Stepping up in class at Cheltenham, including a new stand, broken false teeth, earwig corner and a bar dedicated to Himself and my arrival as a shrewdie

After visiting the gaffs it was time for me to take a big step up in class and visit the jewel in the jumping crown, Cheltenham.

Walking to the course wearing trilby, corduroy strides (not red I promise) and green tweed coat I could have easily been mistaken for Rich Ricci (although I suspect dear old Rich would not be walking to the course).

I wanted to get there early as Cheltenham has been subject to £50million investment over the past 18 months. I had been to a meeting once before, years ago, when Alderbrook won the champion hurdle.

Even then at the famous 'festival' it had become impossible to do more than one thing. If you visited the paddock before a race it was difficult to then find a position to view the actual action from. Getting a bet on as well as having a drink was completely impossible (although I concede that was possibly not an altogether bad thing).

On my previous visit I had decided to prioritise viewing the races, so had positioned myself in the stand prior to action. Once in there you cannot move, nor can the person next to you. Normally this would not be such a problem but on that occasion I struck unlucky. The man next to me had obviously had a number of quite large bets that morning, and as the races unfolded it was obvious his staking plan was somewhat less than successful. At least I presume that was the case as he loudly declared after each race that the one of the unplaced horses (I assume the one burdened with his cash) were 'dogmeat, dogmeat, that's what you are, dogmeat.'

Walking from Cheltenham station to the course it was possible to take in the faded elegance of this once genteel spa resort. Beautiful Victorian terraces, some turned into what council planners delight in calling HMO's (homes in multiple occupation) and apparantly engaged in some kind of wheelie bin fertility programme in the front gardens, nestled alongside villas ever so tastefully (and expensively) restored to their Edwardian grandeur.

For a myopic racing enthusiast like me the town of Cheltenham is just about the one thing. The park though was full of young mums out jogging with their all terrain pusg charirs, aparently oblivious to the marvellous sport about to take place on their doorstep. But of course the town is not just about racing. It is also the birthplace of Gustav Holst (was I the only person who thought he must have been born in Germany?) and the host for government eavesdropping. Yes Cheltenham is the somewhat unlikely home of GCHQ, the Beltchley Park of the internet age. Spooks keeping us safe and scaring us in equal measure. At the races I have often positioned myself at 'earwig corner' (i.e. between the paddock and the weighing room trying to pick up gossip snippets from talkative connections)  but I could still learn GCHQ.

On entering and viewing the racecourse itself I was struck again by just how complicated the actual track is. Taking the right course must be tricky for an inexperienced jockey, and I gather even after 20 years as champion that Tony McCoy refused to take part in the cross country race for fear of incurring a ban for going the wrong way.

There is certainly no shortage of places to eat and drink at Cheltenham. Competition is good for the customer so as a good Conservative I sad to find my faith undermined - the price of a cup of tea was £2.20 at all of the 20 outlets I checked.

After further diligent research I concluded the best bar by far was one dedicated to 'himself'. The Arkle Bar is a shrine to what for many of us remains the greatest horse who ever set foot on a racecourse. There are numerous press cuttings and momentoes of Arkle's career, and an even an Ankle ale which for a novelty beer was not all bad.

Reading the old press cuttings it was also interesting to see the reports alongside the article about Arkle's derring-do. The Sporting Life of Monday 9 March 1964 told us that jockey Johnny Blair 'broke his false teeth' and was (perhaps understandably) 'badly shaken' in a fall at one of the minor meetings on the same day as the Gold Cup.

Strangely another bar I was forced to check included a large picture of Martin Luther King (I can't believe he ever dreamed of backing a winner here) and possibly just to make me feel at home, an honourable mention of Sussex's victory in the first Gillette Cup.

Even stranger is The Centaur. It is an indoor viewing come conference area which reminds me of visits to the Great British Beer Festival at Earl's Court. There are various real ale stalls in a cavernous conference centre with a big screen which intermittently shows the racing action. It lacks a certain atmosphere but does get louder as the day goes on (for obvious reasons). There are bookies and the tote, and some people spend all day inside without ever venturing out to the track. I saw one lady in the seats on the first floor doing her knitting - and perfectly content she seemed too.

