And Another Thing

When Successful gamblers win BIG money

I HAVE HEARD THE theory that gamblers have an inherent wish to lose. I know this appears strange, a sort of boffin equivalent to spending millions on creating a think-tank to tell us something we already know, don’t need to know, or that is just plain stupid. You know the sort of thing: After two years of intensive study, an erstwhile body informs us that people who do not smoke live longer, or that single mothers find life harder than those in a stable relationship. Well, it keeps people fit for little else but to pontificate in work I suppose. At this point, I feel obliged to deviate slightly and point out that although pontificate sounds like something your mother told you would impair your eyesight, whole government departments have made a healthy living out of its pursuit.

To get back to the central point: The train of thought that all gamblers wish to lose is neither a new nor a singular one. The idea behind this thinking is that gamblers are in fact financial masochists wishing to wreck their lives sooner rather than later. That they reached a subliminal decision that climbing on the rollercoaster that was betting seemed more fun than becoming a drunk and sleeping in their own urine. Tough choice that one! So gambling became their chosen path, leading them down a road that would ultimately lead to disaster. After all, what with all its pitfalls what other outcome could possibly ensue? Backing horses, going to casinos, gave them a licence to become a failure that would not be their fault. They even have the Inland Revenue on their side, as so-called professional backers do not need to pay tax on winnings from betting as HM Revenue & Customs state that in the end there won’t be any! So for those intent on failure, betting was the easy way: the head in the gas oven as opposed to the knife in a hot bath, the sleeping pill rather than the leap over the cliff, because success in life was never an option anyway!

This is the theory, doubtless first dreamed up by someone with a German-sounding name who lives in a house dusted with an endless row of battered books.

Most of you will find all this odd, but for those of us who bet, losing is something we have to learn to live with. It is the equivalent of getting dressed in your best Saturday suit and going to the disco `a la John Trivolta and dealing with constant rebuffs from members of the opposite sex (or in these times the same I suppose) in return for the occasional sweet night of success. In short, at times it is not much of a way to spend a life. All that preparation resulting in failure, very often through no fault of your own: It rains two hours before the race and your horse needs it firm. The draw bias has suddenly changed, you, of course, are on the wrong side.

Why do we persist? It’s hopeless! Even when you are right, you are wrong! We get used to discussing our failures, we live with them, and they become our companions over a pint of Fullers. Winners never talk about it, only losers mull over the events of the day. Talking about winning is tantamount to counting your chips at the table. It is not done! After all, this game is not about winning, it was designed for losers.

So when we do win, and win big, we have some adjustment to make. We know how to lose, but winning, that is a different matter entirely. After all, we did not join to win, remember we joined this club so that we could squander away our lives and blame someone else – jockeys, trainers, the system, too much racing. And I am not exempt. Many of my columns have concentrated on the wrongs of racing, homed in on the idiots; highlighted the inconsistencies. That is the prerogative of someone writing from behind the armoured shield of anonymity. It is the privilege of the critic, the bravery of being out of range.

This weekend, totally against the run of play I had one of the best weekends I can remember. It came without warning. In short, I backed four winners: Furnace, Jukebox Jury, Soul City and Liberation. They were chunky prices, I tipped them on Bush Telegraph for anyone who reads that and I made a lot of money. There, now I have said it, broken the taboo, ruined the day of anyone reading this that has had a bad weekend punting or one that was only so-so.

I am not attempting to rub salt in the wound. I have experienced what a bookmaker acquaintance once referred to as a golden run. And after such a run, one has to be ultra-carful because a golden run has a beginning and most certainly an end. It is there just to give you enough incentive to continue in the belief that you are the exception to the Inland Revenue rule. That you are the chosen one, the one who can break the mould when in fact all you can do in this business is to swing the percentages in your favour. That means patience, hard work and plenty of days when your chin is on the ground. This golden run has the life of a firefly. It lasts between the last race of the successful day to the first of the next day when you become another potential loser. Savour it, but recognise it for what it is! The reinstatement of the status quo is round the corner, meaning as your golden run ends, someone else’s begins.

Those are the rules. All the successful gambler can do is to bend them; he cannot alter them. But the bending, the shifting of the percentages, can make the difference at the end of the year between selecting a suitable bridge to sleep under and finding another mortgage payment.

And Another Thing

Horse Racing V’s Football

SO after the 6.50 at Kempton, it strikes me that I can watch the football: England against Croatia. I am no football expert; there are those who doubtless say I am no expert on any thing – fair play (to use the vernacular) if that is their view.

