betting if you can. In a weak maiden, 7/4 returns the same as 7/4 in a Classic. Although it is tempting to wish to back the winner of big races, you are often backing on the bookmakers’ terms. It is not football. We all have our favourite stables and jockeys; but they will forgive you if you don’t always support them. ‘Falling in love’ with horses can be similarly expensive – unless they are Zarkava!

If you are not in possession of an ante-post voucher at a fancy price for any of the Classics, resist the temptation to rush in when you see an impressive winner of one of the trials, or worse a winner of a maiden by clear daylight. It is too late for that now and the Classic jigsaw is full of pieces that fail to interlock in the next two or three months.

Don’t take the bull by the horns on Day One and punt as if the world is about to end. It is a long season and although we have a few clues as to the wellbeing of a couple of stables, there are plenty of other yards waiting in the wings to unleash useful types. Feel your way through the minefield that is the first few weeks unless you have reason to believe you are ready to hit the ground running.

Of course, in keeping with anyone dispensing advice, I am above it. It applies to everyone else, which is the paradox of counsel.

I am likely to be more active tomorrow than I have been since last October. As I write, I have the temerity to believe I have solved the day’s hardest handicaps. I consider Swop worth a punt in the Lincoln and that Slugger O’ Toole may be too good for Spectiat in the Spring Mile but that Fireside may beat them both. Then Whitcombe Minster can overcome a graveyard draw in the Roseberry. That is not all, as London Bridge will win the maiden at Doncaster.

I am not finished. Two Step Salsa looks banker material in the first at Nad Al Sheba. I am not convinced a return to six furlongs will be ideal for Indian Blessing in the Golden Shaheen and therefore nominate Big City Man as a solid alternative. On his best form and judging by the manner of his victory last time, Bankable is too big at 16’s in what I expect to be a tightly contested Dubai Duty Free. Youmzain is the form horse in the Sheema Classic and subject to a strong message but he is not entirely convincing. I cannot solve the World Cup at present, although there is no doubting the progressive nature of My Indy or the solidity of his form. He may not be good enough to beat Albertus Maximus and confirm earlier winning form with Asiatic Boy, but it may be worth paying to find out.

Easy this game isn’t it? If there is one thing I can impart with utmost confidence it is this: it is always easier the night before than on the day of the races. And as the race or races draw closer, so the harder it looks. Right now, buoyed by two cups of strong tea, I can see it all clearly.

That bodes badly! I hope you will be more circumspect.

Final thoughts will be posted on tomorrow’s Bush Telegraph.

AND ANOTHER THING

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Another Thing…

I CANNOT CLAIM TO KNOW VERY MUCH ABOUT THE IRISH. Unlike most of the residents of Chicago or New York, I do not have Irish blood in my veins, although my mother was from Liverpool so I can’t be sure. I do know U2 come from Ireland. That the country has won the European Song Contest more than once, which sends out a mixed musical message. By reputation, their potato chips are supposed to be the best in the world, and they are responsible for Guinness, Bailey’s and the resurgence of cider by the manufacture of Magners, something that has elevated the apple-based drink to a new level. I made the mistake of buying a cheaper case of cider recently; by contrast, the drink tasted sweet. You get what you pay for!

Ireland has great racing roots and friends regularly advise me to visit. Perhaps I shall combine a race meeting with just that this summer.

In the meantime, the Irish remain something of a mystery to me. This may be partly because I have difficulty in understanding what some of them say, especially the owners of Forpadydeplasterer, just as I do the Scots or people from diverse parts of the country. I know this sounds awfully toffee-nosed and typical of a southerner who rarely ventures further north than Oxford. I spent some time in Yorkshire back in the nineties, but fled, when at a market a man about to be served demanded, ‘Two pounds of tatties luv.’ This lack of common culture was the last in a long list of difficulties I as a southerner faced. It is no exaggeration to say that within a fortnight I had left my house, loaded a small saloon that became even smaller when crammed with too many cassettes, the odd item of furniture, and an adopted Doberman called Zulu. Together we made a dash south on the M1. Zulu spent most of the journey sleeping and listening to Pink Floyd. He liked our new home, which we bought without seeing and where we spent ten years before his sad demise.

A female eventually replaced Zulu – a woman I mean, not a bitch, officially that is – but it was not the same. I suppose I should have realised it would not be. Zulu was his own dog, better known, and I suggest better liked in the village than his owner. I am afraid he slept in the bed alongside me, rather like his substitute. Unlike her, we never went to bed after a bitter exchange of words. He made little in the way of demands and was not subject to mood swings. His replacement stayed for three weeks before she tired of doing what Zulu could not and the fun dissipated. Zulu was great fun for twelve years and only left when nature took over.

Most of our home planet is a mystery. There is little point in wrestling with its complexities. I would like to see serious changes in parts of the world but I daresay those places I could cite would like to see changes in our society. Some things remain inherently wrong: bear baiting in Pakistan, abject and unnecessary poverty along with big game hunting in Africa, Japanese whaling, Asian sweatshops; we all know the things we would wish to change. Yet a formula that could bring the world together so that we follow a common agenda has proved elusive.