The first race received the additional boost of Ronnie Wood in the paddock to see his well backed (but ultimately unsuccessful) horse, Sandymount Duke, run. The old Rolling Stome was unmistakable, with his 'teenager just got of bed' hairstyle. In noting that quite a lot of 'product' might have gone into Ronnie's jet black look I concede there may have been an elemant of jealousy on my part.

Halfway through the day and my betting plan looked disastrous. One horse brought down when going well, another falling when in the lead and two unplaced favourites (thank you Ronnie) and it was beginning to be an expensive day.

It was increasingly looking like I was going to have rely on the 'lucky' last race, known by some also as 'the getting out stakes' (or more accurately in my case the getting in deeper stakes.'

But rescue from punting oblivion came in the form the new kid on the block, Dan Skelton. This former assistant to Paul Nicholls (and son of Olympic gold medal winner, Nick) has learnt a reputation for improving runners previously with other stables. 

In the fifth race Skelton had entered Mister Miyagi, previously trained by Emma Lavelle. Emma had a luckless time of it last season, not as she was a young admirer of Margaret Thatcher my socialist friends, but  because of a virus. Therefore not only was the horse likely to improve because of the Dan Skelton effect, it could doubly improve now it was virus free.

I lumped on (alright staked £20) at what I thought were generous odds of 13/2. Unbelievably the price then plummeted as a sustained gamble took the price down to 7/2 at the off. For once a gamble I was (admittedly accidentally) involved with paid off as Mister Miyagi was always going well before powering away up the Cheltenham hill for a comfortable win.

Obviously I cooly waited an appropriate time before collecting, hoping to hear whispers from punters on the next race about the 'shrewdie' who had been on at top price - maybe even a louder 'call the coppers' as I took hold of my new wedge. No harm in dreaming!

As for the new stand, to be officially opened before next month by the Princess Royal (it will bear her name), it looks impressive. 

Even better is the associated work which enables a panoramic view of the paddock. This will all be much better for the big crowds flocking next which to what we are supposed to call the Open Meeting, but many of us still know as the Mackeson (every nan's favourite drink).

My visit confirmed Cheltenham is in rude health, with the only downside that the Festival will dominate talk and all lazy TV pundit chat even more from now until March.

Cheltenham marks (out of 10)
Welcome/friendliness 6
Atmosphere 9
Betting ring (size, competitiveness) 9
Racecard (cost, quality) 6
Queues for bar 8
Viewing 9
Standard of racing 9

Total (out of 70) 56
Punting success - profit!

