Agony

My last couple of posts seem to have have rubbed some of you up the wrong way, and my postbag is bulging with letters. Some of the respondents are mad, and some quite sad. I have selected one of each, for your delectation.
Please note; I do not enter into personal correspondence, and my trusty P.A. sifts all mail, to save me from anything too upsetting.

The first is from a Mr. D Redwards of the Marxist-Leninist Workers' Rights Co-operative Street Dance and Theatre Group (Highgate branch), and was hand-delivered by his chauffer. Mr. Redwards takes issue with my comments on left-wing dictatorships.

He writes; .... 'Cuba is a workers and peasants paradise, a bastion of socialism in a region terrorised by Yankee imperialist oppression, and anyone denigrating the living revolution is a dirty, lying, thieving, cheating, fascist, capitalist bloodsucking bull-boy who will meet a sticky end come the inevitable victory of socialism, as predicted by Lenin.
Capitalism will eat itself, and when the great day dawns, the poor, the downtrodden, the oppressed and marginalised will wreak terrible vengeance upon the vermin that make up the boss class; City fat-cats, corporate big-wigs, traders in human misery, stockbrokers, and all the other leeches that have grown fat feasting on the blood of the workers. The grotesquely bloated, fat, smug, complacent middle class scum will be annihilated....... the seeds of destruction have been sown, the people will have their say and they are ready. Bring it on. I yearn for the day I can stand shoulder-to-shoulder with my pastry chef as an equal, and not a capitalist lickspittle....'

Mr. Redwards goes on in similar vein for eight pages (in green ink) but I think we've captured his drift.
The second is rather different, but equally odd. It is from a Mrs. Nobinson, of North London, and here it is, in full;

Dear whoever you are,
I am writing to you about my husband, in desperation, as I know he likes to read your ramblings, and sees himself as a kindred spirit. Like you he is obsessed by gambling, and spends all day, every day, trading on Betfair.

Anyway, seven days ago I left for work as normal but didn't make it to the petrol station and ran out of petrol after half a mile. I trudged back home to be greeted by the horrible sight of my husband, who I had left in bed only 15 minutes earlier, vigorously rogering the yummy-mummy from next door. She was bent double, with her head in a wheelie bin. He had a look of pure joy on his face that I hadn't seen before. This was accompanied by what can only be described as demonic cackling. I was in such a state of shock, I couldn't speak, but turned and ran all the way to my mothers house.
Since that fateful day, nothing. Not a phone call to me, family, friends, work, no-one. I am beside myself. I know this semms weird, but I am lost. What would you advise?

Dear Mrs. Nobinson,

My advice to you is this;
Make sure you carry a can of petrol in the boot of the car.

Yours etc.

Sportstrader

Olympic hypocrisy

At the risk of upsetting some of my legion of readers by becoming 'political' (although if I was lampooning Americans would it be seen as such? I rather doubt it), I have been moved to say a bit after reading some prize herbert in the Independent gleefully announce he was cheering on all the Cuban Olympic athletes, but not the Americans. He is welcome to his prejudice, but Cuba is an interesting choice.

Now then, I well understand that it is everyone's right to dislike whoever they want(I have a few dislikes meself), but why do people who profess liberalism have such a love for totalitarianism, provided it is left wing? Remember the opprobrium heaped upon Pinochet? South Africa? Venture any criticism about Castro's Cuba and I can almost guarantee the response will be along the lines of : 'Cuba has more doctors and teachers per capita than anywhere else'. Really? Why is it that everything Castro says is taken at face value, and anything from the USA sneered at? Apparently, there have been 900+ assassination attempts on Castro. CIA must be losing their touch.

There is no free press in Cuba, no radio, no TV, trade unions are illegal, as is homosexuality. There is no freedom of association (public gatherings are outlawed unless organised by the state). Elections are derided as 'bourgeois'. The only women anywhere near power are the nubile youngsters who form Fidel's personal bodyguard.

One profession they do not have large numbers of is lawyers, because under a socialist system there is no need of them, as nobody is ever put on trial. 'counter- revolutionary elements' and 'enemies of the people' are locked up for decades in stinking prisons. Foreign travel is impossible. How many times have you heard some knobhead say 'x% of Americans haven't got a passport'? At least they have the option. 0% of Cubans do. The penalty for trying to leave is often death. Speak to a Cuban exile, and the response is similar to that of people in the Soviet Union who despaired at the 'useful idiots'(Lenin's description of them) in the West whose intellectual dishonesty made it easier for the communists to keep them enslaved.