So Ireland, although not an alien culture, is still one that criss-crosses our own. One thing we have in common though is a love of the horse. Put three people on top of a racehorse; an Englishman, a Scotsman and an Irishman, and I suggest the Irishman will quickly become identifiable. He is the one that sits still, with hands looking as if they regularly wield a shovel (like all jockeys’ mitts) holding the reins with a feather touch.

Watching Richard Hughes on Scintillo at Kempton on Wednesday night, I was reminded just how good Irish jockeys are. Had Hughes been the victim of misfortune on his way to the Sunbury track, getting caught in traffic or suffering a prang of some sort, Richard Hannon could always have contacted me. In which case, even allowing for overweight and inadvertently launching my run up the stands’ rails because I could not negotiate the turn tightly enough, I probably would have won on Scintillo. I dread to think what James Willoughby or our generous friends from Kentucky would have made of such an exhibition. Richard Hughes on the other hand was pure style, impressing some of the American visitors with his composed, unruffled ride. There was a point when his nonchalance suggested he was about to extract his Nokia from his breeches and ask the wife what was for dinner. Like most Irish jockeys, he is poetry on a horse. He is part of the animal he rides; it is difficult to see the join. He and his mount look as if Philip Blacker has sculpted them from one piece of bronze. This is not just a eulogy to Richard Hughes, although admittedly I am a fully paid up member of his fan club. The same applies to Messrs Ahern, Kelly, Murtagh, Spencer, Murphy, Walsh, McCoy, Geraghty and Carberry. Any exclusions in this list are not deliberate. There is something about Irish jockeys that places them apart from other horsemen. Admittedly they cannot stand up on a horse’s back and light a cigarette as Cossacks can, nor can they do a forward somersault in mid-race, but then there is not much call for that at Kempton Park.

Perhaps it is because Irish horsemen are born and not made. Most of them return from their birth at hospital on the back of a cob. They start riding in earnest before they can walk, often before they can talk; definitely before they learn to conjugate a verb. Rather than drift into racing, they do so because, like the Colonel’s son that attends Sandhurst, it seems the logical move.

Many British jockeys only follow such a career path because of their size and weight. That and the fact it seems preferable to the options. As a result, Irish jockeys have something of a head start on lads sitting on a horse for the first time when attending the excellent British School of Racing.

It is not my intention to draw a line between the riding standards of the two nations. There are many fine British riders, some of them from racing dynasties. There is the legend that is Lester Piggott; from the same era the Smith brothers, Willie Carson and the bobbing Australians that were Bill Williamson, Ron Hutchinson and Scobie Breasley. There was perhaps the most stylish of them all, Joe Mercer. Of the present crop, The Hills brothers are tidy; George Baker and Alan Munro canny. Ryan Moore and Seb Sanders are outstanding. Other countries are responsible for great riders. Frankie Dettori is one of the best of all time. Plenty of Brazilian, Mexican and American jockeys have brilliant records.

But there is something about watching the likes of Hughes or Spencer when they are at their best, that results in a sharp intake of breath. As with Frankie, they make the difficult look easy – everything they do looks natural. And watching Richard Hughes in action yesterday, merely reminded me that over the coming months, we will be witnessing similar Horse of the Year type displays from those who eat a Mars a day, a pick of chicken or fish, and drink a thimble of wine once a week in order to keep the show on the road.

Thanks lads…

AND ANOTHER THING…

RACING’S IMAGE HAS COME under scrutiny recently. What with Panorama claiming foul and the BHA dithering about whom they should persecute, or prosecute, I am not sure which, and then the BBC throttling back on its coverage; the Sport of Kings is in danger of becoming a Ship of Fools. Then along came last week’s meeting at Cheltenham, elevating the sport to the front pages of newspapers. Kauto Star and his team were responsible – that and the fact that the Queen had a runner in the Gold Cup, adding up to one of the best Festivals in recent years. I am not talking betting here as we all did our pieces apart from the Irish, and even they did not all latch on to the right horses.

Gambling aside, it has not been a bad week. I did think that the comment made by David Williams of Ladbrokes told its own story when he stated on television he didn’t care if Kasbah Bliss or Voy Por Ustedes got beaten, so long as one of them did. How sporting of him!

Of course, what we need more than anything in racing is continued sponsorship. All five Classics, plus the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth II Stakes and the Juddmonte International, are reliant on it. This is not necessarily a bad thing, but means we have to entice money into the game. The problem for racing with this concept is that, unlike other sports, outside bookmakers, there is no natural sponsor. Contrast that with motor racing that has a host of potential supporters. Apart from the teams of cars, there is the alliance forged between Seiko watches and Honda. No doubt, other such partnerships exist. Omega is synonymous with James Bond, Slazenger and Robinson’s Barley Water with Wimbledon, footballers endorse various products, the list goes on.

