Odeon Ynys Mon

 I am on one of my solo sorties to the island. Yesterday was a fine day. I went to C.G. Ynys Mon and spent a fruitful (well hopefully) hour sharpening (it was very blunt) my short game. As if that was not enough I wasted my money backing Perceval Legallois in the Grand National and found time to watch two very different films.

Father Brown is a 1954 piece of British whimsy capped by a superb performance from Alec Guinness in the tile role. It puts the flimsy modern television version of the tales of the priest/sleuth to shame. Somehow films of this idiom are all the better for being in black and white. A wholly worthy piece of movie-making. 70/100. 

Hang 'Em High (1968) is an altogether different kettle of fish. In fact not a kettle of fish at all, rather a plate of spaghetti americano. Hard upon the success of Sergio Leone's three Clint Eastwood westerns, America reclaimed Eastwood as its own and made this paleish imitation of a spaghetti western. Eastwood speaks more than in his seminal role(s) and the sheer visceral quality of Leone's pictures is missing. Notwithstanding this daub of filmic polish, there is enough to get your teeth into and there is, if you look hard enough, a moral speculation trying to get out. Worth a watch. 64/100.

Some Old Guff

Instead of going to Cheltenham this year I was actually earning, doing a welcome and interesting bit of consultancy work. I sometimes forget how much I can enjoy being a lawyer and the great thing is that these days I get to choose the nice bits. Confidentiality and your boredom threshold means that I won't burden you with any of the details.

I kept an occasional eye on the racing without having a bet but I did hear plenty of old guff about how the Festival can regain its old lustre. Too late. You can rip-off your core customers for only so long. So yet another great sporting occasion has gone - Twickenham is these days a braying corporate disgrace and, now that Cheltenham has prostituted itself, there is very little left. Roll on the European Rugby Finals in Cardiff. Now that is fun.

I am writing this before the final round of the Six Nations kicks off. France will, barring a miracle, win the championship. Ireland will win in Italy but nothing can expunge the memory of their evisceration by France last weekend. I have a mildly dread feeling that England will struggle against Wales. This is an England team that lacks a killer instinct and (yes it's a cliche) Wales will be really up for it. For the Welsh the model of what they must do can be taken from last night's U20 international in which hwyl completely submerged England. You can catch that match on iPlayer and I recommend that you see it. It was notable for a dangerously inept refereeing performance (a performance which I must emphasise disadvantaged Wales more that it did England) and for a Welsh passion that forced the favoured English into mute mediocrity. I hope I am wrong and that I will, humble pie duly eaten, be getting back to you about a famous Scottish victory in Paris and a stout England win in Cardiff.    

It's Still A Funny Old World

I've been away from these pages for a few weeks. Apologies to my regular readers - yes there are a few of them - a very few. I note that the last time I wrote, I was mildly despairing of the world at large but happy in my own skin. Well the world at large has got worse - who would have guessed that Trump's VP would turn out to be an even bigger **** than the Donald himself. Yale Law School must be so proud.

But enough of such whining - you don't need me to tell you that the United States has fallen under the spell of narcissistic sociopaths. Instead let's talk about some of the good stuff. The Six Nations has been fun and I apologise for those who look forward each year to my minute analysis and, in particular, to the bestowing of the Ronan O'Gara Memorial Gobshite Award. This particular decoration has become harder to award as the game more and more allows all and sundry to question the referee and demand rugby's equivalent of trial by television replay. Such is professionalism. The other symptom is the Bomb Squad problem - the ugly feature by which the bench is emptied of replacements and an all-but-complete new pack takes to the field. Anyone know how to put genies back in bottles? No matter, there has been plenty to admire: France's hubristic self-immolation against a gallant but out-gunned England; France's brilliant destruction of Italy; France's even better pricking of the bubble of Irish entitlement. As I say, all good stuff. As for the weekend just passed - Scotland at last showed up but only for two-thirds of a match; Wales only condescended to play once they were safely condemned to lose; I seem to be alone in the view that England were turgid against Italy. In Cheltenham week (not going - I'm afraid I'm getting old) my fun bet is not to do with the horses but a speculative wager on Wales to beat England in Cardiff. The Welsh are rather touchingly obsessed with beating the English and this England team are fragile.