But aside from watching the England matches and the World Cup games, I don’t watch football that much. That said, internationals are always thrilling and not for the first time, I can see why as a spectator sport it has so much appeal. Compared with the high dive into the pool that is horseracing, football is white-water rafting. Horseracing is a sudden injection of adrenalin – even the Grand National only lasts ten minutes – whereas football supplies ninety minutes of action on the pitch and a third of that amount in replays and discussion afterwards. Even though horseracing has been a large part of my life for longer than I care to remember, replays of races are cold salads in comparison to the curry of football.

I do not know why that should be, particularly as I am no great fan of what is dubbed (more vernacular but unintended) the Beautiful Game. Football is infectious. It builds to a crescendo, encourages the onlooker to take a stance, a position, become involved in the drama as it unfolds. Even its replays allow the spectator to relive a glorious moment they are hungry to see. Perhaps it is because the action is faster than a horserace, less expected and there is more to view. Other players are all contributing to the goal or the free kick and the apprehension mounts in a way that is unachievable in a horserace. And because we are dealing with human beings out there, we feel their anguish, their triumphs, their emotions, possibly more than in the heat of the moment they do themselves. Who can forget David Beckham’s avenging penalty against Argentina? Surely the poignancy of the moment, the way he composed himself for one of the mightiest kicks of his life was not lost on any one watching. He we all held our breath and felt the sweat on our palms as, alone, he ran toward the spot and kicked the ball.

Horseracing never really reaches that level of tension. If you have had a bet and your horse is travelling well, perhaps looking likely to win, there is an instant of joy as he moves closer, and then a second or two of delayed doubt followed by the dash to the line when you either cheer or curse. In comparison, it is a minor moment set against the drawn out drama of a football match. It is also true that however much we might like to take the gambling element out of a horserace; it is not quite the same to cheer on a dumb animal than it is to cheer on a human being. In no way I am degrading racehorses here, as I love them although they do not always seem to reciprocate my feelings. We all have our favourite equines. Of course, as a professional punter, such trivia is supposed to be beneath me but it is not. Off hand, I would say I admire Duke of Marmalade for his professional no-nonsense uncomplicated attitude, Darjina because she is beautiful and Zarkava for the same reason. But none of them can actually speak to me so I have no idea what goes through their heads.

If I were to listen to an interview with Duke of Marmalade, what would he say? I suspect he would be somewhat like Frank Bruno: ‘Yeah, well, I was always goin’ well, you know what I mean, and when that Papal Bull headed me at Ascot, well you know, I was always goin’ to get ‘im.’ Darjina on the other hand may just shake her head and say, ‘I cannot possibly make any comment until I have had a drink of water darling.’ Through an interpreter of course!

An unkind observer may be tempted to suggest Duke of Marmalade or Darjina could give a better interview than Wayne Rooney. But no, with footballers we know how they are feeling. Take Joe Cole last night. Battered and cut from an awful tackle from some Bolshevik beast, stitched and with a head zigzagged with blood, back on the bench, he was talking, joshing, being, well, Joe Cole.

Whereas horses can only shake their heads, gulp water and kick innocent bystanders who get in their flight path. You even have to hold their head in place to get a reasonable photograph. Trainers, owners and jockeys sometimes try to attribute human characteristics to a horse but if he is defecating as they speak, it does dilute such comments to a degree. And when a race is over, it’s all change and bring on the next one.

Somehow, even a half-decent game of football is not over when the final whistle has gone. There is the dissection, the goals in slow motion and they do have a quality that a horserace, once we know the result, cannot match.

Maybe it is something we should be aware of when we try to promote our sport. Even the heady rush of gambling, which can be very short-lived if your horse is plainly going nowhere from some way out, fails to ignite the passion in the same way that other sports can. Perhaps it is because it is over so quickly.

And we all know the downfall of activities that are over quickly. Somehow, the anticipation is always better than the act. Or is that me again?

And Another Thing

September 2008

Ayr Gold Cup: Is there a draw advantage

CONFUCIUS he say: ‘If you have to back two winners to be paid once – do not bet.’ Actually the Chinese philosopher said no such thing. He was too busy in 550 BC saying such things as, ‘An oppressive government is more to be feared than a tiger’ and, ‘Better a diamond with a flaw than a pebble without.’

But I suspect if he were asked to apply his crafty mind to the complex puzzle that is today’s Ayr Gold Cup he would probably dismiss it with something similar as the sentence I falsely attributed to him. Not that I am comparing myself in any shape or form (particularly shape) to the great thinker, but without the distraction of tigers or typhoons to worry about, if he were in circulation today and turned his attention to today’s conundrum, I suspect he would take a similar approach. As if the big sprint is not hard enough to start with, we are faced with a situation that suggests if you are not drawn low you are unlikely to win. This is based on analysis gleaned from one race: The Ayr Silver Cup, run yesterday where if you raced on the stands’ side you might as well have been trying to circumnavigate the globe backwards.