So do companies investing in racing get a good deal for their money? Clearly, sponsorship works best for big companies that can wheel all marketing tools at their disposal onto the racecourse. Quite apart from having their prize-giving ceremony televised, splashing the name of their company and latest product on television screens, there are hoardings strategically placed along the track. Then there are the girls with sashes – those strips of company-embossed ribbon that start at their shoulders and end at their thighs – for those that have looked at other attributes, and the various advertisements for the firm on the racecard. For a big company it is a fair deal, providing they are selling something that race-goers and watchers on TV like.

Therein lies part of racing’s problem. Just whom does the sport appeal to? Obviously, those that like a flutter or the fun of going racing, or those watching Tommo as they fill in the Saturday Lucky Fifteen. Whereas we all know that James Bond is suave, that some footballers are cool, and that Formula 1 symbolizes speed, what is the image conjured by horseracing?

To those not involved, owners and trainers in strange clothing, speaking as if they have plums in their mouths that have replaced the silver spoons they were born with, and jockeys who, if they ride jumpers, have teeth missing and scars on their faces. If they are Flat jockeys, with the exception of Frankie Dettori, they are not sex symbols. They are small, circumspect with what they say if they ride for a big yard, and use words not always understood by the listening public. Sayings like: ‘I had to call a cab at the ditch,’ ‘He put down on me,’ ‘I didn’t want to disappoint him,’ and ‘He dropped the lot’ sound as if they belong to another language. Unless you are a teenage member of a pony club, they are unlikely to be people you aspire to be. No free Omega for Michael Hills or Jimmy Fortune I am afraid.

Horseracing is a bit like boxing. The only people that are interested in what the players in both sports wear, both professionally and privately, are already converted. Amir Khan represents Reebok, but unless you are in the minority who follows boxing, or wears sporting gear, that fact is irrelevant. Yet we all see the connection between Seiko and Honda, we all know David Beckham wears a Police watch. We don’t have to hero-worship David Beckham to know that if he is prepared to give his name to the Police brand, it is an endorsement.

Horseracing can be difficult to sell. However, sponsorship does work because there will be constant reference to a race that turns out to be important or relevant enough. The Stan James 2,000 Guineas is something of a mouthful, but commentators know how the game is played and add the epithet whenever discussing the race. Sponsorship of the Derby for Vodafone worked, so did diamond merchants De Beers sponsorship of the King George at Ascot as at the time potential customers with a spare £100,000 existed.

Apart from advertising a desirable product, the best sponsorship as a title for a race is the one using a single name. There are still racegoers that refer to the Dante Stakes as The Mecca Dante, and the Tote Gold Trophy as The Schweppes; although they are a vanishing breed. The Coral Eclipse has stuck, probably because two short names work well together. The Ladbroke St Leger is something of a struggle, but The Ladbroke (the handicap hurdle) has now surpassed in the memory whatever it was it replaced.

Horseracing is primarily a male pursuit; as such, possibly Gillette, Wilkinson Sword, King of Shaves, Ben Sherman, Diesel and Citizen could consider the advantages. So could Toyota, although fellow Japanese car manufacturer Mitsubishi dabbled; but to be effective you need to have a race that can be called The Toyota, The Diesel, The Gillette etc. and to be of sufficient merit for it warrant a one word title. The John Smith’s Magnet Cup is a mouthful but one tends to put the two together without any difficulty. And of course the same firm has worked wonders with the Grand National meeting, backed up by their excellent, ‘You’re Barred!’ advertising campaign.

And there is always room for the Tommy Wirret Marries Sandra Sprocket Handicap (Class 6) at Southwell, which is good fun for all concerned and often cheaper than a stag do.

Perhaps we could have the Armitage Bog Standard Handicap. What about the Specsavers – See Where Your Money Goes Stakes? For smaller races, such titles are fine. They are infinitely better than the, Buy Your DIY with Homeworthy on WWW Dot Com Handicap. However, once you have a race merely referred to by the name of the sponsor, it is a case of mission well and truly accomplished.

Big companies are out there with a marketing budget. These are hard times to prise cash from them, but for racing, it is vital to provide every encouragement.

 AND ANOTHER THING…

ONE DAY TO GO and if the past three are anything to go by I am in trouble. Cheltenham is a wild town – a bit like Jackson in that old country and western song, you know the one where Lee Hazlewood, or is it Johnny Cash, says, ‘We got married in a fever, hotter than a pepper sprout; we been talking about Jackson ever since the fire went out. I am going to Jackson; teach them women what they don’t know how.’

‘Go ahead,’ says his wife, ‘They will laugh at you in Jackson.’

            Substitute Cheltenham for Jackson and you have it about right. They would be laughing if they knew what I had done.

Horses first. I knew it would be tricky but I did not think it would turn out to be quite so bad. One winner, the first of the meeting. I ask: what could be better – except I didn’t do it on its own and had nothing with it. But it demonstrated that I had not lost the touch, or so I thought. Wrong! Go Native was a fluke.