Enough of rugby (not something you would have heard me say in my wild youth) and back to the subject of Cheltenham. Tomorrow's card looks set to feature four odds -on favourites. Where is the fun in that? The dominance of the Irish (or more particularly of the brilliant Willy Mullins) is also a problem. I have no answer to these factors, nor to the increasing numbers of skinny-suited young men who do their betting on their phones even though they are but a step away from the most exciting betting ring in the sport. I'm just saying it's a pity.

Let me tell you of a good weekend, or rather a long weekend. My trip to Ynys Mon last week could only have been bettered if the Groupie had been with me. Work could not spare her. What her absence did mean is that having checked out the bricks and mortar of Plas Piggy (all sound), I was free to have a ridiculously self-indulgent few days. I watched five games of rugby (Six Nations and U20 Six Nations), I played golf on a gloriously sunny and calm afternoon on the deserted links at The Anglesey, and on Saturday evening I watched The Magnificent Ambersons. I reviewed this long ago (25 August 2010 when this blog was in its infancy) but was not at that time in the habit of giving a rating to pictures. I refer you to that early brief review but now add a rating of 90/100. That good. Even better when accompanied by a bottle of Barolo. I made myself a rather good cheese omelette for my tea. And to cap off the trip I had an unobstructed return journey and broke my PB for the route. There may be three steps to heaven but who knew that one of them takes only two hours and thirty-two minutes.   

 

Back On The Chain Gang

Which, by the way, is the title of my favourite Pretenders' song, not that this has anything to do with what I was going to say. No, what I want to talk about is Big Fat Pig's return to the streets of Four Oaks. Those new running shoes I told you about have passed their first test, indeed two tests. Two passages of my favoured route and no calf strain to complain of. In addition I have been out on the Precious Bike on each of the last two Sundays. Nothing gargantuan but plenty of middling climbs to make the thighs burn. What with my twice-weekly golf (I have joined the Senior Section at Royal Pype Hayes to add to the Monday outings with old rugby mates) I am feeling quite chipper about my physical condition. 

Here's something that bothers me - the England cricket team. They have revolutionised their approach to test cricket and quite properly hoovered-up some praise for their exciting approach. But these are the facts: by their hubris they gifted the Ashes to Australia and last week they lost catastrophically to India in a match they could quite plausibly have drawn. Since when has a defeat been a more desirable result than a draw? Unprofessional - and I don't care if they come charging out of the blocks this week and demolish India in the fourth test, my point still stands. It's sport, not professional wrestling. Making a classically gifted batsman like Joe Root look like a pissed-up pub player is no achievement at all. 

Usually at this time of year I would be girding my loins for the annual pilgrimage to the races at Cheltenham. Not this time. Never again I suspect. Too crowded, too corporate. This is a sadness but hardly a new phenomenon. It is precisely the same thing at Twickenham. God, never mind the running and cycling, this middle-aged-man-in lycra is knocking on the door of miserable old git country. Doesn't mean he's wrong though!

On Cheltenham, On Not Having Covid, On Harriet and Boris

I was on the lash last week - not noisily or obnoxiously so but nonetheless I was consumed by gambling and alcohol for the final three days of the Cheltenham Festival. I was in profit on the gambling front, again not obnoxiously so but enough for my self-respect. Which was nice.

Our group of cheerful punters was at the course itself only on the Wednesday. On Thursday we took up residence in the Gate public house in Sutton Codfield. Not least of the advantages of this arangement (never mind the numerous screens showing the sport) was that a round of beers was only slightly more than the cost of a single pint on-course. Similarly advantageous was the attendance at Aston Manor Cricket Club for Gold Cup Day on Friday. 

Still crowded. Still expensive

It was actually with some trepidation that I headed to Cheltenham on the Wednesday. Don't get me wrong, it is, notwithstanding the dilution of the quality consequent upon the addition of a fourth day (and yes I know that ship has sailed, but please don't get me started on the possibility of a fifth day), a fine day's racing but the course has gradually become a less congenial place. Too crowded, too expensive (£7.50 for a pint - really) and thronged with overdressed men and underdressed women. And you pay more than a hundred of your English pounds for the privilege. I went in full expectation of declaring this my last visit to the Festival. Well, I must say I was pleasantly surprised. It was still crowded and expensive but it felt mildly less oppressive than of late. The official attendance figures confirm that the attendance was down on last year so perhaps our ruined economy is a cloud with a silver lining for elderly drunken gamblers. Will I be back next year? The jury's out.  

