Saturday formula
There is a certain formula that guarantees a successful winter Saturday’s racing. The perfect day has to start with a bit of a lie in. Nothing ostentatious. I’ll stagger downstairs, rubbing gummy eyes in time to pay only partial attention to The Morning Line. An ailing, safe preview vehicle these days, I’ll mostly be distracted by making some fantasy football transfers (like dropping Leroy Fer today just before he bags a brace against Palace) or following an England sub-continental collapse, ball-by-ball, on Cricinfo (having finally ditched the Sky Sports package on the basis of outrageous price hikes). I’ll walk the dog - unless it’s raining - because I know there’s little chance of me doing so in daylight hours once the racing has started. On return, I’ll feel like I’ve earned a toasted bagel with marmite, or maybe an English muffin topped with runny fried eggs. Dammit. Maybe both. By the time the second coffee is washing down the late breakfast, I’ll be deep into