Why do they persist with this political contortionism and moral equivalence? Partly, I suspect, because in their arrogance they can not admit to being wrong, which might explain why socialists want to control every aspect of your life, including your thoughts. An example of this is the demented leftie who says things like: 'how can an intelligent person like so-and-so hold such beliefs'?(usually meaning being a Tory, not hating Thatcher, or being religious). They, of course, are immune to such contagion, presumably because they are superior beings.

Strangely enough, their critical faculties are not applied to religions other than Christianity. Complaints about China hosting the Olympics focused on the occupation of Tibet (only been going on for 50 years) and the exiled Dalai Llama, who is treated with reverence as the Tibetans' 'spiritual leader'. This geezer was supposedly re-incarnated as a child as the 13th direct re-incarnation of the previous 12 children. This is never questioned. It is far more bonkersly incredible than any Western religion (imagine the hoots of derision if the Archbishop of Canterbury was described as our 'spiritual leader'). Why does no-one give a wibbly wobbly about Chinese oppression until some fruitcake in a tie-dye orange bedsheet turns up with the joss sticks?

The Peoples (lol) Republic (lol) of China, a human and environmental catastrophe, has been imprisoning, torturing and executing people by the boatload ever since Mao and his chums murdered their way to power. Mao is without question the biggest mass-murderer in history (he also violated hundreds of under-age girls. Mao's doctor once suggested the famously smelly dictator might visit the bathroom more often. Mao replied: 'I wash my prick in young girls' cunts'. Truly a man of the people).
Hitler was a Quaker by comparison: the only one to approach the Great Helmsman's tally is dear old Uncle Joe.

Yet, there exists, in Islington (natch), a restaurant called 'Mao's diner', with pictures of the evil brute all over the gaff. I would like to open an eaterie called Himmler's kitchen, with pictures of him looking ultra-swish in his S.S. uniform but something tells me the hypocrites of The Peoples Republic of Islington wouldn't like it.

Its a rum old world.

Olympics schlympics

Whilst I rejoice in the the success of our Olympians (with the exception of the sailors, equestrian types, and the synchronised wallies) I can not let the whole grotesque charade pass without comment. The Olympics have been grossly corrupted and inflated with the addition of daft non-sports, eg silly sailing events that only have 6 participants worldwide, beach volleyball(no peurile jokes please), and anything involving horses(one horse medallist geezer was 63. You stick Lester Pigott on a donkey and me on Shergar and I'll win. How can that be right)? You might as well include F1.

Also, anything involving judges is, by definition, subjective, and therefore should not be in there. How can medals be decided by someone sitting at the side saying 'Well, I think he is better than him, so I'll give him 9.98 and the other one 9.97'?

The proof that this is absurd is that never in Olympic history has anyone come from nowhere and caused a big shock in any event involving judging. The Eastern bloc used to award each other medals in their turn, now the Chinese have adopted the methods of brainwashing, child abuse, and drug taking perfected by the Soviets and East Germans(two of whom had to undergo a sex-change because they had been filled with testosterone in order to suspend puberty and promote muscle growth. Nice.)

Judging also invites corruption, which has been rife in the boxing for decades, with every African judge favouring the Cubans, which is why they introduced the new scoring system. The motto citius, altius, fortius (why Latin, not Greek?)should be used when consideration is given to whether something like gymnastics(more correctly 'acrobatics') is allowed in.
I do not doubt the skill, fitness, and dedication of its practitioners, but sport it ain't, nor is anything that makes it impossible for a casual observer to determine the winner. The Olympics should also be the pinnacle of any participants sporting career. Tennis? football? ...er, no.

It is absolutely bonkers that all these superfluous events are so colossally expensive, and over the next few years we are going to spend gazillions on them. Fortunately, our esteemed public servants in Parliament and Town Hall are renowned for their financial probity, and I am confident they will bring the whole shebang in on-time and under budget.

Rendundant prepositions, tautologies, non sequiturs, and assorted conversational faux pas

Thought that would grab your attention. I do like a snappy heading. Sitting at my desk watching Italy-Spain at the festival of diving, whingeing, cheating, moaning and crying that is Euro 2008 and what should my thoughts turn to? Why the linguistic incompetence of my fellow citizens of course.