A much cheaper place to back winners (and losers)

As for the Gate. Proper old boozer. Proper old drinkers. Bring your own food. Good beer. Not crowded. Cheap. Will we be back? Yes.

Not salubrious. Answers the needs of the day

I have always found Gold Cup Day a hard card from which to pick winners - and that's saying quite something for a serial loser like me. The annual bash at Aston Manor (very busy but you can lean on the bar - not an option at the course) is as congenial a way of doing your bollocks (as we like to put it) as can be imagined. £5 in which included a top-grade buffet (excellent samosas), beer not as good as the Gate but way cheaper than the course. Will we be back? Yes.

I came away from my exposure to beer and betting with a cold. Covid? No - for reasons I won't bore you with, I've done a test.

That braggadocious grifter Boris Johnson was yesterday offering his pathetic evidence to the Commons Privileges Committee. I won't bore you with the details because I've been over this ground before. Suffice to say that this expensively educated and bright man asks us to believe that he learned nothing from the briefings he himself led during the Covid crisis. As I say, pathetic. That his inquisition was chaired by the catastrophically pious Harriet Harman might have made me lean in favour of any other witness but, and you won't hear me say this again I suspect, I'm on Harriet's side for once.

    

I May Just Have Been A Very Small Bit Wrong ... Perhaps

You have to admire (well almost) our shameless politicians and their inability to admit any error. I, you will be relieved to hear, am not cut from that cloth. No, the Pig is wrong quite a lot and, if forced/shamed to do so, will admit as much.

And no, I am not about to ask forgiveness for my failure as a tipster on the second day at Cheltenham. Put it this way, you have been very lucky that I didn't belabour you with my selections for the final two days of the Festival. Thanks to that semi-stellar first day, I finished well up on the whole thing but we were playing for small stakes so my lifestyle (already rather cavalier) hasn't changed.

The Pig in academic mode

As I said above, that was not the subject of my confession. The true subject is Cymbeline. I have been reading, watching and thinking about this play a lot for the past few weeks and I must recant of my view (expressed here and elsewhere I am ashamed to say) that is not a very good play. You already knew this but the Bard of Avon deserves a better critic than the Pig. It may be the least satisfactory of the five Roman Plays on stage but it rewards careful attention. Here's the shocker - it's a good play. Now all I've got to do is to redraft the chapter in my thesis and put the record straight.

Don't you just hate it when I'm wrong.

The Secret To Successful Gambling

A slightly odd feeling this morning as the build-up to the Cheltenham Festival cranked into full motion. Odd because I know that I am not going this year. I have other commitments. So today I played golf at The Belfry courtesy of the largesse of CDL who was kind enough to share a gift fourball with JRS, BH and your correspondent the Pig. It was on the Derby which is the least of the three courses at The Belfry but made a nice change from the mud-bound Pype Hayes and reminded us all what decent greens are like. I played quite passably as it happens.

Look very carefully and you will note that the Pig is not there.

Anyway I promised you the secret to successful gambling, to be precise successful gambling at Cheltenham. Well here it is - don't go. I confined myself to a £2.40 worth of penny accumulators and managed to show a 2500% return on my investment.  So for those of you who want to be ahead of the game, here are tomorrow's horse for some penny investments - Stage Star, L'Homme Presse, The Shunter, Shiskin, Prengrade, Editeur du Gite, and Poetic Music. Small print: you may get back less than you invest, in fact judging by previous form, you may get back precisely bugger all. But you'll never win the lottery if you don't buy a ticket. 

2021:2 - 4

I am an unqualified admirer of our armed forces and I am grateful for the service they render us even when it is in the theatre of unworthy and politically misguided conflicts. By that score I am preared to cut Prince Andrew some slack for being a boorish mediocrity. I am not willing to grant him any credit against any sexual misfeasance. But it is not the ninth in line to the throne who concerns me when I look back at February. No it is his similarly courageous nephew and sixth in line, Prince Harry.