Seven Deadly Sins is another reminder of the value of a free press

Back in the early '80's Channel 4 was fresh and ground-breaking - no really it was. It may actually have paid its part in Britain's recent excellence at competitive cycling, for it was this new Channel which introduced the wider public in this country to the Tour de France.
There was 30 minutes coverage of the tour shown in a prime time early evening slot (the one now occupied by Hollyoaks).
I remember watching staggered at the feats of these cyclists, riding up mountains without seemingly pausing for breath, and the enthusiasm of the crowds.
Riders from the British Isles began to be competitive, with the eccentric Scot Robert (where is he now) Millar winning the King of the Mountains and the Irishman Sean Kelly winning the impressive sounding, if largely incomprehensible, points competition for the Green Jersey. Stephen Roche even won the tour in 1987.
Over the years my enthusiasm waned as it became more and more obvious that the prodigious feats of many of these seemingly super-human riders were actually frauds. The Tour de France became a competition between chemists, with clean riders the exception to the rule.
Obviously the most super-human feat of all was achieved by Lance Armstrong, recovering from stage 3 testicular cancer to win seven consecutive Tours. He was feted across the world in the highest places, and raised $millions for his cancer charity.
We now know he was fraud and it all seems so obvious. How could a man who prior to his cancer was a goodish professional cyclist, but not a particularly great climber, come back after gruelling treatment and be far and away the best rider the world had ever seen?
Using his cancer story as a shield, he fooled a gullible public and a compliant media for many years.
It took one brave man, the Sunday Times journalist David Walsh, to expose Armstrong as a cheat. Although it was 'only' sport, Walsh's reporting has to be up there with Woodward and Bernstein.
Walsh's  book Seven Deadly Sins has been made into a recently released film, The Program.
As with all movies this one struggles to capture the sporting scenes all that convincingly, although in fairness it is better than Escape to Victory! The story though is fascinating, and as a piece of film drama it works well.
For me it highlights how brave Walsh was, not so much in taking on the cycling establishment, but also in standing out amongst his press colleagues. Many of them were happy to continue cheerleading for a sport they must have known was basically bent, in return for access to the stars and being able to report the Tour for their papers and TV stations from the inside.
Walsh was ostracised not just by the cycling community (which he probably expected) but also by the rest of the media for challenging his own profession.
The film left me wanting to know more about Armstrong's closest team colleague, Floyd Landis. He was also American, but came from a strict Pennsylvania Calvinist background where riding a bike for pleasure or sport was considered a sin. Landis was so talented that he went on to win the Tour the year after Armstrong retired, but immediately tested positive for banned drugs. Landis reminded me of Hansie Cronje, the cricketer with a similar religious heritage, who ended up taking money for match-fixing. 
If you are interested in sport the film is well worth seeing - and it serves as a timely reminder of the need for a free press and what a public service sceptical, cynical grumpy old journalists can perform.
Oh and there is a enjoyable cameo by Dustin Hoffman.

Did Paddy get the priest in again?

With due apologies to friends from Brighton and Fontwell, I visited my favourite local racetrack this week.
Plumpton Racecourse has the advantage for a committed user of public transport of being next to the railway line. Access to the track for car drivers has become unexpectedly difficult in recent weeks, with a dispute between Network Rail and Lewes District councillors resulting in the railway crossing being stuck shut. This means that for anyone travelling from the north, there is an 8 mile detour. The argument goes back over 30 years to the days of British Rail. The crossing was one of the last to be operated by hand, and councillors have resisted all attempts to modernise it. Childlike stubbornness on both sides has resulted in this stalemate, and there is no sign of it being sorted in the immediate future.
Prior to the real racing at Plumpton on Monday there was a Shetland Pony Gold Cup. Obviously we all have to approve of this because it is a good cause (raising funds to look after retired racehorses) but forgive me for my lack of enthusiasm.
The jockeys look frankly comical.

