A winning day brings some relief, but still down overall
Not sure who supplied that slice of wisdom — probably Paddy Power — but after two miserable days I’d invite him to consider the corollary — the man who kept his hand in his pocket never knew how unlucky he truly was.
Still, the gaffer seemed to have good money to throw after that bad stuff he printed off for me Tuesday and Wednesday, so it was once more unto the breach.
An initial setback; I had been primed to launch a dizzying selection of doubles and forecasts to confuse myself into good fortune, but a trip to the shop for supplies allowed that ‘Ken Barlow had 1000 lovers’ headline catch my eye. From there, it was necessary, clearly, to assign the day’s allocated brain power to the greater good of calculating Ken’s run-rate. Kylemore missed the boat there.
Singles only then. And what do you know; an early breakthrough and swift endorsement of a snap decision to ignore the experts and trust all to chance.
I didn’t know of Michael O’Leary’s involvement when I stuck a pin in Sir Des Champs. If I had, I may have steered clear, since a couple of Mick’s charges this week appear to have been travelling to a destination 50 miles or so from the advertised finishing post.
It helped, no doubt, that Davy Russell didn’t hop off to sell lottery tickets en route, but this was one timely arrival and Ryanair fanfare I was happy to endure.
In the big bucks now — a fiver at threes — there was obviously only one place my winnings could go in the World Hurdle. But first, a nibble or two. The cooped-up Brian Gleeson was grousing before the 2.40, sending an occasional barbed message to the bean-counters in Montrose. “Noble Prince is extremely weak in the market. It’s difficult to know why, sitting here in the studio.”
This time Poquelin fell out of the Gods’ lap and had the good grace to excuse himself before the off rather than deplete my pot, biting his tongue by all accounts. I took it as a sign to call off my own nibbling.
Jimmy Nesbitt’s horse won the chase, but I had no cold feet before the big one. Twenty on the nose and — Lord be praised — Ruby brought me up the hill in good shape.
The man beside me in the bookies had an interest in Voler La Vedette so we were cast, temporarily, as rivals. But he was a gallant loser. By the shape of his scattered docket he didn’t have her each-way, but it turned out his heart was broken — not by a few quid lost — but that he wasn’t over there to see it this year.
“Ah that’s why Cheltenham is marvellous. It doesn’t matter about the money. These are just great races for lovers of racing.”
Preoccupied as I was by excited mental arithmetic of my profit margin, he knew well I didn’t fully appreciate what he meant, so he carried on.
“Look at the jockeyship there. Ruby went deliberately to eyeball the second horse — get the battling qualities in Bucks up and intimidate the smaller mare. Lynch knew what he was doing and manouerved to avoid it, but he had no choice but to face up to him on the hill.”
He might, of course, have spent his time as usefully talking to the wall, but as he said his goodbyes, you hoped kinder times would allow him make the trip next year.
Criminally unabashed my by ignorance, I threw a stupid tenner the way of Niceonefrankie in the Byrne Group Plate and was home before him.
Still it had been a better day. We’ll go all out tomorrow.
Running Total: Up €21 on the day, down €19 overall.