By February this near incumbent of the seat of Defender of the Faith had absconded to America with his winsome bride. They issued a sick-making statement that they had not retired from public service but that 'We can all live a life of service'. This may, taken at its most literal (and thereby meaningless), be true but it is drivel when scripted for the mouths of two participants in the great reality television show that is California. Harry's great-great-uncle married an American divorcee. He surrendered his right to be King. It will take a remarkable and sad turn of events for Harry to have to reign but if he does he (or those who advise him) might consider the spiritual vacuity of his 'Christmas' card which wished his viewers 'Happy Holidays'. 

I know that this sounds like the whining of an old lady at the bus-stop, but, really, the Queen deserves better. 

After which whining let's turn to meatier matters in March. The Cheltenham Festival (that's horse-racing not its poor relation the Literary Festival) went ahead without me, indeed without any spectators due to the continuing Covid pandemic. I watched on television but, and I hate to say this, it was a relatively joyless affair. The procession of Irish winners, the dominance of the mega-stables, and the smaller fields are the main reasons why I fear for this most special of sporting events. The corporates and the lads in shiny suits have already taken some of the lustre off things. As it happens other commitments will mean I can't go this year either. Hopefully another absence will make this heart grow fonder.  

In April the Duke of Edinburgh died. There was a moving but somehow apt symbolism to pictures of the Queen sitting solitary at the Covid-regulated funeral ceremony. Her dignity served to remind those of us who, despite all logic, believe in a constitutional monarchy that what we really believe in is this Queen in all her absurd magnificence.   

Grumpy Old Man Somewhat Soothed

The definition of insanity is, we are told, doing the same daft things over and over and expecting different results. I mention this because everyday life often serves to remind me of that maxim. Most days I awake and hear the same news and it is the same things that push my buttons over and over again. Donald bloody Trump, natch. Jeremy bloody Corbyn, natch, though that irritant is on its last legs - to be superseded no doubt by the equally, though for different reasons, bothersome Keir Starmer. Litter, bloody litter. It's everywhere. It's shaming. And don't get me started on the bloody Sussexes - I mean, who cares any more? All I will say is that the Queen, God bless her, has played her usual blinder. We'll miss her when she's gone.

And so here's the cheery bit. The obverse of that maxim is that the defintion of sanity could be doing the same healthy things in order to get repeat results. Well this week I have been in Mon with the Groupie, following hard upon three days here last week with Daughter Number 2. The familiar - I have walked twice at Newborough and loved it both times - it is the best beach on the island and the bacon roll from the van on the carpark is unbeatable. DN2 and I also walked at Lligwy (second best beach?) and dined at the Harbour Inn in Cemaes and at the Tavern at Red Bull Bay, the former good, the latter excellent. More of the familiar - Groupie and I have been to Plas Newydd and to Penrhyn Castle for the umpteenth time. Top grade. We have eaten at the Panton Arms (reliably sufficient) and at the Anglesey Arms (a new and commendable find) in Menai Bridge. Savage brow soothed, Cheltenham to come.

When she feels herself compelled to talk about politics I find Emma Thompson insufferably woke, a manifestation of that educated intolerance peculiar to liberals. But that should not detract from this fact - she's the best actress currently at work. I was reminded of this last night when we watched Sense and Sensibility, in which she is terrific and for the screenplay of which she won an Oscar. 8/10. 

The world is presently obsessed with coronavirus. I am not but the bloody thing has hacked some twenty per cent off the value of my pension or more accurately it has been a convenient excuse for the tossers in the City to make the adjustment that was needed to stock valuations.  The games people play. But never mind I have had a 10p each way Lucky 31 on the first five races at Cheltenham tomorrow which will win me £13500 when it comes in. Sorted.   

I'm Giving Up Gambling. Well ...

For any of you daft enough to follow my advice on the Grand National all I can say is that surely you ought to know better. For what it's worth (nothing in truth) I apologise.

For the record, my sure-fire tip, Vintage Clouds, was the only faller at the first and compounded its felony by bringing down one of its innocent competitors.

I'm giving up gambling. Well, at least until the next time.

matchless

On a more positive note, loud plaudits to all concerned in the matchless (Red Rum never won at Cheltenham) achievements of the sporting legend that is Tiger Roll. I even feel well-disposed to Michael O'Leary. Steady on there Dave.

