And Another Thing

Back From Holiday …

DESPITE misgivings about leaving my office and formbook for seven days, a week in Corfu turned out to be a most relaxing and pleasant experience. The weather was unseasonably kind and I have returned with a deep suntan. But having been staked out on a sun-lounger may not achieve much except make me feel better. I have a lot of work to catch up on so apart from the postman, if he is delivering a parcel or a registered letter, it is likely to go unnoticed. And as with every positive there is a negative; my trousers seem to be having an argument with my waistline. Either that or they have shrunk whilst in Greece. But I know that cannot be correct as the rest of my wardrobe seems to have suffered a similar fate, meaning the common denominator is my stomach. I don’t need to stand on scales. I have put on weight; it is just a question of how much and that I would rather not know. All that time in the gym, honing a body that has hit freefall, has left me having to start from scratch. For now, I will wear all my shirts outside my trousers, which can look trendy or downright stupid depending on the shirt, and the trouser – not to mention the wearer.

I ought to mention I went all-inclusive. I am not Michael Winner so I do not holiday at Sandy Lane; instead, I have to mix with the rest of humanity. An all-inclusive holiday is great, particularly when, allowing for commission, the Euro is almost worth a Pound. There is nothing to pay once you have hauled yourself to the airport and they have dumped you at your resort. Within three minutes of wheeling your case to your room, you can be sampling a cold glass of Lowenbrau. You might think that the downside to this is that the hotel will be full of raving drunks. Not so!

Surprisingly those that avail themselves of this sort of package deal are either so well pickled in alcohol before they start that they are capable of soaking it up from eleven in the morning to eleven at night, or, realising the stupidity of spending a holiday in a drunken stupor, tend to treat the demon drink with utmost respect. A semblance of temperance is also helped if the white wine is served tepid and the red cold. Drink is not the problem – it is the food – lots of it, served buffet style, meaning you can pile plate after plate. And people do. I watched them heap plates with chicken curry, fish, a bit of turkey for good measure, anything they can find, and then chips, leaving a telltale trail on the floor, slithering from overloaded plates. Then the desserts, the sort of thing you never get at home unless someone has been to Marks & Spencers.

Eveningwear can often consist of grown-men wearing an England football shirt. No other nation does this. Partners of these men, often looking as if they are John Lewis account holders, sit stoically in a specially chosen outfit opposite a man in a football shirt who may erupt at any minute, leaping from his chair, upsetting the soup and  chanting, ‘Rooney, Rooney!’ Why don’t these women tell them?

In daylight, there is no hiding place. We have the swimming pool strut to overcome in our skimpy trunks, bodies looking like the buffet creation that the first fork has ruined; put out of shape and made into an unrecognisable item. The body is gaining its revenge. It delights in splaying outward and downward and suddenly the realisation: You can do what you like on that rowing machine or the treadmill; get a Scandinavian cleaner that is really from Albania and has no papers but what do you care. She lets you chase her round the kitchen while she shrieks, ‘You English are so naughty,’ but it all comes undone after a week’s all-inclusive holiday.

Worse will follow: that knob of baldness that appears like the first snowflake of winter. Only snowflakes melt. Bald patches, like holes in the roof, get bigger. That is when you know it is all over.

People seem to confuse the purpose of swimming pools. The clue is in the title. They have not been designed for Lilos the size of battleships. They are not there for splashing and dive-bombing. Notices always proclaims such but they are no more effective than signs that say, ‘Now wash your hands’ in lavatories. If you don’t know that is what you do after contact with those parts of you best concealed from the light of day, a notice will not suddenly put the idea in your head.

I am not exempt from dubious behaviour. I confess to having spent most of my days in the sun rather like a dog: sleeping, only stirring for a brief period of activity such as, in my case, a swim or another half of cold-filtered lager. Then it was back to the sun bed, making ridiculous nasal and guttural noises that often woke me up. Heaven knows what they did to those around me – that became fewer by the day I seem to recall. And I have a serious question to pose here. Are we so exhausted by modern living that given the chance of a break our bodies will shutdown to recharge and recharge ad infinitum? Are we all running ourselves so far into the ground that we will sit down in a high-winged chair on the first day of our retirement (assuming we reach that far), snore, belch, drink brown ale and never get up again? Are we all existing on adrenalin – the only thing that prevents us from turning into Rip Van Winkle.

Did you see what I did there? Yes, it is the Dewhurst this Saturday – the last golden day of the season with the Cesarewitch and the Champion Stakes on the same card. Rip Van Winkle looks like a very good horse. He may be a very good horse but has to prove it. Bushranger has already proved it and may be one of those Giant’s Causeway types that you always think will get beat by the new kid on the block but never does. We shall see.