Following my last rant about football-speak, here are a few of the myriad examples of the drivel I have to endure daily (or 'on a daily basis', as one of you lot would no doubt say).

Just seen the umpteenth football-fairy fall over like a giant buttercup. Are they playing in plimsolls? Or is the pitch saturated with hair gel? Anyway, enough of these preening pansies.

If you find yourself coming out with any of the nonsense below, then you should consider following the example of the boxer-philosopher Richard Dunn, who, at the end of his boxing career, decided to take himself off to a hut in northern Norway, where he taught himself Norwegian so that he could read Ibsen in the original. Good for you Ricardo.


'Added bonus'. They all are. If there was such a thing as a reductive bonus, it would be called a penalty. What people are sometimes trying to say is 'another bonus'

'Main protagonist'. Often used by those who shouldn't know better to mean 'participant'. A protagonist is the 'main player' in a drama, so if he is not the main one, he can't be a protagonist.

'Bitter and twisted'. Usually uttered by the unthinking, understimulated ignoramus to mean 'embittered'. Widespread among the lower orders, along with verbiage such as 'he/she turned round and said'. Their empty heads must be spinning with all those twists and revolutions.

'Fraction'. As in 'fraction of the cost', intended to indicate something very small. My maths is rubbish, but I think nine-tenths is a fraction, and my abacus tells me it equates to 90%: quite a bit.

'Rape and pillage'. How many people who use this expression would say 'pillage' without prefacing it with 'rape'. If I were a betting man, I'd wager very few of them know what it means. 'Rape' is almost certainly superfluous(although I've always enjoyed it).

'Opening gambit'. Define 'gambit'. Thought not. When did this creep into the vocabulary(lol) of the linguistically limited? Are we a nation of clandestine chess-lovers? If so, it is the best-kept secret since the wit and wisdom of Leslie Dennis.

'General consensus'. Boringly over-used. Surely everyone knows a consensus is a general agreement? Don't they? Gawd elpus.

'Free gift'. I'll leave you to work that one out yourself.

'Meet with'. Try meeting without.

'Decimate'. Usually used to mean 'destroyed' or 'annihilated'. There is a clue in the word itself. One in ten. Not too bad a 'result'. lol.

There are lots of other examples. I might return to them at a later date. At the moment I am distracted by Samantha eating a large ice cream. She says she loves licking the nuts off a large Neapolitan.

Unspeakable

One of the few downsides to sitting here gambling like a loony day and night is the necessity of watching and listening to the gormless twerps and illiterate goons that populate the racing channels. I was intending to launch into a deconstruction of horse-racing speak, but my gay friends assure me that most people aren't interested. Hard to accept, but instead I've selected a few choice examples of football-speak that always appear when a group of bores get together.

'He always gives you 110%'(some supermen give a startling 120%). No wonder I didn't make it as a professional footballer. Lazy bugger that I am, I steadfastly refused to give any more than a miserly 100%. If only I hadn't held that little bit back then who knows what might have happened. I could have been the first Wayne Rooney(certainly ugly enough).

'Back of the net'. Where's that then? Where's the front of the thing? How about 'goal', something you hear remarkably rarely considering it is the object of the exercise.

'Finish'. Never shooting, or scoring or missing, but 'a nice/poor finish'. When did this become common, and why does every one of the bastards have to say it?
The only people entitled to talk about a 'nice finish' are plasterers or masseurs.

'For fun'. A centre-forward that scores a few goals is always described as 'scoring goals for fun'. Really? If that is what the moron does to amuse himself, then why doesn't he do it more often? Of course, what he really does for fun is to count his money and manipulate his furry parts at the same time.

'Result'. As in 'getting a result'. If you get beat 10-0, that is a result.

'Down to the wire'. This one drives me crackers. Why has everyone adopted this expression, used in North American horse racing?(I'm sure you knew that). If it didn't go down to the wire, it would never end. Others I can't abide are 'rookie', 'left field', and 'the whole nine yards'.

'Left foot'. As in 'lovely left foot'. Are left feet naturally more beautiful than right ones?

Strangely, football drones never talk about a 'level playing field' or 'moving the goalposts'. It seems these expressions are too embarrassing, even for them.