They are nearly all related to trainers or owners (if you want to be professional jockey it is a huge advantage to have a dad who is a trainer). The ponies were paraded around the paddock. Flat jockey Seb Sanders - he of recent riding in his socks fame - was walking one round with a slightly embarrassed grin on his face. Some of the ponies even had cheekpieces fitted.
It was possible to have bet on the race but with an overround of 400% plus (16 runners with the outsider of the field priced at 7/1!) even I was able to resist.
Plumpton is another At The Races track, which meant this time the TV presenter was Derek 'Ho,ho,ho' Thompson. It is fair to say that Tommo's enthusiastic style of presenting does not always endear him to racing fans. I suspect he really does love the game but even I concede that he is so over the top that it can appear insincere. And I confess I have always been a little bit prejudiced against him since his premium service tipping line featured his voice declaring a horse to have 'been flying up the Newmarket gallops' when Tommo himself was actually in Dubai at the time.
There really is lots to like about Plumpton. It has a country feel but is easily accessible (not withstanding the railway crossing) from London and Brighton. There has been considerable investment in new facilities, the race card is informative and free and the viewing excellent. You can see almost the whole track from the stands, and they now have a permanent big screen.
For a small course it attracts some very decent horses, which suggests the top trainers like the place. For example, Uxizandre, won the handicap chase on the identical card two years ago, and then went on to win the grade 1 Ryanair Chase at the Cheltenham Festival the following season.
This thought did not immediately come to mind when Paddy Butler sent out his annual winner (at 25-1) with Killabraher House, in his first run for the yard. Even the ultimate optimist would not have Cheltenham on the agenda for him, but it was great to see Paddy have his win. He trains next door to the course, and  even Tommo would struggle to suggest his horses are ever flying up the gallops.
Some years ago Paddy had gone even longer than usual without a winner and being the good catholic he is, he called in the priest to bless the horses. I couldn't see the successor to Father Sean in the winner's enclosure on Monday, but it was great that the owners included two yellow-jacketed car park attendants. I gather they told the winning jockey, Marc Goldstein, that he could leave his motor wherever he liked at future meetings.
There were a few fallers during the day, happily all uninjured. Somehow the favourite managed to win the first (phew), despite being cannoned into at one hurdle, and having to dodge loose horses and the second favourite running out into the wings. As I experienced the relief of my selection passing the post, one fellow punter turned to me and said, 'Bollocks. Still at least it's just the first race. I was so unlucky once that I backed fallers in the first 4 races, and then my horse ran out in the 5th.'
And it's not only good horses you see here, there are also some celebrities who visit. I thought I saw the actor John Hurt, but I gather he is ill, so it may have been just a doppelgänger (oh to be mistaken for John Hurt). There was no doubt, I'm sure, that Sussex's best ever fast bowler, John Snow, was in the paddock.
Finally Jeremy Kyle may have made an appearance  Stars Royale is owned by the 'Friends of Jeremy Kyle' and was running in the novices handicap, sixth race on the card. Some cruel people may have unkindly suggested that the animal therefore had no owners. It is trained by Nick Gifford, who one normally shrewd observer had told to me 'couldn't train ivy up a wall.' Nevertheless the horse managed to plug on into second place, winning £1,240.20 for the great man's friends.
My only real complaint about Plumpton, is that they feel the need to employ not just a commentator during the race but also an ex jockey, Colin Brown, to tell us what is going on rest of time. The man just never shuts up. Nearly every horse in the paddock is described as a 'good walker', he tells us what a wonderful value bet the Quadpot is (no it isn't) and every now and then tells us a horse looks fit. Actually it might be interesting if he told us a horse is not fit, but I suppose he is afraid to upset his friends in the training ranks by doing that. Surely it cannot only be me who finds this endless wittering on somewhat wearing?

Plumpton marks (out of 10)
Welcome/friendliness 6
Atmosphere 7
Betting ring (size, competitiveness) 5
Racecard (cost, quality) 10
Queues for bar 7
Viewing 8
Standard of racing 7

Total (out of 70) 50

Punting success - profit!

Taking up the challenge

The reader of this blog has challenged me to do a Maurice, and visit every UK racecourse in a year.
I started at Fakenham on 16 October and have agreed, obviously reluctantly, to rise to the task.
To make it more fun I intend to grade each racecourse according to things which matter to me when I go racing-

Welcome/friendliness (things have got better in recent years but it still amazes me that some racecourse seem to regard racing fans - as opposed to stag do's, bouncy castle/face painting enthusiasts, pop concert goers etc - as a bit of a nuisance)
Atmosphere (totally subjective of course but it's my blog)
Betting ring (size, competitiveness) - robustness of ring, layers willing to take a bet, bookies that don't just trade on Betfair but give the punter chance ti take on their opinion
Racecard (cost, quality) 
Queues for bar  (I like a beer at the races but do not like queuing for 20 minutes to get one)
Viewing (it's important to be able to see the action - although the stag do's seem to not bother!)
Standard of racing (quality, competitiveness, number of runners)

Each category can be awarded up to 10 marks, giving an overall score out of 70.

I also intend to report on the extent to which I lost won money, but cannot promise to keep this up if it becomes too depressing.

This all may mean I have less time for penetrating political analysis but needs must.