This is a preamble leading to the chances of Confuchias, the horse, who has been in many a notebook after such a promising run in the Great St Wilfred from a draw that gave him little or no chance. Backed earlier this week, as those that had not seen the merits of that run began to cotton on to it, and then handed by fate what seemed at the time a good draw, he touched favouritism before sliding after events yesterday. A formerly good horse with Group pretensions, he likes this ground and everything looked in place for a big run in such a minefield – or rice field – of a race.

All that changed a little after 4.43 yesterday when the repercussions of the Silver Cup draw sunk in. So now not only does Confuchias have to be the best horse, he has to defy Newton’s theory – or something that approximates it – to win.

However, Confucius the man may have the last laugh. He was allegedly born on September 28th – a date that is only eight days off the running of this year’s race. He also once said,’ It does not matter how slowly you go, so long as you do not stop.’ Is it possible he is trying to tell us something here and that all his deep-rooted and mind-influencing philosophy of so long ago was in fact leading to this one golden moment?

It is also possible that I am acting like a fifth member of the Monty Python team, who so cleverly alluded to the pitfalls and blind stupidity of taking everything as an omen in The Life of Brian.

Apparently, Confucius once asked after some stables had burnt down: ‘Was anyone hurt?’ He did not ask about the horses. The lesson, according to a Confucius sage, is that the great man was demonstrating the superior value human beings have over property. Piffle!

But if, as reported, he paid such scant heed for the poor unfortunate beasts then, perhaps now, some 2,500 years later, they are about to get their own back.

And Another Thing

All weather horse racing please

FRIDAY: They are squelching through heavy ground at Ayr, where frankly we ought to have our heads tested for even contemplating having a bet. I had mine tested some time ago and the results came back negative. Newmarket stage an all two-year-old card, meaning there will be messages and counter-messages aplenty. Doubtless we will be subject to such phrases as: ‘Group horse in the making – working the house down’ and the one that sends chills down the spine of the wrong kind, ‘Help yourself.’

Newbury’s card is of a high standard but, as is often the case, although long on quality, it is short on betting opportunities. Maybe Royal Vintage; can see Multidimensional but would not back him and Palavinci will be all the rage after a promising second to the very useful Delegator who, for my money, won with a ton in hand. The balance of Invincible Heart’s form means he wins the 4.30 with daylight to spare but I am not convinced he is as good as his form makes him look.

But take heart, Girl of Pangaea should win the 8.20 at Wolverhampton, a full eight hours after racing has started and on a Friday night. Like, yeah, I really want to wait all day to back that at 11/10!

And if all else fails I have a message for Earned Income in the trotting race at 9.20. Get me outta’ here!

Incredibly, this Flat season is drawing to a swift conclusion. And after such a promising start – what, only three months ago, or so it seems – when we all backed Twice Over in the Craven and held vouchers for him for the 2,000 Guineas, somehow it has dribbled away, closely followed by our bank balances.

And we read in the paper today that Denman is likely to miss the Hennessy, has lost weight and may be suffering from an irregular heart beat. This is devastating news for his connections and for all jump fans. Such glum news is a reminder of the line of tissue that separates joy from misery in this game. It also demonstrates how it only takes one horse to light up those short mid-winter days and that without him, the 2008/ 2009 National Hunt season could become just another season, taking place in the fog and gloom until Cheltenham in March. Let us hope not.

Clearly, all-weather racing is at last being taken seriously and the news of pre-Breeders’ Cup cards at Great Leighs and Kempton is nothing but positive. Now all we have to do is sort out this infernal credit crunch, stop pouring money down the bottomless pits that are Iraq and Afghanistan, get Paris Hilton off the front pages and boycott Big Brother and we might actually be on the road to recovery.

And Another Thing

Quotes, Words what do they mean?

RAY COCHRANE is responsible for this piece. I like Ray but why will he insist on calling all female horses mares? He must know that a female horse is a filly and only becomes a mare when she reaches the age of five. I guess it is some sort of Irishism – akin to the statement made by all Irish trainers or jockeys that their horse won IN Ascot rather than AT.

Whilst I am about it my quibble with the current trend to savage the English language does not stop there. Why do we call children kids – surely a kid is something spawned by a goat – why cops for police – cops pound the New York streets – why totally useless expressions that mean nothing like chrimbo for Christmas, why taters for potatoes. Have we become incapable of referring to anything correctly?

This prompted me to consider how other sports tend to cope with misquotes and inevitably led to some hilarious examples. In comparison, memorial quotes do not tend to surface from horseracing as such, but there is a clutch of amusing statements from gamblers. So in the spirit of that compilation programme of bloopers hosted by Dennis Norden – herewith the first batch…

‘One way to stop a runaway horse is to bet on him.’ Jeffrey Bernard.