There are myriad other examples. Why does this happen? I'll tell you. People hear it from a semi-literate talking head on the box and this lends a sort of legitimisation along the lines of 'well, A. Pundit must be an authority on this subject because he's on the telly, so I'll copy what he says'.
Mr. Pundit, of course doesn't know where he got it from either, so the whole country ends up adopting the speech patterns of unoriginal, unintellegent non-thinkers. It wouldn't be so bad if the pundit was someone like Brian Sewell or Richard Dawkins, but that is depressingly unlikely.


If you find yourself coming out with any this brainless blather, lock yourself away with a copy of Apologia Pro Vita Sua, and don't come out until you can recite the whole thing.

Samantha has just cast her lovely eye over the above, and echoes my exasperation at the intellectual supineness of the average Briton. She has popped in with an antique she is restoring. She is gently dusting it while the world's worst punter scrapes varnish and wax off next to her. He is incorrigible.

Chester

Chester races. What an agreeable vista. Roman walls, magnificent Tudor oak buildings, 18th century English landscaped gardens, immaculate flower beds in full bloom, radiant ladies in summer frocks, gentlemen splendidly attired in Panama hats and linen suits. All at the heart of this ancient city, no ugly trains or buses and not a car park in sight.

Only a churl would find reason to complain, so here goes; For a start, its too bloody hot. Oscar Wilde agreed with me when he said the sun should be avoided because it impedes rigorous thought, and who would argue? It is no coincidence that the biggest khazis in the world are also boiling hot, whereas the most progressive, successful, and civilised nations are situated in temperate climes where it is usually bloody freezing. You don't have to be Edward Einstein to work out why.

Maintaining one's cool and dignity while standing around all day in blazing sunshine seems effortless to our European chums in France and Italy but your average Briton just can't be arsed keeping up appearances. As soon as two or more people have gathered, out comes a bottle and the race to get 'wasted' or 'slaughtered' or 'shit-faced' begins in earnest. Note the vulgar aggression explicit in the descriptions of inebriation. Not for the modern-day Briton the more mellow 'cheerful' or 'tipsy' or even 'drunk'.

It is not long before hysterical shrieking breaks out as once-elegant ladies, now with smudged make-up and broken heels, gallop in an ungainly manner to the one khazi available to them, gathering up their bits as they fall out of their disintegrating outfit.
Chester geezer has by now removed his jacket, his shirt is hanging over his corporation, and his rolled-up sleeves reveal decidedly unsophisticated examples of body art. Of course, the main reason for the swift abandonment of decorum is that the Briton has plenty of self-esteem(as we are told we all must nowadays) but no self-respect. Hence, any request to tone down the inevitable foul language is met with precisely that, as is any suggestion that bottles and cans are not biodegrable.

There is another, altogether more sinister reason to be wary of Chester at this time, and that is because it is inundated by men of the Mersey on the lookout for easy plunder. One certainty about race meetings is that large amounts of cash are waved around and your average scally is adept at procuring himself plenty of it. Removing purses from unattended handbags or wallets from lurching drunks is absurdly easy for these creatures, who consider the appropriation of other peoples' property a legitimate expression of working-class rage.

All this was confirmed to me by a horrified Samantha, who had joined sister Laura(the public face of Stan James) at the three day festival. She said she had never before witnessed such examples of beastliness. Me and the worlds worst decided to take her out for a traditional British lunch to show that not all Brits were sweaty vulgarians. After sampling some of the his steak and ale pie, she decided she preferred my tongue in cider. Good girl.

It was the best of punters, the worst of punters

What are the chances of both the world's greatest punter and the world's worst punter appearing daily in the same place? Unlikely in the extreme, but it could well to be happening at Sportstraders. There was a flurry of excitement on the last at Catterick yesterday after the world's greatest tipped a 100/1 winner.

The world's worst punter, who wishes to remain anonymous(Martin Harley) then became very animated, having followed the greatest in at odds of 260. Sadly, only 25% of the return was trousered, as he bailed out for a guaranteed profit with the lollipop in sight and the fav pressing hard.
Never mind, it was nice to see the poor bugger's expression of child-like joy, rather than the customary wailing and groaning as yet another appalling wager goes down.

The Great One(who does not wish to remain anonymous) smiled serenely at this heart-warming spectacle, even his flinty heart being warmed slightly, up from its ususal temperature of -273.15.
Bringing some sunshine to world's worst, who has done his tonsils recently and was in need of a fillip, was almost as pleasurable as his own profitable wagering.