Wednesday was a disaster. Thursday not too bad if they awarded points for endeavour, but they don’t do that and I lost all the same. Nominating Powerstation as a value bet at 33/1, but backing it to win and not each-way does not make either sense or money. Backing Tidal Bay in an each-way double with Punchestowns was on the right lines but my cash stayed in the bookmaker’s hod.

The Cheltenham Festival is a race meeting devised by the Devil. His red airship even hovers over the course as he scans the place for lost souls. Business must be good. There are plenty of us about and the Devil knows where to look.

Deceptively, everywhere people are screaming with delight, chucking newspapers in the air as winning selections pass the post; cheering in the winner’s enclosure, drunkenly clapping their fellow conspirators on the back in the bars – that is everyone except you. You are sitting on the grandstand steps, thumbing through the Racing Post to see where you went wrong. The print comes off on your hands and you transfer it to your shirt. That expensive tie has a mustard stain on it, making it look like something from Primark. They ought to have a place where people that have backed losers can go and receive counselling. It could be a tent at the back of the Guinness Village, but well away from all the celebrations.

My name is Peter and I backed Pierrot Lunaire in the Coral Cup. Ruby Walsh rode three winners on the day. He rode Pierrot Lunaire and the combination beat three of the twenty-seven runners. The only positive thing I can say about my wager was that I took 20/1 and the horse started at 14’s.

My name is Peter and I backed Mad Max even though I was told he wouldn’t win from someone who knows these things. There was a point when I thought I was right and those that spend all their time in the Malt and Shovel or Luke Harvey’s pub at the top of Lambourn were wrong. Two out I knew differently.

My name is Peter and I backed What A Friend even though Ruby Walsh had shunned him to ride something else – the winner as it so happens.

My name is Peter and I backed Tidal Bay even though the trainer said he had not been able to get enough work into him and he would be pleased if he finished fourth. I backed Tidal Bay each way in a ten horse race, where even the most generous of bookmakers stop paying at third place. Tidal Bay finished fourth just as the trainer said he might. At one point, the horse was so detached I thought he was on the way to the station to make his own way back to Cumbria.

Cheltenham puts Jackson in the shade at night. To be honest, I suspect that on non-race days, Cheltenham is just an ordinary town with WI meetings and theatrical evenings and halls half-full of people listening to lectures about mating badgers. On race days, it is somewhat different. The circus is in town.

The bars are crowded. There are a lot of people wearing green and drinking Guinness. There are long-legged girls who seem to have lost their boyfriends. They are able to differentiate between those that have won a lot of money and those that have not. They have a sixth sense that allows them to tell winners from losers. It seems a pity they cannot do this before racing starts, but I suppose they don’t have to. None of them make a beeline for me. Suddenly bald men with paunches seem to be making a comeback as they attract these ladies into their raucous circles and before long are buying them champagne.

During a quiet five minutes by her standards, I have the chance to talk to a girl called Brooke. Her real name, or so she says, is Amanda. I try not to stare at her cleavage or at the way her skirt finishes where it starts. She comes from Birmingham and is not at Cheltenham for the racing. I tell her I am a journalist.

I figure if she can lie about her name, I can lie about my occupation. She is not impressed. I tell her I am thinking of becoming a gigolo. The hours seem reasonable and the perks attractive. I ask if she has any tips. She says she has heard that Kauto Star will win the Gold Cup. I ask her if she knew Denman was an Australian wine. Even before I finish the question, I sense as a chat-up line that it is the equivalent of Mad Max. I am losing her but persevere. I tell her I am wearing a Jaguar suit and that I have just bought a new Police watch. I ask if that will help in my new proposed profession. She doubts it and suggests I start up my Jaguar and head for another table. I tell her this is my table and she nods before tottering off in Prada shoes as she chews gum, leaving me to wonder how Wrigleys and Moet taste together.

Like the racetrack, it seems the bars are reserved for everyone except me. I wait half-an-hour for a beer. I must have LOSER etched on my forehead. Eventually a barman takes pity and serves me a pint poured in a glass just dipped in dishwater. I take a swig of the beer but need to go to the lavatory and I know once I have left my drink it will either be downed by someone, or have a Tote ticket floating in it when I return.

Cheltenham is not for me. I should never have come. I could have watched the racing at home and gone to see Slumdog Millionaire and saved a fortune. Instead, because I cannot drive home after having had a drink or five, I am marooned. That means in a few hours I shall be incarcerated in a top floor room, sharing a bathroom with four other people.

I have looked at Friday’s cards and fancy Walkon, Mamlook and, most of all, Tourist at Wolverhampton. I know neither Walkon nor Mamlook will win as they are too obvious and the obvious is reserved for everyone else. So, I might as well get an early night, drive home at first light and then back Tourist in the evening.

Or I could mingle in the bar and see if there are any, shall we say, more mature and unattached ladies looking for a good time and waiting for someone in a Jaguar suit, sporting a brand new Police watch to provide it. Trouble is, I haven’t a clue who to introduce them to.