Visiting the only attraction in Stratford without a Shakespeare theme

Did Shakespeare not like horses? I ask because Stratford racecourse is the only attraction in the Warwickshire town which does not proclaim its links with the bard. Even the Wetherspoons (yes what's not good enough for London Road, Brighton is still good enough for Stratford apparently) has a Shakespeare theme.
Perhaps the locals actually tire of all the tourists and the domination of their town by Ann Hathaway's cottage/bed/tomb/husband, and for that reason are so keen to support their local track.
Stratford is an urban racecourse, surrounded on two sides by houses and adjacent to an abandoned railway line. Saturday's meeting was its penultimate one of their season, for in contrast to Fakenham (scene of Friday's review) it is a summer jumping venue.
There is still a certain snobbishness in racing circles about steeplechasing during good weather. The ground needs watering (even in latish October the clerk of the course had 'selectively' watered) and the horses tend to not be much good, but judging by the crowds at Stratford the public still like it.
Stratford is a racecourse which also diversifies into a campsite as an additional revenue generator. This is fine I guess, but unlike the other courses which do this Stratford allows the caravans to remain on race days  From the chat around the course this weekend I gather there was some kind of caravan show (I know, I know) at the nearby Birmingham NEC this weekend, and a number of enthusiastic 'campervanners' had parked their pride and joys on the infield.
Fortunately the on course big screen saved the day, enabling us punters to see all the action (as well as the beamed in coverage of Champions Day from Ascot). By positioning myself at the entrance to the on-course Betfred shop it was possible to listen to Richard Hoiles Racing UK commentary and view my 'cliff'* horse, Found, come (inevitably) second again.
The betting ring was busy, with plenty of pitches in the jungle.

I was delighted to see legendary bookie Gary Wiltshire trying his best to not take £1 each way bets from a queue of tipsy women in the back row. Gary achieved fame notoriety for losing anything from £250k to £2million (depending who is telling the story) when Frankie Dettori rode his 'magnificent 7' at Ascot years ago now. Back in the day at Yarmouth Gary used to style himself as 'the belly on the telly', on account of both his size and his role as betting guru on the Sky dogs coverage. Nowadays he's 'Gary no longer the belly on the telly' as his rumoured gastric band means he less than half the man he used to be, and Sky have apparently ended his TV contract. 
In all honesty I prefer his new official moniker 'Gary Wiltshire and Sons - A Proper Bookie.' I had a small and appropriately unsuccessful wager with him for old times sake.
'Score on the top please Gary', I said, and I glowed with pride when the great man replied,
'You got it pal.'
Talking of racecourse legends it was a happy coincidence that the At The Races coverage of Stratford was fronted by former jockey, Luke 'leg lock' Harvey. Luke was a journeyman jockey who somehow managed to ride 250 winners but actually has turned into a remarkably good broadcaster (albeit I suspect the competition from Ascot meant his viewing figures on Saturday would not have troubled the ratings).
As for the racing itself it was not in all honesty a great standard. The second race was an 8 runner seller which had just one reasonable horse due to take part. This animal was duly declared a non-runner, leaving 7 truly poor contestants to do everything they could to avoid winning. Remarkably the winner, despite a total absence of any meaningful form, attracted a bid of 4,700 pounds oops sorry guineas and will now ply its trade with a new trainer for its presumably stary-eyed and in my estimation somewhat optimistic purchaser.

If all this comes over as a bit negative I apologise. Stratford racecourse may not have the atmosphere of a country track such as Fakenham, but it still makes for a good day out. I suspect if I lived in the Birmingham area I'd be a regular.
*cliff, as in 'follow off' 


Stratford marks (out of 10)
Welcome/friendliness 6
Atmosphere 6
Betting ring (size, competitiveness) 6
Racecard (cost, quality) 5
Queues for bar 5
Viewing 6
Standard of racing 5

Total (out of 70) 39

Punting success - lost.

