Slack Jawed Babbling

Day four was a dog-leg day: north from Staxigoe to Duncansby Head in the far top right of mainland Scotland before swinging west along the top of the world as far as Bettyhill. We passed close to Castle Sinclair Girnigoe again before skirting the bay beyond with its pristine yellow-white beach which we had glimpsed from the castle’s ramparts yesterday.   First stop was Duncansby Lighthouse, where we were lucky to find a park. For the first time, we had hit a populist bit of the NC500 tourist trail. Camper vans of all shapes, sizes and nationalities packed onto the verge parking. The lighthouse held a prominent view (as you would hope, to be fair) towards the Orkneys, Dunnet Head – Scotland’s most northerly point - and in the near distance John O’Groats where the sunshine glinted back from rows of yet more camper vans docked by the famous sign post. Their number was a shock at first, but we soon got used to the idea and it was really only at the most popular stops where they group...

I know Liverpool as well as any other British city. Probably better. From 6th Form trips  to check out the universities, momentous days at Aintree racecourse and right through to a sneaky post-lockdown outing in 2021, I’ve been a regular visitor.  Those early expeditions were liberating and a little wild. I knew mates who came to study here and I made plenty of journeys north-west from Stoke-On-Trent where I was attending the Poly. The vibe was addictive. Probably only on a par with Newcastle of the cities I knew. Scousers and Geordies have more in common than divides them. Certainly there was more happening than in the sleepy Potteries. Great gigs attended, top pubs and clubs crawled and new mates made. Liverpool was the first city where I discovered a bona-fide heavy metal pub. Wilsons on Wood Street was a sweaty, strip-lighted, sticky-floored, real-ale venue, with a powerhouse jukebox playing AC/DC and Led Zep classics; and walls plastered with UFO and Black Sabbath posters...

If Annie Power’s thrilling Champion Hurdle romp set the emotional bar high on Day 1, Sprinter Sacre’s extra-ordinary Queen Mum performance booted it into orbit on Day 2. I’ll bore rigid anyone who cares to listen about my love for this race as a fast-paced jumping test with no margin at all for error. The Black Aeroplane just sealed the deal on one of the most populist renewals ever run. The story of this horse with the film star looks has all the dramatic elements of triumph and tragedy - and triumph again – that we lap up. The perfume of vindication and restoration permeated the races on Day 2.   Phrases like ‘dreams do come true’ and ‘the power of sport to thrill and unite’ were bandied about Prestbury Park with all the misty eyed schmaltz of a Disney script reading. This is no fairytale though. It’s as 24-carat reality as the signet ring on Nico De Boinville’s little digit. Coming back from a fibrillating heart condition and other physical issues after carrying all bef...

All that late Summer flat smash-and grab-seems like a long time ago. Tiggy Wiggy, G Force, Nafaqa. Ah, splendid stuff. Now in the fag end of the season, confidence has leached away like a Tory safe-seat majority. The list horses are dispiritingly uncompetitive and I’ve inevitably hung on to some for too long. Over-a-cliff-itis. My Achilles heel. A twitter compatriot made me laugh the other day when he said his "nag-me’s" were coming through and now all he needed to do was work out why he had put them in there in the first place. I know the feeling. Outside the mini-projects that keep me interested throughout the flat, I’m finding that I’m off the pace in the big handicaps too; and properly struggling in the graded pool. Arc weekend was a washout in punting terms. Though it’s hard to feel anything other than warm, moist-eyed, tingly emotions at the performance of Treve in the big one. The style of her swooping victory was sensation enough, without the stellar training...

The New Year seems to bring a step change in Cheltenham Festival counting down. The crunching sound you hear through your laptop speakers is the mangling of website gearboxes. Electronic media seems to have cranked from 1 st to 5 th in an urgent drive to pump out Cheltenham stories. I’ve lost count already of Festival stories about jockey bookings, vague and uninformative running plans, Championship race entries and betting offers. So here’s my preview… Not really. (But I am weakening.) In amongst the Festival focus, I was intrigued by the reporting of BHA’s decision to ban Mad Moose from racing.   Nine months, at least, on the sidelines for the 10-year-old who has made a habit of refusing to race.  The BHA said Thursday's ban was put in place to protect punters. He blotted his copy book most recently at Sandown during the Grade 1 Tingle Creek Chase in early December. We were there. I have to say, a couple of our gang backed him at the outrageous prices on o...

It would be easy to get a little mawkish over the news that one of your favourite musician was dying. The temptation to crawl with a sentimental and slushy pen over career highlights is palpable. That situation is impossible with Wilko Johnson. The legendary r ‘n’ b guitarist announced in January that he had been diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer. He had refused debilitating chemotherapy which would only be palliative at best and instead was choosing to wring the most out of his remaining good health by going back on tour, and recording new material. This isn’t an approach that would work for everyone. But it is typical of Wilko’s unique way of dealing with life’s challenges. First the music media and then mainstream news began picking up on the story when he consistently and genuinely used terms like ‘uplifting’, ‘inspiring’, and ‘euphoric’ to describe his predicament. I challenge anyone not to be moved by the interview he gave to Radio 4’s  Front Row  a...