AND ANOTHER THING…

JUST IN CASE it has escaped anyone’s notice, we are in the midst of Cheltenham 2009. We are one day down with three cherished days of racing left. Yet even now, we have the trickle of quotes for next year’s event. Go Native has been quoted for the 2010 Champion Hurdle, as if anyone would be mad enough to back anything for an event that is 364 days away as we speak, when we have yet to settle the 2009 championships.

To cap it all, Matt Williams advises in today’s Racing Post that Celestial Halo is a standout bet at 16/1 for next year’s Champion Hurdle. Is he bonkers? Perhaps he is psychic. Perhaps he is both – a mad psychic in fact. Would that make him a psycho? In that case, he is trying to send us a coded message for Tony Martin’s eight-year-old in today’s Coral Cup?

Does he have a pack of tarot cards and a crystal ball by his desk? Should we call him Matt The Mystic? Dare we ask how far he can see into the future? I wonder if his powers extend to beyond March 2010. Perhaps he can predict when the world will end. Is he a reincarnation of Nostradamus?

I am sorry Matt. I am taking unfair advantage. But when you write drivel, you must expect a reaction. I daresay I write plenty of it and anyone is welcome to tell me so without me seeking editorial refuge. When you stick your head above the parapet, you run the risk of it being chopped off. That goes with the territory in this business and I mean Matt no harm.

But, actually, what we would really like Matt, is a standout for today, or maybe for tomorrow or something in the Gold Cup. If necessary, you can take your time and come up with a standout for Uttoxeter on Saturday, or even something for next week. But leave the fortune-telling to those astrologers in the newspapers.

Some of us may not even make it to next year’s Festival, let alone be in a position to cash in chips held on Celestial Halo in the Champion Hurdle. Celestial Halo may not even make it to Cheltenham himself. No, there are no standout bets for next year’s Festival. Let us try one trick at a time and concentrate on what is on the table this year.

And if this piece somehow comes round to haunt me this time next year and I am still around, I shall be the first to write an apology and officially christen Mr Williams with the moniker of Matt The Magnificent, or Mystic, or Miracle-worker, which ever seems the most appropriate. If necessary, I shall even write it into my will so that in the event of my premature demise, a letter from my solicitors will reach him informing him of his new status, attained in that place that is supposed to exist high above the clouds.

AND ANOTHER THING…

SO THAT IS IT THEN: no days to go: Cheltenham is upon us. No more levity, no more jokes; this is serious. It is the meeting to end all meetings for jumping fans. It comes after the vagaries of winter (and there have been plenty of those this year), signals the onset of spring and the promise of better to come. But for the Die Hard, John McClane enthusiast, this is it what National Hunt racing is all about. And because it is the oasis in a four-month desert, it is all the more eagerly awaited.

That is its magnetism; however, Cheltenham places serious demands on horses and punters alike. I consider it the hardest meeting of the year as far as winner finding is concerned. I suspect bookmakers agree as they market the Festival furiously in a manner akin to a football World Cup.

They claim this is it! Let battle commence. It is a time to support your own would-be champion, to settle old scores, to prove who is the greatest of them all! No, it is not. It is a race meeting – a damned good one – but a race meeting nonetheless. It is not the Somme – Argentina V England, Italy V France or Rangers V Celtic. Forget all this guff about it being some sort of partisan competition. The only battle out there for punters is one of financial survival.

As a spectacle, Cheltenham has it all: beautiful scenery, great racing, and a pleasant enough town to entertain those staying over. As a punting medium, it is a proverbial minefield. The problem with this meeting above all others is that it places a premium on qualities many of the participants have not proved they possess. Therein lies a problem.

For a start, the track is undulating and extremely tricky, with fences strategically placed to present horses with maximum difficulty, particularly when approached at speed. To negotiate the circuit successfully, horses need to be athletic and agile. It is also essential they obtain a rhythm early, as there is invariably a frantic pace. Horses fluffing an early fence find before they know it the next one is upon them, then the next, and as they expend energy just to hold their position, all chance seeps away. Even if travelling well, there are the cunning downhill fences and hurdles to overcome. Here, the landing side runs away from horses swooping toward turf in full-flight, and struggling to organise an undercarriage not in the lock position. That is Cheltenham and to the sort of horse that has been lobbing along a park course on the bridle before quickening away over the last two obstacles, it can come as a major shock.

I do not mean to sound pessimistic but this place finds horses out.

Favourites are invariably too short and often the results fail to stack up. Much as I prefer Cheltenham as a venue, Aintree’s Mildmay track offers the punter a much better chance of winning.

My strong advice this week to punters is to make enjoyment of the racing a priority. Pick your bets carefully. Look for the sort of horse that has form at Prestbury Park or that you feel, for whatever reason, will cope with the demands it faces. Bookmakers, who have had long enough to consider such contenders as Binocular, Kauto Star, Cousin Vinny, et al are unlikely to have incorrectly assessed their chances. If anything, the prices are too short. You don’t know anything about these animals that they don’t. Although it is tempting to be swept away with the hysteria of the whole shebang, because backing a 7/4 winner of the Gold Cup or Champion Hurdle will give you a buzz and is something you will remember and crow about, think long and hard. This place takes no prisoners. Therefore, unless you have a strong opinion about one or more of this sort of horse, throttle back on the betting a little and enjoy the racing more.