The Unbearable Lightness Of Being A Binman

As I was running earlier this week I encountered several good burghers of the People's Republic of Four Oaks walking out onto their drives and fatalistically lifting the lids of their bins and thereupon raising their eyebrows in mild unexpected pleasure at the fact that the bloody things had actually all been emptied. For us (and I assume most of my near neighbours) this prompt double satisfaction (we have two bins - one for general detritus and one for recyclables) was being enjoyed for the first time since early December. All collections since that time have fallen victim to delay or cancellation due either to industrial action or plain old-fashioned inefficiency.

All of which made me smile sardonically as I contemplated our Council Tax bill which is knocking on three thousand of your English quids. I'm only saying.

Meanwhile our political class continues to bend itself out of any useful shape as it persists in its preferred intention of thwarting Brexit. And if any of these prize wankers mentions a wealth tax or a mansion tax (yes I'm talking to you Vince Cable) then I won't be responsible for my actions. Well actually I will be responsible - because I'm rather Olde England about these things. I'm only saying.

Meanwhile, back in my world, Grand National tomorrow. I'm due a change of luck (have been for about a decade) so take note folks - Vintage Clouds each way. I'm only saying.

One Man Rescue Mission

Big Fat Pig's selfless effort to resuscitate the gaming industry was an almost unblemished success. Only four each way pick-ups spoilt a week of utter betting incompetence. I might as well have stood in the middle of Prestbury Park at the outset of proceedings and set fire to my wallet.

At one point a gift horse presented itself but unlike all my companions I was the one who had to look into its mouth, detect a non-existent flaw and back instead another loser. A horse ran called William Henry: my middle name is Henry, my brother is William, my maternal grandfather was William Henry, my paternal grandfather also had Henry as his middle name. Never mind reading the form, this was a horse the Pig had to back. Did he? Did he bollocks. It won at 25/1, enriching in the process his fellow travellers.

Despite my lack of financial acumen, the Festival was its usual uproarious and magnificent self. Next year will be more successful.

William Henry: yet another one that got away

 

Reasons To Be Cheerful

I was feeling a tad off-colour when last I wrote, but the weekend has come and the Groupie has been around to keep an eye on me and I feel a good deal better thank you.

What's the recipe today Jim? Remember that? doesn't matter. Well, first up is the Six Nations, in which Wales outlasted and outgunned the Scots. England duffed up Italy but to this jaundiced eye were clearly vulnerable on the odd occasions when asked to defend. Ireland coasted past a woeful French XV. All is nicely set-up for next Saturday when Italy and France argue over the wooden spoon, Wales will fail to complete a Grand Slam against a rejuvenated Ireland and England will scrape home against Scotland and carry off the title. Feel free to bet on it.

Talking of betting, we are now only two days away from the Cheltenham Festival. The Pig will be there on Wednesday and Thursday and glued to the screen for the first and last days. Bring it on.

I must mention the box set Groupie and Pig have just finished watching - not all at once you understand but over a couple of months. The Pig, and indeed the Groupie, were blown away by Paul Abbott's No Offence. Very,very good.

I can also (and here I spoil you I know) recommend an easily digested cinematic amuse bouche - Kenneth Branagh directs and stars in Murder on the Orient Express. 7/10.

TTFN.

It's No Wonder I'm Depressed

I use the word 'depressed' with all due caution. I am a manic depressive (I've got the pills to prove it) so I know whereof I speak. It's not really bad just at the moment but the signs are there and on this occasion it's not anything particular to me or mine, it's bloody everything else. The world is, and I've thought about this, weathering a shitstorm just at the moment. I'm not going to go ranting on again about Trump, but, really, the a man is a scar on the face of a great and important nation. And the American left is responding to him in all the wrongheaded ways so favoured by your proper leftists. Please someone, just realise that what is needed in the face of ignorant ghastliness is an outbreak of decency and humanity.

Of course the other thing it is pointless for me to bang on about is Brexit. What a complete and utter shambles. What a missed opportunity. How very British.

Knife crime - this one makes me feel like crying.

But enough. Snap out of it Dave, the happiest four days of the sporting year are almost upon us - next week is the Cheltenham Festival. To cheer myself up I have been crawling the net and getting contradictory betting advice to the point that I have now heard persuasive tips for practically every horse that will be saddled next week. No matter, BFP will venture into the betting jungle fortified by the thought that because last year was a financial disaster, this year is bound to be better. In his heart of hearts, the Pig does know that this is deeply flawed thinking. But he doesn't care.