‘One of the healthiest ways to gamble is with a spade and a packet of garden seeds.’ Dan Bennett.

‘Dear Lord, help me to break even. I need the money.’ Anon.

‘Depend on the rabbit’s foot if you will, but remember it didn’t work for the rabbit.’ R.E. Shay.

‘I met with an accident on the way to the track: I arrived safely.’ Joe E Lewis.

‘The only way to make a small fortune out of betting on horses is to start with a large one.’ Sir Peter O’ Sullevan.

‘Someone once asked me why women don’t gamble as much as men do, and I gave the common-sense reply that we don’t have as much money. That was a true but incomplete answer. In fact, women’s total instinct for gambling is satisfied by marriage.’ Gloria Steinem.

‘The safest way to double your money is to fold it over once and put it in your pocket.’ Kin Hubbard.

‘This is the only place where the windows clean the people.’ Joe E Lewis, standing by a Tote window.

‘Horse sense is the thing a horse has that keeps it from betting on people.’ W C Fields.

‘Horses and jockeys mature quicker than people – which is why horses are admitted to race tracks at the age of two and jockeys before they are old enough to shave.’ Dick Deddoes.

Because football commentators tend to be ex-footballers, they are capable of making the biggest howlers of all.

‘Living in Italy was like being in a foreign country.’ Ian Rush.

‘We actually got the winner three minutes from the end but then they equalized.’ Ian Mc Nail.

‘If history repeats itself, I should think we can expect the same again.’ ‘That would have been a goal if the keeper hadn’t saved it.’ Both quotes attributable to Terry Venables.

‘He dribbles a lot and the opposition don’t like it; you can see it all over their faces.’ Ron Atkinson.

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if this game went all the way to the finish.’ ‘Batistuta gets most of his goals with the ball.’ Ian St John.

‘It’s now 1-1, an exact reversal of the score on Saturday.’ Radio 5.

‘What I said at half-time would be unprintable on radio.’ Gerry Francis.

‘He’s one of those footballers whose brains are in his head.’ Derek Johnstone, BBC Scotland.

‘I can see the carrot at the end of the tunnel.’ Stuart Pearce.

‘Hodge scored for Forest after 22 seconds – totally against the run of play.’ Peter Lorenzo.

‘A brain scan revealed that Andrew Caddick is not suffering from a stress fracture of the shin.’ Jo Sheldon.

On a witty note: After being told a concussed striker did not know who he was, the Partick Thistle manager quipped: ‘That’s great, tell him he’s Pele and get him back on!’

‘The only way we will be going to Europe is if the club splash out and take us to Eurodisney.’ Dean Holdsworth, Wimbledon FC.

In his excitement, Murray Walker could be relied upon to supply a host of gaffs that in some cases surpassed the events he covered. A few gems are below…

‘And now excuse me while I interrupt myself.’

‘The leader is absolutely unique, except for the one behind it which is identical.’

‘There is nothing wrong with the car except it’s on fire.’

‘Tambay’s hopes, which were previously nil, are now absolutely zero.’

How about this for a mixed metaphor or two from ITV’s Bruce Roach: ‘We threw our dice into the ring and turned up trumps.’

‘In life he was a living legend; in death nothing has changed.’ Live TV.

‘I owe a lot to my parents, especially my father and mother.’ Greg Norman.

‘Ballesteros felt much better today after a 69 yesterday.’ Steve Ryder.

In a similar vein, broadcast on Metro Radio: ‘Julian Dicks is everywhere. It’s like they’ve got eleven Dicks on the field.’

Even worse, from Harry Carpenter: ‘Isn’t that nice; the wife of the Cambridge president is kissing the cox of the Oxford crew.

Ken Brown, on golfer Nick Faldo and his caddie Fanny Sunneson lining-up shots at the Scottish open: ‘Some times Nick likes to use Fanny, other times he prefers to do it himself.’

‘It’s a great advantage to hurdle with both legs.’ David Coleman.

‘Sure there have been injuries and deaths in boxing – but none of them serious.’ Alan Minter.

‘I’ll fight Lloyd Honeyghan for nothing if the price is right.’ Marlon Starling.

No quotes on boxing would be complete without a snapshot sample from the Greatest, Muhammad Ali. Here is a smorgasbord of quotes that demonstrate Ali’s wit, wisdom and showmanship, starting with…

‘Why chump, I bet you scare yourself to death just starin’ in the mirror. You ugly bear! You ain’t never fought nobody but tramps and has-beens. You call yourself a world champion? You’re too old and slow to be champion.’ To Sonny Liston – the Mike Tyson of his day – February 1964.