To that end, I have devised an alternative way of betting that can be fun and at the same time cost a lot less. It also offers the chance of a handsome win. At meetings such as this, I often back multiple bets and use what I refer to as the two-by two method. Because the prices of fanciable horses are often attractive, and because only a few races can be named in one, this is my alternative suggestion. It is one not open to most punters simply because they do not understand how to work out the staking. It is possible to back more than one horse in a race in, for example, doubles and trebles, so long as you know how to work out the staking. The most obvious example is the straightforward accumulator – not recommended at Cheltenham – but it is a good starting point and serves the purpose of this argument.

Pick three horses in one race, two in another two, and three in the last and the total number of wagers is 3x2x2x3, equalling 36. In this instance, at least thirty-five of these bets will lose. But if one line wins at the sort of prices Cheltenham throws up, you will recoup your stake many times over. Even with a couple of 2/1 shots slung in, mix those up with a 10/1 and an 8/1 winner and you are looking at a return of £891 for an outlay of £36. Now, as I stated, the chances of pulling an accumulator out of the hat is remote. But in multiple bets, just one fat-priced winner boosts the winnings enormously. And it is not unlikely that a 25/1 or 33/1 shot could be on your short list. Most days contain a race that is eminently solvable – the favourite looks strong – the second or perhaps third favourite the only reasonable danger. Make that your starting point. Your two selections are 2/1 and 3/1.

Two selections in one race means two bets. Now look at the next race of interest. It may be tough but you feel you have a chance of naming it in three. Your fancies hover around the 8/1 mark. So you have three selections in race two. Race three is of a similar nature. You fancy one at 12/1 – not unreasonable as it could be third or fourth favourite if the field is large enough. You consider there are two other horses in the field with major chances. Of course, something unconsidered at 50/1 can punch a hole in the best thought out logic, but that is unavoidable. What we are attempting is feasible, and we only need to pull off a bet like this once during the four days.

In the example given we have two horses in the first of our races and three in the other two. Combining them in doubles and trebles, gives you a total of 21 doubles and 18 trebles, or 39 bets. Using a pound as our unit, your outlay is £39 but at the start of play, you have 39 chances to win.

Now let us look at what you can win. I have been somewhat conservative in the prices of the chosen selections. One double at the lowest prices – 2/1 and 8/1 returns £27. You have lost a round of drinks. One double at 12/1 and 8/1 returns £117. Not bad, a profit that exceeds three times your stake. Three winners, at 2/1, 8/1 and 12/1, not as far-fetched as it sounds at a meeting where they often bet 6/1 the field, nets £534 for £1 units. Multiply that by a stake of ten, you win £5,340! Substitute the 12/1 winner for one at 33/1 (as stated 33/1 shots here can be fancied, even if second, third or even fourth choices) and the total returns to a £1 stake rockets to £1,371. As stated, it is one way of regulating your stake throughout the week and you only need to pull off the jackpot once. Whilst waiting for it, hopefully, you will get a return or two.

There are various ways you can alternate this type of bet. A Binocular-type banker – if that is what you think he is – is handy as one selection in a race cuts the number of bets down to size.

A Lucky 15 with two selections in each race, requiring any selection to win and therefore to be permed with any other or others that are successful, requires a stake of eighty units, or £80 in our example. That may sound a lot, but if you fail to select even one winner in eight selections in four races, then it is not going to be a profitable day in any case. And remember, only one winner means it figures in four bets, with its price doubled in each instance.

A Yankee containing two lots of two horses in their respective races, a banker in the next, and three in last, means a stake of £63.

This sort of ‘wasteful’ staking works at places like Cheltenham and Royal Ascot simply because prices for horses with half-a-chance are so much bigger than they are at Wolverhampton on a wet Wednesday.

There is a formula for working out the staking but I don’t want to cloud the issue any further. If in doubt ask your bookmaker; but take my advice, insufficiently clued up staff in betting shops are unlikely to be able to assist. So bets of this nature are best placed over the phone where skilled operators are on hand.

Suffice to say this has worked for me on some occasions and kept me out of trouble on others. It is something to consider and maybe a way of betting that is distinct from the hard-hitting single approach that tends to flourish at places like Cheltenham. The two systems can be played side-by side if preferred.

To my mind, perm betting in multiple bets makes far more sense than attempting the Lottery-style practice of trying to win the infernal Scoop Six.

Okay, the returns from my proposed form of betting are not as big. No millions will be won my way, but then, be honest, unless you are going to shell out a fortune in perms in some of those impossible hand-picked handicaps, you didn’t really expect to win the Scoop Six did you?

However you play it this week, play it cool!