So don't worry about the Pig. He's feeling better already. Writers write.   

All Of Life Is There

Cheltenham. I did something notable in its incompetence. For the second successive year I managed to go through the card on Thursday and get not a single pick-up, not even a compensating piece of each-way thievery. But enough of that. The day had its high points, not least the paneer peas at the Asian Grill at the end of the day.

transport of delight

Cheltenham. I saw the racing from all angles - one day in each enclosure. Tuesday I went down by National Express coach, a mode of transport I recommend. Best of all was the cabaret on the return journey provided by the drunken couple sitting immeditaely behind me. I say on the return journey but in fact their turn had run out of gas by the time we left the car park, as they both descended into a rasping sleep. Highlight of their ignorant spat with the driver was the complaint that we were an hour late in our departure, only for a fellow passenger to have to point out to the venting knob-head that the clock on the coach was an hour fast. His ire was all the more impressive because had that clock not been incorrect he and his noisome inamorata would have missed it. Mind you I bet they backed more winners than I did.

Cheltenham. Unsuitable clothes. Now, you may already be familiar with my strong belief that the skinny lurid blue suit worn with brown shoes is not suitable attire for any occasion but when skittering over the muddy car parks at the Festival it is plain comical. And someone needs to tell their girlfriends that chilly mid-March is not the time for exposed tattooed flesh and stilleto heels. Still it keeps me amused.

Tuesday was spent in the Tattersalls Enclosure, Wednesday in the Members' and Thursday in the Best Mate. Value for money? The Best Mate, where the betting ring was to my eye more vibrant than elsewhere. Perhaps it was because the bookies had been so successful in taking my filthy lucre off me. It must cheer them to see me approaching.

Yesterday's Gold Cup was a fabulous sporting spectacle, an apex of equine and human courage, but my highlight of the week was the imperious Altior, my only trumpetable bet of the week. 11/10 to a good stake.

even I had backed it

Expensive and exhausting. Roll on next year.       

Ruminations On A Year To Remember/Forget (Delete As Applicable)

2017. What to say? There is no doubt as to the person who hogged the news. An entire liberal class, in several languages, has been banging on about the one and only The Divine Combover, the supreme shit wagon that is Donald Trump. I'm sorry but even when the man does something laudable (low taxes anyone?) it comes across as self-serving and vile. Somewhere in the depths of the year I read a piece that argued for the bringing back into fashion of the word 'ghastly' on the premise that it best summed up Trump. Agreed, the man is plain ghastly. The great sadness - so is Hillary Clinton (though not I concede on quite such a grand scale), which rather explains how we find ourselves in a sorry old state where the President takes to Twitter to boast about the size and effectiveness of his nuclear button. Ghastly indeed.

It's a small thing (not something you'd ever hear Trump say - boom boom!) but in 2017 this blog passed its one hundred thousandth hit. Thank you.

Politics in Britain was almost as bad a joke as Trumpland. We had an election which Theresa May fought so ineptly as to defy belief. Jeremy Corbyn has come to look electable. Ed Balls is reconfguring himself as a cosy media personality. His former antagonist George Osborne meanwhile manages to project himself as an even bigger c*** as a journalist that he was as Chancellor. Brexit (and yes I know I voted for it) is being handled as brilliantly as the Tory election campaign. Mark my words - there will be tears, not all of them British.

Good thing: the drawn Lions' series in New Zealand, reminding everyone that there doesn't always have to be a winner. The hard-fought draw is honourable.  A great pity that this nostrum is lost on modern professional cricketers.

Bad thing: my betting record at the Cheltenham Festival. Not a winner in sight.

Good thing: the Cheltenham Festival.

Bad thing: my golf - infrequent and incompetent.

Good thing: Cleeve Hill Golf Club, where I played in the company of good men and true and my little brother won the Question Mark Trophy.

Bad thing: Donald Tru...... Oh sorry I've already done that.

Good thing: I'm still in there swinging.

Bad thing: I'm still in there swinging.

Here's to a year of sensible political resolutions, wise gambling and good golf. Some chance - I'll lay you 100/1 the treble. For those of you of a legal bent, this is an invitation to treat not an offer susceptible of acceptance. Just thought I'd make that clear.