‘There’s not a man alive who can whup me. I’m too fast. I am too smart. I am too pretty. I should be a postage stamp. That’s the only way I’ll ever get licked.’

‘To be a great champion you must believe you are the best. If you’re not, pretend you are.’

‘Superman don’t need no seat belt.’ (To flight attendant, who replied, ‘Superman don’t need no airplane either.’) One of the few occasions Muhammad Ali was outdone, in or out of the ring.

‘I’m so fast that last night I turned off the light switch in my hotel room and got into bed before the room was dark.’

‘Frazier is so ugly he should donate his face to the US Bureau of Wildlife.’

Later, in a more reflective mood, Ali retracts his personal statements that cut Joe Frazier deeply. ‘I said a lot of things in the heat of the moment that I shouldn’t have said. Called him names I shouldn’t have called him. I apologise for that. I’m sorry. It was all meant to promote the fight.’

‘I’ve seen George Foreman shadow boxing and the shadow won.’ Before the legendary fight that became the Rumble in the Jungle.

Finally, towards the end of the rollercoaster that was the man who lived up to his own billing and was perhaps one of the greatest men to have lived, ‘A man who views the world the same at fifty as he did at twenty has wasted thirty years of his life.’

And Another Thing

Going Conundrums

ANOTHER day, I wish I could say another dollar but I fear any exchange of cash is likely to be exiting my pocket rather than entering it. Prospects of winning anything at the races today seem about as likely as a rebate from the taxman landing on my doormat.

And each morning we wake to more greyness, more rain, more gloom, another portent that the end of the world is nigh. Perhaps it is the sheer despondency of life at present that makes the thought of betting so unattractive. After all, a semblance of optimism is required to have a bet. You have to believe that something good is heading your way in order to ignite the belief you might win. But when waking to a scene from the film The Day After Tomorrow each morning, harbouring any ideas other than those of a negative variety is tough.

Moreover, I find it incredulous that we have a perfectly good all-weather track at Lingfield and that someone has decided to split the card between racing on Polytrack and turf today. Why? More confusion of the Goingstick variety I spoke of last week where hard is registered as 1 and heavy 15. Surely anyone with a spare grey cell would have decided for the sake of simplicity, it should be the other way round. So today we are faced with the first three races being run on turf – if they are run at all considering the surface is already heavy – or Goingstick1 (and why is Goingstick spelt thus?), and the remainder of the card taking place on Polytrack? Who dreamed this up? Consider then the gauntlet prospective punters have to run should they decide to attempt a bet there today.

In the first race, run over turf, Goingstick 1, the favourite, Definightly, is drawn two. Using all known information at our disposal, this is a bad draw, but if, as used to happen once upon a time when there was no such thing as Sunday racing and Godolphin won all the major races, the runners decide to race down the far side, it could conceivably be a good draw. But at 7/4, does it matter? Just leave the bloody thing – Roger Charlton will probably decide the horse has not eaten up and withdraw it in any case just to save us all wasting our time!

A mark of 74 for My Sweet Georgia looks reasonable in the nursery considering she finished second to the highly promising Gallagher. But she is a Royal Applause on soft ground and is another who, on the face of it, from a draw of five, has a lot of running to do. They have been banging on about Sericus for some time but on all known evidence, he looks average at best. But if he is any good, being by Verglass, this easy ground will play to his strengths – that is if he has any.

Then we come to the 4.10 where, on her promising fifth to Snoqualmie Girl at Newmarket, Purple Sage would look like a reasonable betting prospect in the maiden. However, she behaved like a right madam next time, looks as if she wants cut in the ground and as if she is an out and out galloper. Presented with a sharp track like Lingfield, on a fast surface and from a draw of ten – yeah she could win – but would you want to risk it and pay to find out?

Then there is Collateral Damage at Beverley who likes soft ground (just as well), but has two ways of running. That is to say he will lose when you back him and win when you don’t.

And apparently turnover is down, bookmakers cannot pay their bills, Betfair are struggling to sustain betting levels and spectators are tending to spend their leisure time elsewhere.

No – surely not!

And Another Thing

Saturday’s Horse Racing sinks into the mud

SO THAT’S IT, another Saturday has bitten the dust, or should that be sunk into the abyss. The Haydock Sprint washed out along with the Leopardstown card that was to have included the Champion Stakes and the Coolmore Fusaichi Pegasus Stakes – three Group 1 races sunk in the mud. Plans are afoot to stage the Leopardstown card on Sunday and to run the Haydock Sprint at Doncaster next week, but neither is guaranteed. Doncaster has to survive a weather forecast that is far from favourable for the sprint to take place. And Group 1’s or not, races that take place on a bog or during a monsoon have limited appeal; moreover, there is something about cobbled together cards that tarnishes the original concept.