AND ANOTHER THING…

BOOKMAKERS AND BANKS are somewhat similar in that they get their hands on our money, if only for a while; but when you are a big conglomerate you can turn very short-term money transfers into big profits. As a bonus, when we die, or have so much, or so little, dormant accounts containing deposits are often overlooked. Therefore, bookmakers and banks find they get to keep our money, which is even better for them. All those little accounts that had twelve pounds and eleven shillings in them growing like fertile eggs by the day; all those Lucky Fifteens that almost but not quite recouped their stake. It is all about volume; little fish tasting sweet and all that, especially if you have a net full of them. Little wonder then that bookmakers in particular like to encourage us to avail ourselves of their services.

Ladbrokes reckon everybody has an opinion and they want to know what ours are worth. I suspect they know, but it is a good come-on – bit like the ‘Do ya feel lucky punk?’ adage so famously spoken by Clint Eastwood in Dirty Harry.

Judging by the websites, the micro sites, the circuses that are the Cheltenham preview nights, there are plenty of opinions in circulation just now. It remains to be seen quite what they are worth, or ‘worf’, as the Ladbrokes spokesman says on the advertisement.

Depending upon whom you listen to, Cheltenham seems easy this year. Simon Clare of Corals (nice man) gives the impression he is quaking with fear at the prospect of betting carnage for bookmakers. The prospect of JP McManus (very nice man) mopping up several of the major handicaps has allegedly caused bookmakers to hyperventilate with worry. I think not!

Winning races at the Festival is notoriously difficult. Plenty of people seem to think Voy Por Ustedes is a good thing in the Ryanair Chase, which seems appropriate enough, as the literal translation from the Spanish is I Go For You. We know he goes for Robert Thornton. Let us hope he goes for all his followers. We are told that in the Champion Chase, Master Minded is as unbeatable as is possible. Oh, and then either Binocular or Celestial Halo will win the Champion Hurdle. And we might as well just send the prize to Mr Doumen and save Kasbah Bliss the trouble of flying over; Diamond Harry will win the Ballymore Properties Hurdle and Cousin Vinny will kick-start the meeting by romping away with the Supreme Novices’.

Yeess, as Jeremy Paxman would say, but when are you going to tell me something that I don’t know.

Who cares? This is Big. No, it is Huge. It is so big they should rename it the Big, Big, Big Festival. Whatever it is called officially, it is The Big One; the one jumping fans have waited all year for. Why, after the final day, they were counting down to this year’s Festival – just 361 days to go they said. Now we are down to four days, coincidentally the same time it takes to run the Festival, unless the weather intervenes and they squeeze four days racing into two, in which case it saves on expenses but addles the brain. Then Cheltenham addles the brain anyway.

At a time when racing is desperate to market itself, it strikes me that there is something elitist about the presentation of the greatest jumping dates in the calendar. Presumably tomorrow there will be just three days to go, and on Sunday it will be two, and then on Monday it will be a case of – Don’t forget to pack an extra pair of brogues Jeeves, as there is only one day to go.

To go to what? you can hear non-racing people ask.

What is this big, big thing that is happening? I know we are having a new kitchen delivered on Tuesday, but surely that doesn’t warrant all this fuss.

Are we going to invade somebody again?

Is it the French?

Has Iran upset us by taking more service personnel hostage and dressing them in bespoke Iranian suits?

Is Beyonce about to take part in a concert in the nude?

No, there is a race meeting at a place called Cheltenham.

Really, I didn’t know we had a Formula One track at Cheltenham. Is Lewis Hamilton taking part?

No, it is horses.

They are pulling racing cars with horses?

No, the horses are racing.

Oh! Well they have plenty of race meetings every day don’t they; what is so special about this one. It’s not as if it is the Grand National or anything is it?

No, it is kind of the equine equivalent of the Olympic Games.

Horses don’t throw the javelin do they?

No, they race and jump over fences and hurdles, and the winners of the races in question get crowned the best in each discipline.

How many disciplines are there?

Two. Hurdles and fences. Oh, and they have one Flat race.

So they have three races then.

No. They run over different distances.

Well, how many races are there.

About twenty-six I think.

That’s twenty-six disciplines then. That’s a lot of discipline. Is Miss Whiplash going to be there?

Look, just piss off will you. Isn’t EastEnders about to start?

You see the problem for the uninitiated. Perhaps we have to work out a better way of marketing the meeting as an experience, incorporating four days in the country rather than copying NASA with a countdown and calling it incredibly big.

There is fine dining, along with the best of British and Irish culture. Everyone attends in fancy dress that has to include one article of tweed, or trousers of cavalry twill – hacking jackets for the gentlemen, along with shooting sticks – and a Hermes scarf for the ladies.

The reality is somewhat different. Unless you are in a private box, the only dining you will experience is likely to come out of a polystyrene container. That Hermes scarf will go unnoticed in the Centaur Bar, unless an inebriated racegoer adds a splash of colour to its pattern by one means or another. And it does help if you have a strong bladder, or preferably one attached to a catheter. There is also the small question of finances. This big event is likely to set you back as much as a week in the Maldives.

