AND ANOTHER THING

Worried about Jack

I AM WORRIED ABOUT JACK. In case you do not know (and why should you), Jack is described by Sporting Index as their, Bet on the Move manager. I am not sure why ‘bet’ and ‘move’ are capitalised here and manager is not, but I assume Sporting Index know what they are doing. Or do they?

Leaving aside the possibility of a grammatical faux pas, Jack’s function, according to today’s advert that appears in the back page of the Post, is to prevent punters from becoming frustrated. Stopping people from becoming frustrated seems like a neat trick and if Jack can pull it off – why stop at punters. He sounds like the sort of guy we should be electing to high office.

But hang on a minute; all is not quite as it seems. Jack is your bookmaker at the end of a mobile phone. According to the advert he is there so that workers that are ‘slaving at their desks’ can bet on sports even if the firm they work for has blocked internet access. Firstly, if you are actually slaving at a desk, it is a reasonable assumption that you are engaged in important work. Let us say you could be a bank employee, in a call centre, working in insurance or advertising. Slaving at your desk implies other people are relying on your judgement. Under these circumstances, the reason access to betting sites is denied is because employers would rather that judgement was not impaired.

Sorry to say this folks, but betting, rather like any other heady activity, does tend to take your eye off the metaphorical ball. Knowing you have money riding on something in the 2.30 at Cheltenham might just mean your priorities shift before, during and after the result is known. For that reason, gamblers are not particularly popular employees. Anyone faced with the interests and hobbies section of an application form is well advised to steer clear of a reply that includes the words ‘gambling,’ or ‘horseracing’ in the same way they would avoid, ‘visiting my local massage parlour.’

Sporting Index are offering to kindly circumnavigate the gambling issue with good old Jack. You can keep in touch with Jack when you should be working by downloading Bet on the Move, which, according to these jolly good sports, will ‘take the worry out of getting on.’

Now look here Jack, most of us are not worried about getting on, what really worries us is what happens after we have got on. Just to cover themselves, Sporting Index then go on to explain that we ought to understand the risks with sports spread betting as it involves a higher level of risk and we can lose more than our original stake. There follows a reminder to bet responsibly.

My definition of betting responsibly is not to bet when I am supposed to be working. Do you know something Jack; I think I will take the chance of being frustrated by the situation of not being able to get on and not being able to bet on the move. I hope any surgeon that is likely to take a scalpel to my torso feels the same. I hope Gordon Brown and Barak Obama agree; I know the Emirates Foreign Minister, Sheikh Mohammed, most certainly does.

Commercial times may be hard just now, but this hardship extends to us all. We do not want people encouraging us to bet when we should be working, drink a bottle of wine a night, take substances that make us sniff excessively or smoke cigarettes. For most punters, it does matter more when there is money on it, but for all the wrong reasons.

So let us cut out all this sporty, good fun nonsense that surrounds betting. For most people, who do not know what they are doing, it is okay to have a bet on a day off to watch their selections on the television, but to encourage them to make it part of their daily ritual is not responsible. Backing losers, which most of us do more often than backing winners, is not fun. It can result in the kids wearing shoes that are half a size too small and not joining the rest of the school on the Christmas outing. Or it can mean the parents wish in the new year deep in debt and in the wee rather than only on it!

The prototype for Jack’s attention is a well-dressed guy sitting at a desk in a white shirt and wearing a silver tie. He looks as if he could use losing a few pounds in weight rather than in cash. I suspect Jack or Sporting Index care little about his welfare and more about how much money he might lose whilst he forgets about his obligation to the company he is employed to represent.

Give it a rest lads! Betting is tough. It is not a pursuit for people squeezing it in between meetings, deadlines and making decisions that will effect others. Drinking the odd glass of wine or having a few pints is fine and something most of us look forward to after a hard day’s work. But, like drinking, serious betting, portrayed as a bit of fun or an obligation to support such-and-such a team, is for the few and certainly does not mix well with the working day. Under those circumstances, fun it ain’t!