Oh no, its Thommo

For those of you fortunate enough never to have heard of him, Derek Thompson is a presenter on Channel 4 racing. He is also one of the most loathsome specimens ever to disgrace that discredited channel. I mention him because he has just wrongly called a race and cost some poor betting-in-running hilman hunter a lump of money. That this charmless, unctuous twerp has a job in broadcasting is an indication of how degraded Medialand has become.

He has been on my extensive death list for many years, and never out of the top 10. But you don't have to accept my word for his vileness. In 1995, Thompson was chief witness in a libel case involving, among others, Kieran Fallon, who, Thompson claims, admitted that he stopped horses winning. The judge found in Fallon's favour and Thompson's side had to pay substantial damages. It takes some doing to be exposed as a slimeball by someone as dim as Fallon. What follows is a verbatim account of Lord Justice Morland's summing up;

" ...you have to be satisfied that his account of the conversation is truthful and accurate and that what [Fallon] said amounted to a confession. I feel bound to say that Mr. Thompson's evidence has to be treated with caution, as it is riddled with inconsistencies. You may legitimately ask why would the plaintiff confide career-threatening information to an audio-journalist of limited acquaintance? Furthermore, Thompson is widely disliked in media circles, and justifiably so, as in all my years on the bench I have never encountered such a revolting piece of human garbage as the repellent creature before me. I'd string you up if I could, lowlife scumbag that you are. You ******* worthless, lying, cheating, thieving, verminous ****. Turd. I spit in your general direction. By Jupiter, I hate you Thompson, you gobshite. I'll clean your clock, you screaming bender, come here......"

His Lordship then leapt from the bench screaming "I'll do time for you Thompson" and dived headlong onto the witness, biting furiously as Thommo squealed like a stuck pig. He was only rescued from the enraged octogenarian's crazed Horlicks-fuelled assault by the intervention of his defence counsel, Sir Tinkleberry Snapdriver, QC, who got in a few sly digs himself.

The episode is recounted in more detail in Sir Tinkleberry's recently published autobiography 'Lying for a living', available from all good bookshops, and most bad ones.

By Jupiter indeed, Your Lordship, he really is.

Super System

The world's worst punter was in top form again this week. He seems to have a real aptitude for error. It is so accurate, so profound, it is almost a gift. In fact, he is definitely onto something, and should find a way of marketing it; Lose any excess pounds with The Harley Method. Proof-fooled by its eponymous inventor, Martin Jeremy Harley, it is certain to relieve you of the stresses and strains that come with having too much moolah.

The Harley method seems to go like this; Plug into your Notfair account and gently sing crummy pop songs to yourself, blithely unaware that anyone in proximity has to endure commentary from the 3.37 at Crayford leaking from your computer. When a race is underway, say things like; 'I fancy this'(er... why?) 'its getting up'(promptly falls down); 'he's had it'(no he hasn't); 'he's got a double handful' (a particulary irritating expression used by racing bores. It should only be used if you are grappling with a particularly agreeable pair of ladies funbags). This method has relieved the world's worst of about 25k this year.

There is another system used by an equally deranged sportstrader. It could be called the Dangerous Dickhead method. Here's last night as an example; While guzzling 8 pints of strong continental lager, trade simultaneously on Man Utd.-Barcelona, dog racing from Hove, horse racing from Towcester and Stratford, play poker, and have a French porno channel on in the background.

'1-0', 'hares running', 'they're off', and 'all-in' pop up simultaneously as the the computer screen goes nuclear with activity(accompanied by screams of 'vite vite'). The hapless herbert swallows his fag, pulls his keks up, and tries to make sense of the appallingly convoluted position he finds himself in. Needless to say, the greedy twerp does his conkers on every event, and it serves him right.

Rugby Yawnion

A few observations while sitting here watching the England-Wales kick n clap. Why is it that despite the referee telling everyone what to do(use it, roll away, leave it, offside) there are still so many penalties conceded, which are then converted into an unmerited 3 points? It is a matter of time before the ref scores a try.

Half the game is wasted on crooked scrums. Who gives a flying witch's fart anyway? The pre-scrum instructions 'paw', 'lie down', 'roll over', 'play dead' are particularly absurd.