Thinking back to the Royal Ascot card held at York, or the Ebor meeting held at Newmarket, it has to be said they were not the same – something was missing. Races are rather like geriatric passengers on ocean liners; they fail to travel well. But we are making the best of a bad situation and under pressure from bookmakers bleating on about the Levy and the racing authorities clamouring to prove they are adaptable to everything the elements can throw their way, some sort of re-scheduling looks like taking place.

So I suppose we have to join the band of applauders and say well done. Well done it is then!

Of course, what has happened is no one’s fault. By all accounts Haydock did all it could to ensure racing took place. What it could not do was to produce a cloud-busting machine that would disperse the hovering watery menace that washed its fixture away. And for reasons that are murky, they were unable to cancel a fixture overnight even though everyone within a hundred miles of the venue knew racing was impossible. Apparently, it is something to do with insurance and ticket sales and vendors and bookmakers’ licences and the price of fish at the local market. That is what we have come to in this watch-your-back, more-than-my-job-is-worth rain-soaked Great Britain of 2008. Pity really; but there is always Big Brother and the X Factor so that is all right then!

Haydock is not a track I have ever visited, so I cannot claim to know much about it except that there are trees in the paddock. But it is noticeable that when watching coverage from there the crowd seems noisy. Normally they are at their most vocal before and during the first race. A kind of football roar goes up as the horses start and you can just imagine the pints being slugged down as they set off. Should any of the runners fail to start, or break loose, the crowd is in its element, booing and cheering with equal venom as horse and rider pass the post in embarrassed isolation. Obviously, this behaviour is drink-fuelled and I could not help but wonder where these so-called racing fans would be on a blank Saturday. Would they be raising tattooed arms and hamburger-sized fists to betting office staff in Haydock High Street; urinating in waste bins in shopping centres, or mooning from the back of Ford Escorts on motorways as they drive from service station to service station before finding a publican too greedy or frightened to turn them away?

Kempton did of course stage a good meeting. Even to those whose idea of studying form is to peruse the Daily Mirror or the Sun, there were two obvious things they could get stuck in to on the card. Premio Loco, selected by Pricewise, and Ethaara and both, although poor value for those of us who purported to know better, started at cramped odds but obliged. And a winner never starts at poor odds, right? So Jack The Lad and Sid The Snake could free up Oxford Street and Kingston High Street and end up at the Sunbury track. They gulped down the ridiculously expensive drinks and by the time of the two-mile event, those who fail to recognise the difference between a horse and a zebra were cheering home the leader as if he had won on the first circuit. By the time of their next swig they realised there was more to a two-mile race than six furlongs and it was a case of all change in the finishing order as they passed the post on the occasion that counted.

All this is largely prompted by the advert placed by Chateau Racing that appeared in the Racing Post today. Its strap line was ‘Fed Up With Loutish Behaviour And Being Ripped Off?’ and invited race-goers to sample the more genteel delight that is French racing. Personally, yes, I am fed-up with both those descriptions of life in general in this country at present. At a time when we are promoting this country in advance of the 2012 Olympics, feeling smug about the fix America appears to be in, and poking fun at our cousins on the continent, I wonder what they make of us.

While our version of Rome burns; while the Titanic that used to be GREAT Britain slips beneath the waves, we continue to believe we are somehow superior. Fine, but has any one checked how the pound is faring against the euro and the dollar recently?

But, hey, what’s that got to do with anything? Keep drinking that American and Belgian lager; that French and Spanish wine lads, keep shouting for the wrong horse…

And Another Thing

Only 4 Gambling free days

BEING GIVEN YOUR OWN column in a newspaper or a website is tantamount to a licence to appear on Grumpy Old Men/Women on television. You are given carte blanche to snort and rant about matters that vex. Conscious that most of us only have such an opportunity when incoherent after a flagon of ale in the local, or when the other half is in the kitchen and not listening, I have to be aware of the need to rein myself in. I am in danger of becoming a fledging Victor Meldrew or akin to a Daily Mail columnist – who only ever seem to grumble – perhaps they should recruit the doomed Fraser from Dad’s Army to their ranks.

Aware of the direction into which I am lurching, I have concentrated my efforts recently on being sensible. Perfectly sane articles about betting and how best to harness individual areas of competence have replaced flippancy and clever dick sarcasm. Reading some of the comments, most of them relevant and I hope helpful, I have to say I fail to recognise the writer. Yes, it is me; but like most people who perform a role – in this case one of punter – I just do it rather than subject it to analysis. You know what I am saying: it is rather like driving a car, being a magician or pleasing a woman. You know the theory but find it impossible to explain the no-how to someone else. Of course, as far as the latter category is concerned we are talking about the impossible so it is not quantifiable.