Try getting a proper job Jack and, for the guy texting through his selections when he should be justifying his wage, try losing a few of those excess pounds round your middle rather than in your wallet. The pounds in your pocket are likely to be much needed, and if they are not at present, they will be before long. This is going to be a difficult winter. This advert represents all that is worst about our industry.

And Another thing

Horse of the year

IT WON’T MAKE ANY difference to her of course but I am pleased she got it. I am talking about the acclamation of Zarkava as Horse of the Year in the Cartier awards.

Everyone who knows me suggests I should get out more: this confirms it. I mean it is just another day at the stables for Zarkava. Her box will be raked over, she will be fed and watered and may have a groom and brush-up, be led out, do a bit of light exercise and get patted a lot. Not a bad life for her but then she has earned it. Unbeaten in seven spins (let’s face it she was so good she made them look like bits of work), winner of five Group 1s, versatile over trip, a filly with character and a beautiful physical presence to match, she transformed taking the proverbial out of her opposition into an art form. Oh; and she won the Prix de L’Arc de Triomphe, which is not easy for a three-year-old filly.

She was unable to attend the ceremony in London but sent a sheepskin noseband to represent her instead. It is a pity she was unable to a give a speech but I suppose pressing matters at home took precedent. I am not sure what she would have said. I suspect her acceptance would have trumped Gwyneth Paltrow’s famous Oscar acceptance, but Zarkava is nowhere near as emotional as Gwyneth although some would say she has better legs and of course, there are four of them to gaze at as opposed to two! And you get to see them all, right from the ankle to the very top… Sorry, am I in danger of transcending into the realm of fantasy now?

So Zarkava is Horse of the Year and Filly of the Year. New Approach is Three-Year-Old Colt and best older horse is Duke Of Marmalade. Top Sprinter is Marchand D’Or, Stayer goes to Yeats. No controversy there!

Racing owes a debt to companies like Cartier for their involvement. May I also make a small endorsement on their behalf. Their after-shave and EDT is expensive but is different class to all but two other main brands. Of which Lynx is not one!

As well as recognition of equines, Cartier bestowed an Award of Merit upon Sheikh Mohammed. If ever such an accolade was deserved, surely Sheikh Mohammed is the most apt recipient. British and global racing would be so much poorer (not just financially) without him as his contribution to our sport is incalculable. Here’s to you Your Highness and to a Godolphin revival next season.

One member of the illustrious gathering at London’s Grosvenor House was the ebullient and often controversial ATR presenter Matt Chapman. He appears to be in a spot of bother with the racing channel at present and there is talk of him being temporararily suspended for comments over a ride given to an Irish horse, beaten something approaching a hundred lengths. Matt has always been outspoken but is a beacon of energy and a bubble of fun in between the solemn Michael Parkinson funeral adverts and that prat saying he is Confused Dot Com. Frankly, looking at him, I am not surprised. Should he be let out unattended, let alone encouraged to make a public announcement? And what does his demeanour say about the people his firm are attempting to snare into their business net? Confused Dot Com…is that a sensible name for an insurance company? And who is confused here; the company or prospective customer? Does not the very advertisement tend to send a message that says: Can’t be bothered to get the best deal? Just leave it to us and we will come up with some sort of quote? I don’t know. I am confused – no dot – no com. Hurry back Matt, the channel is not the same without you!

Lastly, we have an advertisement on page 22 in today’s Post. Boylesports are offering an On-Line Tipster Competition. To promote it there are the usual pictures of horses streaking past the winning line. No problem there, but take a look at the man in the red polo shirt. He looks like Warren Mitchell, or Alf Garnett. And I know he is meant to be cheering one of his selections home, but a closer look does suggest he may be celebrating by indulging in something a little less savoury.

Maybe it’s me. I have been consigned to serious articles just lately as I believe our lawyers are on holiday. Time to return to my room…

AND ANOTHER THING…

A Love Affair with Newmarket

NEWMARKET TENDS TO BE cold this time of year. There is a north-easterly wind that originates from Siberia, Norway, or maybe even Neptune, that tears across the flatlands of the fens and, with nothing to stop it, decides to make the town of Newmarket one of its first stops.