Forward passes and knocks-on are ignored in a desperate attempt to get some action going. Could be watching the Supperbowl.

You are not allowed to knock someone over. You must 'use your arms'. Why? Might as well play poofball.

What is a ball-carrier? is it a new position? aren't they supposed to do that? is a footballer a ball-kicker?

Hard yards? roly-poly trundles 3 feet and falls over. Not that hard. Same goes for 'big hits'(tackles)and 'intensity'.(intensely boring).   

It must be the only game where you get a standing ovation for kicking the ball off the pitch. The crowd touches the ball more than the players.

If I keep on piling on the suet I might eventually be fat enough to get a game meself. Such is the dismal standard of athleticism of half the players, I don't think rugby union qualifies as a sport at all.

That's better. Turned over to watch Leeds-Hull KR. Nice to have the iron men of the handling code back on our screens. After laughing at Kenneth Williams look-alike Toby Flood, it is a pleasure to watch Leeds' Robert Burrow, the world's toughest midget.

don't chase losses

Every piece written by any so-called gambler includes this little nugget. 'Don't chase, there's always another day'. Cobblers. A proper geezer will chase down any amount on any subject in a desperate attempt to get his wonga back. The sense of relief at regaining your niagaras in the last race by backing 6 horses in a combination exacta at Towcester is a draining experience, but something everyone should experience at least 200 times in their life, as it is exquisite agony. Self-loathing and recrimination give way to a declarations of sobriety, discipline, study, and an end to frivolous wagering.

A boatload of lager is then required to 'celebrate' not winning anything. The next day starts with an earnest perusal of the Racing Post(dismal rag though it is), with the confident belief that two hours spent reading about every runner in every race to identify horses that 'can win', 'won't win', or are just 'bad value' and therefore must be laid, will reap dividends. If this 'research' is strictly obeyed, then profitable results are GUARANTEED.

Every time a delusional hilman happens to have a successful days punting he immediately ascribes his extremely short-term success to the fact that he 'did his homework' and if he only performed this task assiduously every day, and 'specialised' in 'what he knew' and he would be on the way to punting paradise.

Poor misguided fool. Analysis of gaily-attired midgets beating dim animals with sticks until they reach an oversized lollipop is not a scientific exercise.

Contrary to popular perception, gamblers are optimists, and it is an eternal verity among them that no matter how much they have lost, or how deep the soup they find themselves in, the situation is always redeemable.

Muesli

Formula 1. Dontcha hate it? I mention this only because it has been in the news recently, one for excellent reasons and the other a commentary on the degradation of the BBC. The news that the Beeb has splashed out 96 billion saucepans on this infernal excuse for a 'sport' further reinforces my view that it is run by screamers and mad feminazis.
When you think of the number of sports they have let go or chosen to ignore. Horse racing has been turned into a fashion show. How many racing fans are interested in haute couture? Zero. And how many non-racing fans will turn on thinking 'I'll just look at the fashions'. Also zero, so whats the point?
You could also purchase the greatest game of all(RL) for the price of one series of Eastbenders or Coronation Farm.

F1 is not a sport. It is hideously expensive Scalextric; squalid, garish, nasty, and pointless, much like its supporters. Have you ever met a motor sport enthusiast who wasn't a berk and a crashing bore? Neither have I. It is sport for the sort of illiterate philistine poof who reads Loaded or GQ.

The more edifying reason for it being brought to my attention is the story about the boss of F1, Max Muesli, son of the great Sir Oswald Muesli. Apparently, he has been filmed indulging in 'Nazi-themed sex parties involving whips, degradation, and bondage with 5 German prostitutes'.
The main reason he is being condemned of course is because of his old man; a 'fascist', and 'supporter of Hitler'. If he had been one of the many 'communists' and a 'supporter of Lenin' the bastards would probably join in. Anyway, sounds like a giggle to me. And no-one ever had a sexual fantasy involving 5 social workers and a rolled-up Guardian.

I agree that he should resign, but only because he sounds far too interesting to be wasting his time with the grotesque carnival that is F1. FU.

Attheraces

ATR (aka adtheraces), the world's worst TV channel, strikes again. I wanted to back the field right on the off(prices bigger) but missed it because they were more interested in trying to rake in 35p by showing an ad for 'Shark Finance'. Hard to believe a dedicated racing channel can still be showing adverts when a race has started. They must be potless because they squash in more ads than they do races. Even the 'presenter'(geezer shoe-horned into what looks like a toppled phone box) looks embarrassed.

