Racing

Ascot is already a bit of a blur in my memory – there was too much going on, and I was constantly being distracted.

My strongest impressions?

I suspect that John Warren is helping the Queen to get more fun (and success) out of her racing than  has ever been her lot in the past.

I suspect that Johnny Murtagh is the best jockey I will ever see. In addition to riding he is now a  trainer, with winners to his name. And let’s not forget how he rode a near-perfect race over hurdles at Cheltenham a couple of years ago (beaten a whisker). Is there no end to this man’s talents?

The nicest horse I saw all week was the 2-y-o Berkshire: special already, and likely to be even more so next season. He moved like a dancer, behaved like an angel, and accelerated like a Ferrari.

My other star, another 2-y-o, was the American No Nay Never. I thought he was carrying a trifle too much condition. How wrong can one get? You don’t break the 2-yo course record for five furlongs if you are on the tubby side. That was solid muscle. Unlike so many fast horses, he was very amenable to his rider’s wishes: early speed, followed by a two furlong “breather”, and then the killer punch. All that – and several thousand miles from home. Thank you, America, and well done, Ascot!

Culture

The culture shock of 2013 has been provided by a multitude of highly imaginative TV commercials provided by the betting industry.

William Hill features a young man (a teacher possibly) who dominates a classroom of adult  semi-morons by calling them ”People!” and demanding that they eyeball a blackboard. In another version he sits on a horse and bellows. In a third he searches a tall building and finds a horse tethered in the penthouse suite. This is certainly thought-provoking. Surreal is the word that springs to the lips.

Bet 365 has borrowed a voice-over from Eastenders which takes us right back to the post-war world when hoods roamed the streets of London armed with cut-throat razors and flick knives and were quite often hung for their trouble. I have my doubts if this is the way to the public’s wallets. But I may be entirely wrong. Gambling and the twilit world of mean streets and hard bastards may be subliminally linked.

The best of the bunch by a distance is Paddy Power. His very English punter demands to see the horses before he will have a bet, and Paddy shows him horses to die for; horses that could have been drawn by Hieronymus Bosch.

Apparently these creations  and several others are bent on encouraging punters to punt and to to buy “apps.” If they generate sufficient of that sort of trade we must respect them. As I do not know what an “app” is, their success or failure is not for me to judge.

I forgot Ladbrokes. One remembers the chap who shrieked and bounced in tandem with  the bold McCririck. Ladbrokes have resurrected the shrieker as a solo artiste. I am sure it’s a serious mistake. How many people enjoy being shrieked at? But again I could be wrong. Maybe Ladbrokes apps are flying out of the shops like starlings in autumn.

Rugby Union Football

Ever since God knows when, the three rugby giants of the Southern hemisphere have rubbed their hands in anticipation whenever the Lions paid a visit.

Why? Because each tour consists of a few Tests and a large number of “provincial” games. I think the present tour of Australia features nine games, of which six are “provincial.”  Now, in this particular case, let me make it clear that the Australians have played a pretty clean game so far.

[CORRECTION: SEE BELOW FOR A SKETCH FEATURING THE BEHAVIOUR OF THEIR CAPTAIN IN THE FIRST TEST AND THAT OF THE JUDICIAL OFFICER WHO PRESIDED OVER THE CITING PROCEDURE.]

Where was I? Oh, yes… ever since the Lions began touring the host nations have used the “provincial” games to put as many Lions as possible into hospital, so as to make winning the Test matches that much easier. I don’t think the subject is ever discussed  by the rugby fraternities of the three countries concerned, but I am pretty certain that throughout the southern hemisphere it is accepted as a patriotic duty for provincial teams to lay their bodies on the line and to lay the Lions’ bodies on a comfy hospital bed. That’s human nature and one has to grin and bear it.

But what is not human nature, and what one should loudly protest about is the fact that  after so many years of hospital visits and emergency calls for replacements from home, the Lions management still hasn’t got round to insisting on non-local referees for all tour games, not just the Test matches. As things stand, referees for the “provincial” games are still local, which means that even if the players are as pure  as the driven snow, there is always the strong possibility that the Lions will be playing against sixteen men, one of whom wields the whistle that must be obeyed. And in that regard I accuse Australia as well as the other two – the referee of the Brumbies match wore yellow and his impact on the game rivalled that of the fifteen in the yellow jerseys.

In WW1 the Allied infantry was described as “lions led by donkeys,” and within a few years steps were taken to improve the quality of the generals. In the world of rugby, how many decades have passed without any sign of common sense from those in charge of the Lions?

Neutral referees should be a fact of life in all tour games – end of story. In a way one can sympathise with the host nations: if a boxer is stupid enough to drop his guard and lead with his chin all the time, you can’t blame his opponents for taking advantage. It’s human nature.

NEWS FROM DOWN UNDER

Local footie team takes on a group of illegal immigrants as a token of goodwill. After three minutes the captain of the locals spots an immigrant face on the floor and performs a contortion in his successful endeavour to stamp on the upturned visage as a gesture of friendship.

Immigrants suffer sense of humour failure and blow the whistle. Talk about over-reaction.

At disciplinary hearing Chief-Justice Cocklecarrot clears throat and utters.

“I have seen televisual evidence which clearly shows you stamping on the face of an immigrant. Prisoner in the dock, how say you?”

Prisoner: “It’s a bum steer, your gracious lordship. Two of these rough immigrants knocked me off balance from behind, and the third bastard thrust his upturned face under my descending boot.”

Chief Justice: “My dear fellow, I hear what you say. Your story is by no means implausible. Do you have any engagements in the near future which would be affected if I were to send you to Devils’ Island for the rest of your natural?”

“Indeed, your gracious lordship, I have an engagement this coming week-end at which I was hoping to stamp…”

Chief Justice: “To STAMP?”

Prisoner: “To stamp my authority, your majesty. I am the captain of my team.”

Chief Justice: “For a moment I feared…  that you were about to say something that we both might regret. Of course you must honour your obligations. You leave the dock without the shadow of a stain upon your character.”

Prisoner leaves dock to roars of applause from the packed ranks of rugby grandees, their faces radiant in the knowledge that they have been resolute in their determination to rid the game they love of the cancer of foul play.

Grandees gravitate to nearest bar where they are joined by the chief justice. Gins and tonic all round.