Newmarket is the original Western town, except it is east. It is Clint Eastwood country, a one-horse town, except that it houses several thousand. It should be a ghost town this time of year, except it is not. It seems to be thriving.

Nowadays, with all-weather racing at least four times a week, the show goes on. It may not be the show of high summer but it is a show. The talk in the pubs is of what might have been; it is too early to talk of what might be. You can tell which of the various stables the lads belong to as they wear baseball caps embossed with the names of racehorses. They wear them like badges gained in battle. There is King’s Best, Pivotal, Raven’s Pass, Oasis Dream, the list goes on. They haven’t got round to making a cap with the name of Fantasia yet, but the Cumani team walk around as if it is only a question of time. Assessment of her varies from, ‘She’ll win the Oaks,’ to ‘She’ll win the Guineas as well as the Oaks’ or, ‘She is next year’s Zarkava.’

I smile sagely. I have heard this sort of thing a few times before; talk of horses destined to sink in the Limekilns or never to make it beyond Racecourse Side, but it stills excites. Perhaps it is the display of enthusiasm undiminished by previous disappointments, perhaps the time of year when if you do not have something to keep you awake at night, there is little point working in Flat racing.  Michael Bell’s staff mutter about Sariska but no one is suggesting they will be wearing a hat bearing her name just yet.

That’s the way of it in a ten-thousand horse town. There is plenty to talk about even in November. I get the feeling some of it is being kept from a stranger that has just rode in and looks vaguely out of place in a suit and tie. There will be more to talk about in January, more still in February and then March, by which time there will be at least ten Derby winners housed in Newmarket. But as the Classic season approaches its height, the talk will become less and open secrets become more closed.

Last year it was all Twice Over – this year the talk is about fillies. There are the two mentioned, surprisingly little about Rainbow View, a little about the Michael Stoute-trained Leocorno – but you get the feeling that at this stage it is merely a question of throwing a hat in the ring against the Cumani boys just to shut them up. It doesn’t work though as the rhetoric from the Italian-run yard is not fuelled by Bank’s bitter. They seem to truly believe they have a vey good filly on their hands with Fantasia.

At one time that would be all you needed to know. Go to Newmarket, buy a few drinks, talk to a few jocks, a few ex-jocks, see how the land lies, and chances are you have the names of next year’s stars, in no particular order, in your back pocket. The trick is to remember them after drinking copious quantities of Adnams or Bank’s bitter, both of which have a taste that screams, ‘And another of those’ at you which your mouth transfers to the barman. Nights in Newmarket tend to be expensive because there is no shortage of places to roll on to after the drinking has finished, only to start again.

There is a good Indian, a famous Chinese, a nightclub. By the time you hit them, you are past caring about your shrinking wallet and anyway you have enough names to satisfy MI5 let alone pay for the night. The walk to the hotel in a raw wind almost sobers you up and you are so cold when you pick up your room key that it seems a brandy will thaw you out. It doesn’t of course, but you put it on your tab without thinking and stagger up the stairs before flaking out half-dressed.

I like Newmarket. I used to live there but on the wrong side of the tracks. Anywhere north of the racecourse is a bad idea unless you have arrived in a horse-drawn wagon and sell pots and pans for a living. You are venturing close to American air bases and some camp sites where odd things happen in the middle of the night. The west is better. The south is okay so long as you keep close to Newmarket central.

Stetchworth, where Frankie Dettori lives, Dullingham, or Burrough Green, home of Julian Wilson, and a village with a typical English cricket green – are all fine. The village of Ashley is nice, as is Wickhambrook although it is dangerously close to a meat-processing factory so it can get whiffy.

The county line comes as you approach Haverhill, a blot on any landscape and certainly one here. Men in Haverhill will still be wearing shorts in November. There are no baseball caps with the names of horses to be seen. Any caps you do see will likely have NYC written on them at best, something rude at worst. The upside is you are unlikely to understand the message. T-shirts are worn over heavily tattooed bodies up until Christmas. They are splodged with indecipherable lettering and pictures that are either great works of art or unspeakable sexual acts. In Haverhill, making that distinction is not always easy but it is usually safer to assume the latter. After Haverhill you are heading for deepest darkest Essex, where even to get your grass mowed means you have to pay cash as cheques are not trusted.