It is apparent what a dismal channel it is by the state of the ads they carry: 'are you a moron? having trouble juggling all your benefits? fancy another layer of stone cladding on your house?want to take your assorted step-kids to Dismal-land Florida before they get pregnant or go to jail? no problem: phone DirectSolutions where one of our highly trained financial advisors will explain how to consolidate your debts into one daily payment, payable for life, and still leave enough for 20 Lambert&Butler superkings. Never have to worry about money again!' You won't have any.

They justify their interminable breaks on the grounds that, unlike Racing UK, it is free.
What is the virtue in having a free-to-air racing channel anyway? No casual observer will watch it, and any billy bunter will quite happily pay £15 a month for his fix. Actually, it isn't free, because you need Sky to receive it.

Some people never learn

Certainly not me. Being the world's greatest billy bunter and a blithering idiot are not mutually exclusive. After a particularly egregious example of 'fat fingering'(hitting the wrong button on the computer and chucking away 9k) the lid came off and I proceeded to do me tonsils, me conkers, me niagaras, me absolutes, and finally me wibblies, all in double-quick time. I am now abject and even more grumpy than usual. Gambling and playing poker when puddled has cost me brewsters over the years, yet I persist. It is either arrogance or masochism, I haven't figured out which.

Even the return of Samantha, back after her month-long(!) skiing holiday in the Swiss alps has not lifted the gloom. Apparently, she received quite a bit of attention, and I can well understand it. The sight of this golden vision gliding elegantly down the slopes, and then wafting into the VIP bar, and unleashing a coruscating smile that serves to bring into focus her glowing skin, gently burnished by the alpine sun, must have reduced the assembled troop of Eurotrash poseurs and sleazebags to gibbering wrecks.

Actually, even though she is looking as pulchritudinous as ever, she is somehow a tad less jolly, even a bit careworn. What is it that irks her? Maybe re-aquainting herself with the jabbering baboons in here has served to remind her of the fact that she is associating with her social and intellectual inferiors? Because, By Jove, she is. Or is it something more deep-seated? Maybe the constant hassle and attention from every male, and spiteful jealousy from every woman is giving her the pip? It must be tiresome holding a conversation with someone knowing that the person you are speaking to is only thinking of rogering you or scratching your eyes out.

If this is the case, I hope she sees this and comes to me for advice. I too used to be the focus of unwanted attention; enough to upset the balance of my mind. This may seem like the ultimate male fantasy, being pursued by hordes of women not interested in 'talking', 'love', 'commitment',or 'respect', but who just want to gratify every sexual desire you can think of, and some you hadn't. At first, one thinks, Jeepers! this is a giggle, but it soon loses its lustre. It is actually soul-destroying, and leaves one feeling empty, worthless, uninteresting, a mere plaything, used as a sexual acrobat, casually discarded after 'performance', similar to a champion racehorse that is retired to stud and wheeled out thrice-daily to service a panting mare.

Eventually, things became so bad that I resolved to do something about it, and it was a drastic measure, one that Samantha probably wouldn't be able to accept. I decided to force people to judge me for what I am, not what I look like. I chose plastic surgery. And I had the lot. Lipo-injection, a facedrop, nose-flattening, hair removal, tooth-blackening, you name it. The change was dramatic. I was unrecognisable(handy for avoiding my creditors). People started ignoring me rather than perving; no more ogling, groping, staring or unsolicited attention. I felt valued, enthused; I have found myself. I am comfortable with who I am, and happy in my own skin.

Greed

Another lifelong mental foible that I manage to carry over into my wagering activities is something that is, in me, the most over-developed of the seven deadly sins(of course I perform all of them). This one is greed. Yet another example of this showed itself at Kelso today. Laid a nag in a laying strategy outlined in an earlier notice (see 'Racing certainty' if for what is actually very sound advice) and then watched the race at SportsTraders, grubby mitts hovering over the mouse in readiness for evasive wagering should the race go against me.



As usual the beast went off in front, but was surrounded by rivals approaching 2 out and layers over-reacted, pushing the thing out to 100, even though it stays longer than the mother-in-law, and is as game as a pebble. A gilt-edged opportunity for a nice trade; laid at 4.8, chance to back it at 100, a veritable no-brainer, as people with no brain are wont to remark.