Flat caps, whippets, cockles and the ATR cameraman bidding for the winer of the seller - Fakenham

This year I decided to eschew Champions Day at Ascot for the delights of the first meeting of the new season at Fakenham, and what a wise choice it turned out to be.
Gate staff at Fakenham, the North Norfolk racecourse are friendly. In fairness the bowler hat brigade at Ascot have got better in recent years but it was nice not having to dodge the tie police.
There was something of the first day of term about today's meeting. Friends who had been their separate ways over the summer were meeting up again, and everything was freshly painted, I mean, creosoted.
To be honest I did not know exactly what to expect. I knew Fakenham, by virtue of its location, is out on a limb a bit. That probably explains why a chap called 'Maurice' was interviewed before racing. Maurice had made it his mission to visit every racecourse in the UK and Fakenham was the last one on the list. I think if I was involved in the track I would want to know from Maurice why he'd had left my track till last, but far from being offended the Fakenham folk even arranged for him to present the trophy to the winner of the big handicap chase on the card.
There was part of me that thought it would be all a bit rustic. The course is the tightest jump circuit in the country; Chester with obstacles. I even made a feeble joke about NIN - the old doctor shorthand, normal in Norwich - which went justifiably flat en-route. 
Turnips and tractors it is not. This is a course that makes you welcome, lets you watch the action in exciting close up and attracts some top class names. Grand National winning (x2) jockey, Leighton Aspell was there. Nicky Henderson and Paul Nicholls blooded highly promising novice chasers that could easily feature at the Cheltenham festival next March, and all this was watched by a large, knowledgable crowd.
Obviously the bookies were understandably nervous 

seeing a reputable judge like me turning up (I've always been faintly deluded!) but it was possible to get a good bet on in what seemed to be a robust and competitive ring, with even some layers willing to back their judgement rather than just arbing on the exchange.
Anyway enough of the technical punting/racing stuff - I heartily recommend Fakenham. Tea and coffee for £1.20, nissan huts containing a packed turn-up and eat seafood restaurant,

home made scones, cockles £3 a punnett and exciting racing.
There were flat caps a plenty, 3 whippets being walked and (Sir) Robert (er, umm Bob) Cooper was extolling the joys of the course in his own idiosyncratic style on At the Races. 
Even unflappable Bob seemed momentarily alarmed when his cameraman made a bid for the winer of the seller after the first race. But he is right - Fakenham is a country course, with Norfolk charm and excellent facilities. There's no face painting, bouncy castles, hen or stag do's or after racing pop concerts because it is the horses who are centre stage. I heartily recommended a visit.

Fakenham marks (out of 10)
Welcome/friendliness 8
Atmosphere 8
Betting ring (size, competitiveness) 6
Racecard (cost, quality) 6
Queues for bar 5
Viewing 6
Standard of racing 6

Total (out of 70) 45

Punting success - profit!

This year my cooker's not working

Location is the Co-Op Blatchington Road, Hove. I'm the customer who buys the Racing Past in there.
Elderly lady (who I now know is Lily) to deputy manager on ladder putting up Halloween decorations,
'I'd give you a hand but I don't like Halloween. Horrible American invention.'
Deputy manager,
'You don't like Christmas either Lily.'
Lily,
'No you're right. I have to make up excuses to ensure my family's not coming. This year my cooker's not working.'
I smiled at Lily and thought, 'Quite right too.'

Who is the real Labour Party leader?