With the exception of the little havens mentioned, east of Newmarket is the most sought after. Tie your horse up to a saloon in Moulton and you will be fine, as you should be in parts of Kentford. But Newmarket takes some knowing; walk into the wrong pub and you could find yourself in a ditch an hour later minus your shoes and socks.

But to get back to my point about an excursion there once being a pilgrimage in search of all knowledge. The Holy Grail path now extends to Lambourn, Ballydoyle, Dubai and France, so knowing what horses are on the lips of townsfolk in this sprawly Suffolk town is only to be privy to a fifth of the overall picture.

Next year’s Flat season seems an age away. There is to be triumph and tragedy on the battlefield of Cheltenham, Aintree and Wetherby to name a few before then. The jumping boys are preparing to dig in. They are talking the talk and walking the walk. Jumping horses have their names abbreviated so that Kauto Star becomes, Kauto and Master Minded, I imagine, gets called Master, but I don’t really know. I know they used to call Cab On Target, merely ‘Cab.’

It’s a long time since I actually went jumping so I have no idea what they get up to. I imagine they get cold, have a drink, splash their shoes in the lavatory (which is why brogues are so popular) sing Irish songs and hail Ruby Walsh and Paul Nicholls a lot. I know the last time I went, Trabolgan – or should that be ‘Trab’ – won the Hennessy.

It appears, that judging by the title of his autobiography, Mick Fitgerald seems to think jump racing is better than sex. As I appear to be losing track of both, I shall have to take his word for it – which makes me think that by swerving this year’s Newbury spectacular, I may not be missing too much!

AND ANOTHER THING

Take a chance

HAVING STAYED UP late last night studying form (yes really), I have made my final decisions as far as today is concerned this morning to the accompaniment of the Scouting For Girls Cd. For those of you not on the cutting edge, they are the band that had hits with She’s So Lovely, It’s Not About You, Heartbeat and Elvis Ain’t Dead. These are unabashed pop songs with upbeat tempos and downbeat lyrics mainly about unrequited love. That is kind of the story of my life and I am not sure such a background is conducive to making the tricky bull or bear judgements required for a successful afternoon. Probably not but, after all the dissecting, all the consideration of what the form book says to you in those dark uninterrupted moments in the middle of the night, basically you have to act or sit on the fence.

Maybe it is because it is the last day at Newmarket; maybe I have been swept away by the cheerful trivia of the band and think I am a resurrected Elvis, or James Bond (another of their songs), causing me to throw caution to the winds.

It makes me think though: Does this game have to be so hard? When you consider it, backing a winner depends on many things failing into place. Your thought processes have to be correctly, even incorrectly tuned if that is what it takes, in order to make that all-important phone call or computer transaction.

I don’t know whether I am doing the right thing but I am backing Gold Sovereign and Virtual. And that’s it. Someone has to make a decision on occasions like this and I am leaving it to the band and me. After all, It’s Not About Me, my Heartbeat is steady, I Ain’t Dead and could have been James Bond if I had applied myself.

The difference between a successful and unsuccessful day often rests on an impulse decision. After all the careful and considered analysis, what eventually happens frequently comes down to a split second decision made somewhere in the recesses of the brain. Of course, you know when you really should bet because you are straining at the leash to do so, but you cannot always wait for the perfect wager, growing a beard in the process, sometimes you just have to take a chance.

So that is today sorted. A nice early finish means I can have a glass or two before dinner whatever happens then watch X Factor like a sad git – it is Saturday night after all – but no matter.

I owe it to the Flat season to see it out in style, one way or another. Yes, I know there is a meeting at Doncaster to come and that they will be circling around Kempton, Great Leighs, Lingfield and Wolverhampton throughout the winter but this is the last chance saloon as far as turf racing is concerned. If this weather persists, the chances are they will stage Doncaster in a shroud of mist, fog, or on the brink of a hurricane. Might as well go for broke now and get it over with.