On course to go on-course
Thank God today was the end. The end of who’s your banker, what’s your nap, what do you fancy, who’s the likely one, is she any good, no chance over fences, no chance under fences, no Ruby this or McCoy that, no heavily fancied or luck of the Irish, no now they’re off and here they come, no more hardy freaking leppers.
Talking of lepers.... yesterday’s fancies were as miserable a group of cripples as ever stood in horseshoes. For once there seemed to be agreement from my moles in Cheltenham. Lounas in the first was the common tip, as was Saintsaire in the 4.40.
Both warned me off Kauto Star rather forcibly, for financial reasons so obscure they would have defeated the Governor of the European Central Bank. That message was burned across the cerebral cortex so deeply that when a nice lady held the door open for me in Cashman’s bookmakers by Parliament Bridge yesterday, I hissed “Stay off Kauto” to her.
And repeated the dose to her dog just for good measure.
For the sake of it, I backed another couple of horses apart from those tipped by the men on the spot: Black Harry in the 2.35 because Ruby Walsh was on it, and State of Play in the Gold Cup because I enjoyed the tv show of the same name and the main actor, John Simm, has the look of a jockey. (Before you start mocking me, how much money did you make at Cheltenham?)
As you all now know, Kauto Star won the Gold Cup.
Of COURSE it won the Gold Cup. By not backing the hairy yoke, I clearly conferred supernatural speed and luck on its hocks and haunches. If the race was a few weeks earlier the horse would have won an Oscar, a Pulitzer Prize and Masterchef Goes Large.
Now, you may not have made a lot of money from Kauto Star yesterday, but at least it gave you bragging rights. You were able to say you had a winner; you could breezily declare to all and sundry, “Yeah, I had Kauto . . .”
(Dropping the second part of the name confers an infuriating level of intimacy, though I understand that that intimacy would probably have had you burned at the stake in the fourteenth century).
By last Thursday it was beginning to sink in that the further away from the course your information came, the more reliable it was likely to be. At one stage yesterday morning I was trying to place a call to the only betting shop in Vladivostok, but the line was engaged. (Probably some other gobshite trying to “get” “on” “Kauto”, now I come to think of it).
However, I met the soothing voice of cynicism yesterday afternoon when a pal rang me: “You know the tips you’re getting . . .“
“From Cheltenham?”
A soft, soft laugh echoed down the line. I could almost see the gentle shaking of the head, the unspoken suggestion of ‘o you poor misguided fool’.
“O you poor misguided fool,” he said, “Moles is right. Do you think any of them have seen daylight this last week? Let me paint you a picture: it’s like a broker’s office the day after the Wall Street Crash, the bridge on the Titanic, the fall of Saigon - buy, sell, sell, barbarians at the window roaring in, a stench of b. o. and left-over mixed grills in the place, sweat-stains under the arms, papers and slips and pens and phones everywhere . . . and right in the middle, what happens? A text from you, over here and relaxing over a fresh-brewed coffee: any tips?”
Admittedly I was a little testy at this stage: “Your point being?”
“You’re wasting your time staying here for Cheltenham. You’d be far better off if you went over next year.”
Expenditure: €100; Winnings 0; Total deficit: €301.65.