Happy New Year.

Advent 1

Horse racing may not be, as is sometimes claimed, the only sport where the competitors are followed round by an ambulance, but I think we can agree that it is bloody dangerous. That danger does add a frisson to the spectacle, an uplifting (both literal and metaphorical) alliance of man and beast.

I cannot see that it is really possible to argue against the formidable Sir Tony McCoy as the greatest to have been legged up, but my list is based rather more on the emotional involvement I feel/felt in the endeavours of my subjects. Which brings us to that supreme and courageous stylist, John Francome. He carried his gifts into the realms of television and fiction after retiring from the saddle and I can confirm (don't you just hate name-dropping) that he is as wry and amusing in person as he is on screen. At least he was for the fifteen minutes I spent with him. They say you should never meet your heroes, but in this case they would seem to be wrong.

He rode (at 5/1) the first on-course winner I ever backed and that financial gain - one pound blissfully transformed into six - had me hooked. 

Search Party On Look Out For That Twin Impostor

Triumph never did turn up at Cheltenham, or rather he did but he wasn't talking to the Overgraduate. It wasn't all despair but I do seem to have developed an unhealthy knack for backing horses that come second. A couple of reversed photo-finish results would have made a world of difference to the now unpopulated wallet. But, did we have fun? Of course we bloody did, notwithstanding the mildly troubling arrival of slut dropping in the marquee in the Best Mate enclosure. Why do these people bother coming racing? Mind you, the sporting view from the cheap end of the course, if positioned on the crown of the bend, makes you wonder at the wisdom of paying more than twice the price to be in the posh end.

slut dropping optional

And now I am settling down to enjoy the final afternoon of the Six Nations in the company of a bottle of rioja. I can always learn my lines tomorrow.

Oh by the way, as atonement I did pick the winner of the Gold Cup yesterday, an event I imbibed by radio whilst sitting in traffic on the M6. 

Where's The Other Impostor?

Those twin impostors - triumph and disaster. Trouble is, in Festival betting terms, triumph seems to have gone awol. My run of losers goes right back to the first race of Cheltenham 2016 when Altior obliged. Since then the only relief has been a few each way pick-ups. It can't be my lack of skill and insight so what can the problem be? Oh well, tomorrow is another day. In fact tomorrow is the best day of the sporting year - the Wednesday of the Festival. This is the day on which our beguilement by the Festival started all those years ago. Deep Sensation at 12/1. Bill and I were on it. Days of wine and roses indeed.

I partook televisually today, ITV's first day of Festival coverage. They made a pretty good fist of it. Ed Chamberlin is a fine anchor and A.P. McCoy and Mick Fitzgerald add modest expertise. Not quite so good is that dreadful oik Matt Chapman. He clearly knows his stuff but has as much class as a bag of spanners. Nor does Victoria Pendleton add anything to the mix. But today was worth it, if only for the charming interview given by J.P. McManus. Being rich and unassuming is a difficult trick to pull. More power to his elbow.

I'll have £400k on the favourite please

I mention that my last Cheltenham winner was Altior. He won again today but at prohibitve odds on. Perhaps I should develop the cajones of the punter who risked £400k to win £100k. Or even the balls of the bookie who laid it.

You know what, in the warm glow of expectation I think I can feel my luck turning. Bring it on!

How Tiresome

Isn't politics just wearying at the moment? This was brought solidly to mind as I listened to the sound of a man drowning live on air this morning. It was of course the feeble Jeremy Corbyn. He must be the world's best-known nonentity. After the complete botch that 'Spreadsheet' Phil Hammond made of his Budget last week, savaging the government ought to be like shooting fish in a barrel, instead of which Jezza meekly climbs into the barrel himself.

Today that awful Nichola Sturgeon has piped up about having another independence referendum. I'm afraid I'm very much of the 'let them have their freedom' school of thinking. Just see what  a complete basket case SNP Scotland would become - such a scenario is the major hope for the renaissance of Scottish conservatism. And please don't start me on Northern Ireland - I love the place and the people but when it comes to politics, well, a plague on both your houses.

Big Fat Pig's pension plan

Only one day until Cheltenham starts. Get on! I see they're predicting a Scoop 6 pool of £600k on the first day which I'm pretty sure I should be able to win, so that will be nice.