So I am back in England. Electric and gas prices continue to go up, earnings come down. A winter threatens to bankrupt us. But punters should take heart as the credit crunch could be good news as we all have less to lose. They used to call it boom and bust but we are not supposed to use that expression anymore. Perhaps we should call it Bloody Incompetence with Taxpayers’ Money. But of course it is always someone else’s fault: the Middle Eastern oilmen, the bankers, the fact that consumers cannot be trusted to budget and cannot handle credit. That’s a laugh from a government that has sold the family silver and borrowed to the hilt!

Don’t let me get started! It’s not fair on those of you that have read this far and it is not good for my blood pressure.

England play tonight. They should win and reignite the belief that we will win the World Cup; something that we will only achieve if at least six other countries are prevented from taking part. But we should beat Belarus and if we don’t; well it will not be our fault. It will be the referee, the manager, or the fact that nobody could actually find Belarus on the map until a few minutes before the match.

Adverts are already in evidence for Christmas and the Flat season is winding down. I cannot afford to go to Santa Anita for the Breeders’ Cup and somehow I cannot bring myself to get stuck back into that form book that is supposed to provide my living. Suddenly, after all that sleeping, I am too tired.

AND ANOTHER THING…

Another Winter Holiday paid for

RIGHT, that is it, the flight is booked, so is the hotel and I shall be leaving for Los Angeles on Wednesday. The hotel is in the shade of the Blue Mountains and just a short ride on the Orange Highway from Santa Anita. It should be a great week. The bars of Hollywood by night, the racetrack during the day after I have checked local properties in Beverley Hills to see if there is anything for sale I like and can afford.

Wake up! Time to get back to work! That was the plan back in March when I was in possession of an ante post voucher for Twice Over in the Guineas at 33/1. 2008 was obviously going to be a big year and the plan was to reward all that hard work in October with a trip to the Breeders’ Cup at Santa Anita. Instead, I sneaked a week in Corfu and am currently scanning the local paper to see if Tesco need any workers on the night shift.

I am not alone. Most professional backers I know have struggled this year, despite having everything at their disposal: all those films of past races; form for even the most obscure of animals, enhanced prices on the exchanges and the chance to lay a short one.

From a betting point of view, the season was slow to gather pace and somehow it stayed that way. As a pastime, backing horses is rather like going to the gym. Start to get out of the habit and it is difficult to pick up again. And as the months drifted by it seemed that form lines remained in freefall. With betting opportunities apparently limited, it is hard to be confident about having a bet when, should it go wrong, there is no obvious way of recovering losses. I think most of us have sleepwalked through this year in a partial state of paralysis. Somehow, we have managed; sometimes, that is what this game is all about – surviving and getting by.

It is too late now to expect some sort of renaissance in the shape of a miracle bet. My chance came at Ascot a couple of weeks ago. The wins of Furnace, Jukebox Jury, Liberation and Soul City over two days represented my best winning period of the year. But it was still a case of that age-old cry after they had won. I should have had more on! If only I had been braver with my staking! We are never satisfied! In case you had not noticed, it is easy when we know the results. My reply to myself was, just be grateful you backed them at all!

So what do we do after the winding back of the clocks and the Breeders’ Cup signifies the virtual end of the season this weekend? Well, there are still Newbury and Doncaster meetings to come but I am not sure I hold out too much hope for anything dramatic.

National Hunt racing is all right but I contend you cannot make a living backing jumpers. They are too prone to injury and winter racing is weather dependent. Some horses handle left-handed tracks but not right-handed and often bizarre things occur, sabotaging the best thought out plans.

But there is hope on the horizon. Actually, because there is significantly less Flat racing during the winter, it is easier to monitor. Yes, we are dealing with a sub-standard type of horse that can often disappoint for no apparent reason, but by sticking to the tried and tested, and with all facts regarding draw and going an open secret, it is possible to make money on the all-weather. Assuming we can tick over until Christmas, there is always a chance of a brief break in the sun during January before the carnival that is Dubai. Now you can win money in Dubai providing you follow the form closely, as so many horses are out there making up the numbers or giving their trainers a free holiday.

The biggest problem I find is maintaining one’s enthusiasm during the dark winter days. It is so much easier to declare the cards as being of no use rather than to dig around in an attempt to root out something that is a backable prospect. Not all is lost. We remain, cracking our way through the credit crunch, on the lookout for the next winner.

I always say the meter starts running as soon as you touchdown in America where nothing is free. They do not even give you a breakfast at most hotels. To take a trip to California one needs to have had a good year. So the target has not been met and I shall watch the racing from the familiar confines of my little office. I am not looking upon this as a failure. After all, I am still in the game! And I believe they are holding the Breeders’ Cup at Santa Anita again next year.