Not good enough for old greed-guts here though; couldn't bring myself to part with a miserable ten quid to remove all risk and guarantee a reasonable profit. You know what happened, the blasted nag battled back and held on all-out to win. Instead of whoops of delight, all that could be heard from behind my trading station were muffled squawks, growling, a long drawn-out sigh, and disturbing declarations of self-loathing.


Too greedy. Not parting with a few saucepans ended up costing a me a lump.

Greed is most definitely one of my top 20 personal defects. In fact, it is probably in the top 3(no mean feat).

So rare is it that my rancid gob is free from obstruction by alien objects that it is surprising I still manage to bore everyone rigid with with my demented rantings.

Racing Certainty at SportsTraders

Here's an easy way to guarantee that your notfair account is constantly topped up. Select the 'most popular nap' from the Racing Post each day, lay it for a uniform amount, and you will see a steady accumulation of your cash with a return of 2000% normal.

The only nuisance is having to buy the Racing Post every day(it is a dismal rag) and selecting the correct time to lay the wretched nag. Sometimes it will be efficacious to lay the thing early on in the anticipation of a drift(bad weather, proximity of Ladcrooks price), other times the price available might be too big, necessitating a watch to be kept on the market, which is not convenient for the casual billy bunter.

Fortunately for the lazies amongst you, or for those who do not have any interest in racing(apparently such creatures do exist out there in Poofterland), notfair have introduced an SP option, which means you use the guidance of other users to determine the price at which you lay. This will lead to a diminution in your return, as the SP is open to a small amount of manipulation by traders, but is still well worth doing as I don't expect it to amount to more than a few %.

Should have started on January 1st, but joining now is still a good idea.

NB, do it every day, or not at all.

Trauma at Tramore

If it looks too good to be true........

Another example of why I/R traders are wary of Irish racing. Tramore is a sharp track, necessitating 3 circuits for a 3 mile chase. Most tracks are 2 circuits for this distance, something obviously ingrained in the small brains of leading jocks(but rare visitors to Tramore) Davy Russell and Davy Condon who went flat out for the lollipop a circuit early, and causing less experience riders in the race to cast doubts aside and join in, the upshot being all 14 horses pulling up a circuit early.

Shrewdies who were aware of this were able to lay the 'winner' at 1.8 safe in the knowledge that the result could not stand. Anyone who availed themselves of what seemed the amazing value of 1.8 about a clear winner should have smelled a large rodent(1.01 being the normal price on the line). Backers worst fears were confirmed when half a dozen runners started off on the 3rd circuit, no doubt galvanised by shouts from angry billy-bunters of 'you ******* dwarf ****, gerron withit'.
The eventual winner traded at 350/1, but only for small amounts, as traders were understandably wary of participating in a farce.

Afterwards a shocked and stunned Davy Russell, who thought he had won, was interviewed by ATR's David Duggan

Duggan; 'Davy, how do you feel about your part in that shambles'?
Russell; 'Shocked'
Duggan; 'Is that all you have to say'?
Russell; 'And stunned'

Lesson for all sports bettors; Why would anyone be offering such big odds about a horse that has already won? Those paying close attention knew there was something amiss, and were able to take advantage of others jumping on what appeared to be 'free' money.

'If it looks too good to be true.......

Patience

I don't have any. So anxious am I to have a trade, I will seek one out and find something that I am not too bonkers about, but is a reasonable wager. After losing several of these half-hearted trades I will alight upon something that really gets me grooving, but then look at the state of my account and see that I have wasted large portions on frivolous wagering-for-the-sake-of-it.



After cursing myself for being such a berk, I have to reduce the size of my investment because another loss would leave me in the soup. Even though I have located what I believe to be a good value trade, the volatility of this game dictates that one cannot go for broke just because one has found a bit of value. You can make some very sound trading decisions and still lose your money, but keep doing the right thing and you will emerge from the betting jungle with plenty of bananas.



Lord knows, I've said this every day for longer than I care to remember, and I wonder if this simple, irrefutable logic will ever trickle into my thick cranium. If not I am doomed to endlessly repeat the errors of the past. Depressing thought, but one I feel almost fatalistically resigned to. Strange. I think I might be barmy.