Saturday 15 September
Bets = 23. Winning Bets = 2. Losing Bets = you do the maths!
Munching cornflakes and scrutinising the Scottish football tables. I wonder whether Stranraer can draw at
East Stirling. Two further questions come to mind. Who was the first person to look at a cow and think ‘I'll
squeeze these dangly things between her legs and drink whatever comes out,’ and did Malcom X win the
football pools every week?
I look to The Morning Line inmates for clues as to whether Lucarno will stay the Leger distance. I was
impressed with the manner Lucarno won York’s Great Voltigeur and can’t see any of those behind that day
reversing form. But will he stay? Channel 4’s panel of luminary punters think Goseden’s horse will see out the
14 furlongs, but prefer the chances of favourite Honolulu. J Murtagh is a guest and exudes confidence about
his mount’s chances. A replay of Honolulu’s rattling surge up the rail to finish a closing second in the Ebor
sets my pulse racing. I’ve gone from Lucarno to Honolulu before you can say ‘hula.’ The Femail speculates the
SP will be restrictive come Leger kick off and I’m straight on the telephone. My boss wants to know why I’ve
woken her on a Saturday morning and asked for a price on Honolulu? I apologise for dialling the wrong
number, she mutters something about too much drink and then offers me 9/4.
Saturday morning TV has been invaded by cookery programmes. I’d love to turn up on Ready Steady Cook
with just a bag of old spuds and Pot Noodle and say “ok smug chef, make something tasty and delicious out of
these.” Hugh Furnitue Wheelbarrow, for whom roadkill is a tasty and nutritional morsel, fancies the human
placenta as an appetiser. For your cooking notes, it is best flambéed, puréed and then served as a pâté.
Yummy. Yummy Mummy in fact. This is all too close to cannibalism and I make the first visit of the day to
fingertip sanctuary, Ceefax.
***
For the 10,561st morning I rush to the letter box in the vain hope of receiving a reply from Jimmy Saville.
And for the 10,561st morning I am disappointed. Jim may have fixed it, but he fixed nothing down our street.
Admittedly, I’ve changed address umpteen times since writing to Jim thirty years ago and I’m not sure I want
to meet The Nolans anymore, but children’s dreams are at stake here. I wrote in my best handwriting too. I
decide to pen a new request to the cigar-chugging Saville:
“Dear Jim, please can you fix it for me to win the Scoop 6.”
***
The Betting Shop is full of the usual suspects. The regulars are now provided with free refreshment, made
and supplied by the trainee who would rather be anywhere else in the World than behind the counter and in
this shop. The empty mugs and biscuit crumbs on plates make me think I’ve wandered into a Salvation Army
coffee morning, with the cast of One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest. The obligatory man-with-the-dog
(every bookies has one) offers racing advice to the South African jockey from the comfort of several
thousand miles away. I don’t have the heart to tell the man-with-the-dog it is unlikely the South African jockey
can hear him, but at the distance, the jockey does indeed follow man-with-the-dog’s advice (i.e. hits his horse
very hard with the whip) and prevails by the shortest of heads. Man-with-the-dog proceeds to offer shrewd
advice and berate the cartoon jockeys at Portman Park, to the acute embarrassment of his dog, who tries to
hide under the table.
Scoop 6. Race 1. Atlantic Sport never lands a blow. I hope Jim’ll Fix It receives the letter shortly or perhaps
some brightspark at the Tote will introduce the Loser 6.
Placepots down.