That is the thing about this business. You are only a race away from pulling the rabbit from out of the hat. It is just that, right now, the rabbit has flattened his ears and it is damned difficult to grab hold of the little blighter!

AND ANOTHER THING…

Mad as Hell!

THERE WAS A FILM in the seventies that developed into a cult movie as it became very popular. Network was its name. You know the sort of thing; it was one of those ‘now’ films. It starred Peter Finch as a slightly deranged anchor man for a news programme, who eventually suggested that all his fellow New Yorkers should stick their heads out of their high-rise windows and shout: ‘I am as mad as hell and I am not going to take it anymore!’

One by one, cries started to percolate through the city, as first a few responded and then, in a united cacophony of sound, citizens responded en masse.

Now I am no Peter Finch and this is not a movie. Nevertheless, I am starting to get as mad as hell. Unquestionably we are facing a depression, we do not need the supremo from the Bank of England to tell us all that. What vexes me is that having people shrieking such a message to us is rather like having the incompetent captain of the Titanic telling us we are about to hit an iceberg. You may recall the captain of this ship unwisely allowed himself to be cajoled into trying to make a name for the engineers and designers of the ship in an attempt to break the record for a transatlantic crossing. Therefore, in his haste, he ignored warnings of the danger of ice, resulting in the ship travelling too fast to stop when the lookout spotted the fatal glacier protruding from the ocean.

So I don’t want to hear about politicians and bankers telling me they have got it wrong with my money and that we are about to be holed below the waterline. WE are not being holed; their policy, their incompetence, their ivory-tower attitude, means THEY are guilty of negligence. The hole is their responsibility. I am sorry, but if you receive massive amounts of money to pursue your so-called vocation whilst the rest of us peck around in the dirt, it is not then reasonable to expect us surfs to bail you out!

If we are running short of money – sort it! Unless I have it wrong, we spend a million a day in Iraq and Afghanistan achieving nothing. That just so happens to be taxpayers’ money. I do not wish to see my money dribbling away in the sand in two countries that have nothing whatsoever to do with me. I certainly do not then expect be told I must tighten my belt – that I should go to Primark and buy extra jumpers so that I can cut back on the central heating, or that I should go to bed an hour earlier to keep warm. Is there a war on? Are they going to bring back rationing cards? And no, I do not want to hear about politicians living it up on yachts in Corfu at my expense. I am mad as hell!

This week I received a note from my newsagent informing me my paper bill was overdue. It was the first I had heard of it (I pay on a monthly basis). It was the note that got right up my back passage. We have all received them. They start off as if penned by Uriah Heap, Dear valued customer, it has come to our attention… then that stupid hedging of bets at the end…if you have paid this account, kindly accept our thanks and apologies. When you query this with the shop, of course, they tell you a computer sent the letter.

No it did not! Someone had to address it and put it in an envelope. Did it not occur that I have been a customer for ten years, never missed a payment and that I had been on holiday? And did it not occur that for that reason no local bill had been sent to me? Then to add insult to injury, at the bottom of the letter is a codicil informing me it will be necessary to raise the delivery charges. Now I am mad as hell again. The bloody paper is late as it is. Why should I subsidise a service I am not getting? Eh? Eh? Go on punk tell me that!

So I have devised a plan to stop all this squeezing of my finances to fund holidays for executives. From now on, every time some bastard tells me I have to pay more for less; I am going to consume less of his product to offset the charge. In the case of the paper shop, I am stopping the local paper and the Weekender. That means I will save £3 a week at a stroke! Perhaps using the last word whilst in such a vociferous mood is tempting fate. But to press on: I am going to cancel all unnecessary bits of insurance, such as boiler cover and all this stupid stuff I am insured against like falling into a river and ruining my best suit. I am just going to ensure I do not fall into any rivers. It has not happened yet, why should it now?

I am going to fight back. Why should I carry the can for the fat cats that have so far denied me a lick of the cream that has turned sour in their oversized troughs?

I am not leaving a pound coin in anyone else’s fund when it could be in mine.

I am about to overhaul my situation with the bank. I have savaged the funds I have in Betfair and, whilst I am about it, I am sick of being talked to by the presenters on At The Races as if I have an IQ in single figures. So unless they stop telling me nonsense and keep bombarding me with those stupid adverts, I am going to turn the sound down when they are on – Matt Chapman excepted – which should save a smidgen of electricity. I shall only turn it up when they actually show a race. And no, I am not going to wait for the Sp’s afterwards so that Michael Parkinson can ask to me to check if my funeral arrangements are in order. No Parkinson, they are not. But you see, I don’t intend dying just yet; and if I do, presumably because I have bust a blood vessel from all this ranting, they can stick my body in an orange box and drop it in the sea for all I care.