All this is a preamble to announcing I am reverting to type. I realise this is bad news for those of you who thought I might have been replaced, incarcerated or run over by any number of aggrieved members from the ranks of racing. Those having some difficulty in adjusting to my Hyde as opposed to the philanthropic Dr Jekyll, may care to look away now.

Off with the everyday M&S shirt and tie, it comes off in one Paddy Power movement and reveals underneath, not a bookmaker wishing to demonstrate generosity, not Superman, but a grisly, hairy being full of bile, unmitigated annoyance and downright unpleasantness requiring removal on a regular basis.

My last missive that deviated from the notion that I was properly hinged attacked Goingstick readings as absurdly constructed and the equal irrationality of the colour coding of horses that move in and out of the betting. Nothing too controversial there I would have thought. But they have forced me out of temporary retirement, reopening the wound of a subject earlier tackled: the four blank Sundays in the 2009 fixture list.

Oh great joy and bliss; those four renegade Sundays are no more! They are to be filled – by trotting racing – possibly held at Wolverhampton. Apparently, there are a number of curry houses in Wolverhampton so the trots is not a new concept to the city. Trotting though is something all together different. It is a bit like Santa Clause’s reindeer pulling a single carriage except that the horses doing the pulling don’t fly over snowy rooftops and presents are not dispensed. On the contrary, their antics, harnessed as they are, not to break out of a trot and disqualified if they do, are likely to take from the poor and give to the rich. So possibly this silly pastime should take place down the road from Wolverhampton at the home of Robin Hood – namely Nottingham. Those tempted to bet should pay special attention to a configuration of names containing any combination of B. Hur, A O’Brien or I. Carus. The first cart is likely to have an unfair advantage, the second means there will presumably be no betting, and the last is liable to catch fire if the sun makes an appearance.

The possibilities of the four rogue days containing a programme of trotting will not alter my social arrangements for the year. The prospect of four blank days of racing makes a framework for my social calendar. At the point of writing, there are four days when I can plan to go to Sunday lunch with my partner, that is if she is still my partner, after what is sure to be a rocky few winter months when the ringing of the phone will dictate my life. No matter how desperate the content of racing, how confident you are that there is nothing to be concerned with, have you noticed how some bastard, with nothing else to do with his sad little life, will phone and tell you he has one? Even if you forewarn all your contacts and tell them you don’t want to be phoned or harassed with next year’s Guineas winner appearing at Catterick, the silly sods still phone. The call will be prefixed with, ‘I know we agreed to have a quiet day but you cannot afford to miss this one…’

Actually, yes, I can. Let me put it this way. If I allow my day to revolve round this bloody certainty that originates from the shopkeeper in Newmarket High Street and it loses, can we agree to all or any of the following? Can I have your car? Do I have your permission to burn your house down, preferably with you in it? Can I share a shower with your missus and rub her all over with shower creme?

I thought not. Well, okay I know I have already done the last one but it would not do any harm to repeat it, particularly if she was sober this time.

But back to the four blank days. What were the authorities thinking? Four blank days of horseracing in one year! Add that to Good Friday, Christmas Eve and Christmas Day and, shock horror, there are seven days during 2009 when there is no horseracing. It is enough to make Scrooge reduce Tiny Tim’s pension plan.

So apart from trotting, fruit machines and virtual racing, what about the human rights of compulsive gamblers and what can they bet on?

Herewith a few suggestions if you feel affected: On Christmas Eve, try driving to your local town and drawing up a spread on how long it takes you to park in the multi-storey. The spread should start at ten minutes and run right through to not at all, to run out of petrol, frozen in vehicle for entire Christmas period with only a new shirt for Uncle Jim, some socks for Uncle Martin, a jumper for Janice and a six-pack of Stella Artois.

Christmas Day: Who, if any one, will be drunk before lunch is served; who is the first to fall asleep after lunch; how many times the Queen has to refer to her cue-card on which her speech is written, and whether Steve McQueen will make it on that infernal motorbike.

Good Friday: Whether the special offer at Homebase will be on barbeques or sun-loungers; neither of which, on the evidence of the last two years, will be in much demand.

As for the four days of non-proposed racing, I suggest that the trotting, if it goes ahead, can do so without the need to buy the Racing Post. I only hope the ground staff can get rid of the ruts made by the wheels of those carriages before the resumption of proper racing.

And Another Thing

September 2008

Professional and Novice Gamblers all want quality racing to bet on

THEY HAVE been showing re-runs of Dad’s Army on BBC recently and I have managed to catch a few of them. Not deliberately, but I have been drawn to the clips I have seen. The problem for me is I can see my character in the cast. It is the: ‘Doomed, we’re all doomed’ Fraser. I don’t wish to become Fraser, or any of those other characters on Grumpy Old Men but, if you are involved in racing just now, what is the alternative?