No one has asked for my opinion about the good things at the Cheltenham. I have received no invitation to sit behind a long table and nod sagely alongside John Francome and Mike Cattermole. This is probably just as well as my record at the meeting is questionable. But if you want to know, I can nominate Master Minded, Voy Por Ustedes, Cousin Vinny (although I had never heard of him before last week), Kauto Star and Binocular along with the best of them.

Yeess!

Actually, I have a nomination. I think Walkon will win the Triumph Hurdle. I, me, that is myself, believe that he will be even better on a slighter sounder surface and has the profile of an improver and looks a most willing competitor. Contrast that against Zaynar (nasty piece of work), described by those close to him as the biggest bastard at Seven Barrows. I know he is not putting himself up for election or entering the X Factor, but this is not the Heavyweight Boxing Championship of the World either. And Zaynar should know prizes are not dished out for storming up that hill snarling and asking the crowd if they want some! No, nice, eager to please Walkon fits the bill. He could be one of several winners for the Alan King stable, a yard that has managed to maintain its form throughout the season, which is no mean feat.

So bring it on!

How many days is it now?

Still four, but tomorrow it will be three.

Anyone know how many days it is to Royal Ascot?

AND ANOTHER THING…

THE PLAN AFTER LAST WEEK’S COLUMN was to make a couple of belated New Year’s resolutions and become a better person. I should have known it was asking too much. The signs were there in that very article when I had to take a swipe at Red Nose Day or whatever it is called. Decent people don’t do that, even if they think it is a stage-managed piece of self-indulgence. They keep such thoughts to themselves and say how nice it is that we are depleting the national economy further by giving chunks of it to Africa so that their military can buy more automatic-weapons.

Obviously, I am not cut out to be a nice guy. I try: I don’t deliberately run over cats, although privately I feel we are overrun with the damn things and that they are a bloody nuisance, whose sole purpose is to fool human beings into believing they are cuddly and nice. In reality, all they wish to do is to kill wildlife and urinate in our gardens. The only cats that count as far as I am concerned have spots, manes or stripes and live in the wild.

They say the written word doesn’t lie. You can put on a front in person, on camera even if you are adapt enough, but the written word is rather like your handwriting; to an expert there is no hiding place. Grant a person word space and their true personality will emerge between the lines. No matter; better you know whom you are dealing with.

This has been a quiet week. To alleviate the boredom, I ordered a watch on Amazon that I did not need. I posted a response on a blog that I suspect was none too kind. I also shouted abuse at my television set, directed at Richard Kingscote for his ride on Sir Liam. If he heard me, he has decided to delay his reaction – pretty much as he did on Sir Liam. Apparently, he is some sort of martial arts whizz. Maybe I would have been better picking on Cathy Gannon, but she has not cost me money.

On the plus side, I have to say that for a man that could barely handle Question Time in the House, Gordon Brown is showing promise. His speech in Washington, in front of the world’s cameras and political pundits, went down reasonably well. He is beginning to look like an accomplished politician. He is no Tony of course, but then who is? I saw somewhere that Mr Brown, the Prime Minister as opposed to the Scotsman that covers Hexham for ATR, has joined in the great BBC-should-cover-more-horseracing debate. If I read it in the Daily Mail, one of us is probably wrong. Apparently, a pile of signatures is growing on this subject and one day someone from the BHA, or Lesley Graham, will hire a van and dump a pile of paper, that represents a small forest, on the doorstep of No 10. Fair enough I suppose, except that if the signatures are from people with a vested interest in racing, then it strikes me they don’t amount to much in real terms, however many of them there are. How about a spokesperson for prisoners organising a petition to install 42 inch Panasonic Tvs in all cells? They could fill sheaf after sheaf of paper with lags supporting the cause, but unless those such as Paris Hilton, Boris Johnson or Bono joined in, it would lack some depth.

As a matter of interest, I did visit Number Ten’s website tonight but could find no mention of Gordon Brown endorsing the campaign for the BBC to do a racing U-turn. Maybe he is thinking it over, or has one or two other pressing matters on his mind. Possibly the BBC are similarly pre-occupied, particularly after the disqualification of the winning team on University Challenge. To make matters worse, the culprit – a man no longer a student – is a dead ringer for ex-jockey Jason Weaver, who was a damn good jockey, is a damn good tipster, and another very likeable character. As far as I know though, he is not conversant with Darwin’s Theory of Evolution.

Just as I am plummeting in my self-esteem, I have to shop John McCririck. Sorry about this John, but as anyone that has met you can attest, you are a nice man. Of course, this goes against the public perception built up over years of ranting and raving about this and that, but he doesn’t write a column of any description so has got away with presenting a false persona all his life. He gives money to the Greatwood Centre for the rehabilitation of racehorses. His wife, Jennie, is charming with a dry sense of humour and not the sort of woman to saddle herself with the oaf John pretends to be.

So never mind me. Gordon Brown is heading for statesmanship status. John McCririck is nothing but an old softie, and Britney Spears has brought out a new perfume. All is well with the world wouldn’t you say?