You see, I am as mad as hell and I am not going to take it anymore! You can join me if you like!

And Another Thing

Supermarkets. A Testing Challenge!

SO THE RACING was rubbish today. I went to Tesco to stock up the cranking old freezers with enough food to withstand a nuclear war. Well, in this incessant business you have to take advantage of any chance you get. By tonight, this looked a prudent move on my part. Even in the comparative mild climate known as the South of England, the weather is bad. We could be in for a hard time. But nah, surely it is just an unseasonal weather blip, the sort that often follows the resetting of the clocks. Funny that, as soon as the clocks go back, winter takes it as its signal to get nasty.

Fleeced by the Supermarket

Anyway, like any other major supermarket, the object of the design of Tesco is to flummox innocents like myself. I arrived armed with a list of items I felt I needed, but once inside the giant warehouse found my brain had deserted me and even the list was of little use. I was drawn to televisions I did not need, bought the Scouting For Girls CD, added more wine to my collection, failed to distinguish the difference between butter and Clover, fought to comprehend what I had gone for, bought a case of Magners, face tissues instead of the other kind; in short was overwhelmed by the whole experience.

In the end, I settled for filling the trolley and I guess the contents will suffice until spring when I surface from enforced hibernation. But they really have got it right at Tesco. Entering is like crossing the threshold of some enchanted castle where you are star struck by what is ahead of you. Instead of sticking to the agenda written on the note you are clutching that should have accounted for no more than  sixty pounds, you can easily triple that amount in the belief you are bagging a bargain or six. The two for one, the buy one get one free offers, are no such thing. They induce us to misuse our credit cards. What Tesco gives with one hand it takes with its other three. Fair play to them, it is a clever trick. They are laying 2/1 the favourite whilst everyone else is going 7/4 and we bite. But we don’t just back the favourite, we try the forecast, the tri-cast, a Lucky 15, and by the time we leave there is only one winner. Forget that bottle of wine at half price, that knockdown offer on cheese, when it is all added up Tesco has achieved what every retailer dreams of: they have suckered the consumer in to parting with more than bargained for. And it is a clever trick. We have not been fleeced; as consumers, we walk away with goods, but we have spent more than we intended.

Women take 3 times as long to shop as men

It is also a test of human relationships. Women, men and supermarkets do not mix. Women are particular about what they buy. They check the expiry date on goods. Men, on the other hand, just pick up the item at the front of the stack and chuck it their trolley. Expiry dates are for wimps. The closer they sail to the wind on that score, the more of a challenge it is to their guts. Men are capable of eating a can of corned beef packaged in 1943 without any ill-effects; give such a thing to a woman and the ambulance will be at the door.

Women take three times as long to shop as men; this is apparent by the time the middle-aisle has been reached. By then, men are getting twitchy. They wish to return home to watch the racing, the movie or have a lunchtime drink with their mates. But the other half is still deciding whether to buy a cereal with raisins or apricots. This results in mini domestics flaring up throughout the store. By the time they reach the cheese counter, most men are ready to commit murder as they watch their partners hover, dally, squeeze, feel, and rattle every object before it is consigned to the trolley. What difference does it make? They are all the same for goodness sake. A bag of potatoes is a bag of potatoes, a chicken is a chicken; all that alters is the weight and the price.

Supermarkets are a test of a relationship

Judging by today’s exhibition, I am of the opinion that marriage counsellors are redundant. The only criterion for a happy marriage is whether a couple can navigate a supermarket without grabbing each other by the throat or worse. If they can stand each other for in excess of three hours in Tesco, Sainsburys, Waitrose or Morrisons, then they should weather the Venus-Mars union that awaits. This is the ultimate test. If your partner drives you crazy in a supermarket but you can still exit smiling, pack the car, and not utter a cross word on the way home, you are in a partnership made in heaven. If not, you are just another normal bloke: Rex Harrison in My Fair Lady, wishing why a woman could not be more like a man.

The answer is they never will be. They just don’t understand. They have no comprehension of real life. You tell them you like stockings and suspenders so, just to spite you, after a suitable interval, they never wear them again. Admit you have a peccadillo of any sort and prepare for it to be withdrawn at the earliest opportunity. Tell them you are a leg man, they will wear trousers, state you like breasts, they will button themselves up to the neck, admit you like high heels they will wear flat shoes.

To hell with them! Take them to the supermarket in your car, excuse yourself on the pretence of wishing to use the lavatory and leave them wandering up and down the aisles as you drive home to watch a James Bond or a Monty Python CD. That way everyone will be happy. It will take hours for them to realise you have disappeared as they compare the various types of toilet ducks whilst you find something to laugh at on the television screen. Yes, Monty Python and James Bond, another of the things they fail to appreciate or understand…