From Aintree to the cattle marts, cream always rises to the top

I didn’t go to the Grand National on Saturday. I was working. But I heard it on the radio, which is the same thing really. The only difference is you have to close your eyes and imagine you are there.

And this isn’t hard for me, because I have a terrific imagination. In fact, I probably imagined a far greater race, and day out, sitting in my old jeep in west Cork, than if I had gone across the water in the first place.