Yesterday, in desperation, I penned a piece about why certain races should be boycotted and I find myself in the same situation today. And bit by insidious bit I am beginning to resent those making up the spectators in the arena. By that I mean the presenters on the racing channels who try to pretend that each day is bulging with betting opportunities and that they are dipping in and out of the exchanges at every opportunity in between races. Whereas we know this is piffle because if they have any sense (which they must have to be in such jobs) they are pressing buttons, preparing their next part of the script and keeping their fake tans topped up before smiling to camera. No guys, it won’t wash. I know the tan will, but the whole grinning, ‘what a jolly game this is act’ is beginning to play to emptier houses.

Such presenters, on satellite and terrestrial channels, bookmakers, the Tote and anyone making a living out of this racing game, want us – the mugs – to bet. We are an integral part of keeping the show on the road. We take the risks, we bet, often with money we can’t afford to lose, so that the fat cats can continue to draw monthly wage packets and top up their pensions. A pension is only a word to a professional punter. He is his pension and unless he can back winners, his fund is nil – mafish as our friends in the desert would say. So I want to bet. I don’t want to be faced with the sort of nonsense I saw yesterday and am faced with again today. Yes, it is nonsense. Today’s cards are pants and dirty ones at that! Take Pontefract. Imaam should win the first but who in their right mind would back a horse that has three seconds to its name; been a hot favourite twice – 2/5 last time – and will be odds-on again today? No thanks! But you can’t lay it because its form entitles it to win.

Ascot Lime will be short in the 4.30. The race is weak and you would think he would oblige. He is a good-looking son of Pivotal who had a bad start to his racing career when some wild beast from the jungle ran across him at the start. He is getting his act together but his solitary win was from a mark of 77 and now he races from 89. I ask you, how has this happened? How can a horse that has one victory to his name, and then by the narrow margin of a head, be rated twelve pounds higher two runs later without winning? So it looks like another blank day. At least I shan’t lose, but expenses won’t be suspended either.

Elsewhere, after a scare, we are told Denman is now all right. I think it was Martin Pipe who once said there is no such thing as a bit of a leg; saying a horse has a bit of a leg is like saying a woman is a little bit pregnant. Well said Martin! I wish Denman and all connected nothing but good fortune; but fear that we have not heard the last of this saga. Sick one day – well the next. No, that doesn’t sound right to me.

If I am all Fraser and gloom, at least events in the wider world do present a lighter side. A pig in Australia is apparently preventing its owner, a woman, from leaving her house to use the outside toilet, or dunny. The pig is by all accounts big as far as pigs go – an undesirable shape to be in I would have thought if you are a pig – and his sheer bulk and bad temper has made this woman a prisoner in her own house. Quite what she is doing without the services of a toilet is unclear. Drinking very little and crossing her legs a lot one would imagine. Oh and the pig is called Bruce. Now I knew that everyone in Australia is called either John or Bruce, unless of course they are female in which case their name is Sheila, but calling a pig Bruce does lack some imagination in a nation full of men all answering to the same name.

Ruth Kelly has stolen some of Gordon Brown’s thunder by announcing her retirement from politics a few hours after his speech to Conference. Tricky times for the Labour Party at present. If they wish to replace Gordon Brown, they do have a name problem to overcome with regard to his successor. Just as Classics are not won by horses called Jack’s Dream, political parties shouldn’t be headed by people called Darling, Miliband or Straw (as in the last). So those wishing to replace Gordon Brown have a limited choice. Assuming they don’t want to be labelled the Black Adder party, we have to dismiss Alistair Darling if only because we don’t want the Home Secretary saying in public, ‘Sorry, Darling what was that you said?’ There are two Milibands, one in particularly looking as if he belongs on the end of someone’s arm, and another Browne; yes his spelling is slightly different, but he is still Brown in essence. No, that won’t do. Unless they can come across a Bruce, this only leaves Hazel Blears, who sounds more and more like a stateswoman each time we see her. Perhaps aware of this, the powers-that-be only allotted her three minutes speaking time at Conference but she made it count. Hazel Blears it is then! Unless that is J K Rowling can stump up another million quid for the Party, in which case perhaps that will be enough to buy it lock, stock and barrel and she and Harry Potter can run the show.

Lindsay Lohan has come out of her pink closet and broken a thousand male hearts with the announcement she has a female lover in the shape of Samantha Ronson. I can’t claim to be familiar with either, which is probably just as well. The last thing I want is a broken heart as well as an empty wallet.