Jeremy Corbyn became the Labour Party leader by accident. I am not suggesting that the Labour selectorate didn't vote for him in their hundreds of thousands, for they most certainly did. Rather I am suggesting that if the hard left of the Labour Party had realised they had a chance of capturing the leadership of Her Majesty's Loyal Opposition, they would never have put forward Corbyn as their candidate.
Once it became clear that Corbyn would win, many of us in the soggy, central mush of practical get things done politics (actually where the vast majority of Conservative, Labour and Lib Dem voters - as opposed to activists - are) were genuinely alarmed that a firebrand Trot was going to instigate class war and lead the revolution.
I guess in some ways Corbyn would like to do that, but there is one very good reason why he cannot - he is actually pretty useless.
Corbin cannot organise the revolution because he cannot lead. A lifetime spent only meeting and debating with people who agree with you has left him totally ill-suited to leading the Labour Party anywhere other than the wilderness. His speeches are hopeless and his media appearances are a case study in how not to deal with journalists. Reading out questions from the public in the manner of a local radio DJ was not an example of a enlightened new way of conducting Prime Minister's Questions (Cameron can deal with that kind of stuff with his eyes shut) but rather an admission by Corbyn's advisors that he cannot do the job of calling the Government to account himself.
We now find ourselves in a situation akin to that of Liverpool Council back in the Militant days of the early '80's. Then the Liverpool Labour Party had an official leader noone can remember (it's a good pub quiz question) but actually the Party was led by the eloquent, charming and fantastically extreme deputy, Derek 'Degsy' Hatton.
Today Labour's real leader is certainly not Jeremy Corbyn. Nor is the official Deputy, Tom Watson, in charge. Watson is a professional resigner who is fighting a rearguard action to maintain his credibility having over reached himself by turning an admirable campaign to expose the mistakes made by the authorities in failing to investigate child sex abuse, into some kind of anti-Tory Salem style conspiracy exposé.
I suspect the real leader of the Labour Party is now John McDonnell. He is a better debater than Corbyn, and actually much more able. I have little doubt that had he thought there was any chance of winning he would have run for the leadership himself (just as he tried to do when Gordon Brown was enthroned by a cowed Labour Party).
Corbyn is completely reliant on McDonnell. It is why he took the extraordinary decision of appointing this divisive and feared figure as his Shadow Chancellor to the disappointment of nearly every Labour MP. Corbyn will do whatever McDonnell wants - it is John McDonnell who is now the de-facto leader of the Labour Party.
Oh and by the way you quizzers it was John Hamilton who led the Liverpool Council in the early '80's.

The feckin' eejets are all watching the football

Interesting time for my first visit to Ireland in a little while. How have I missed the place! Shannon Airport is not the busiest in the world but even allowing for that I was surprised to find on my arrival last Thursday evening that there were no taxis at all awaiting the arrival of us hordes from Gatwick teeming off the Ryan Air flight.

After 15 minutes a cabbie eventually appeared (Shannon is as Uberless as Brighton) and whisked me to my hotel. During the trip I enquired as to the lack of taxis. My driver's response was succinct, 'The feckin' eejits are all watching the football.' 

Silly me - I had forgotten that the Republic (as us English football pundits are obliged to call them) had been playing the world champion's, Germany, that evening. And joy of joy the Republic had won. Catching up on the highlights on RTE in the typically Irish (i.e. never shutting) hotel bar later, I was even more delighted to find they had done so with the ultimate route one goal. Hopeful punt upfield, one touch and whack into the net by Shane Long, who I was reminded is not one of those 'plastic paddies' but a proud son of my ultimate destination, Tipperary.

The purpose of my visit was to catch up with some old friends, win lose some pounds Euros on the dogs and horses and drink plenty of Guinness. I managed all of these feats with some ease but am delighted to report that the trip provided many more sporting thrills as well - and left me considerably heartened for the future of English/Irish relations.

Cashel is known for its Rock (famously visited by HM the Queen in her truly iconic 2011 trip to Republic) and as far as I am concerned for the welcome its residents give to a retired English copper. 

On a previous visit I had taken in a hurling match but on my own - and therefore not really known what was going on. The Cashel locals were quick to tell me that the Cashel team is actually 'shite' so we headed to Thurles (Turr-Les) for the County Tipperary semi final between Drom & Inch and Neagh Eire Og. 

The official match report describes the action better than I can but in the end the less fancied team won it by 1 point after extra time.

The crowd was incredibly over 4,000, for a match which in Sussex football terms is the equivalent to Mile Oak playing Peacehaven. The community element is exemplified by how many children come along, and during the half time interval they all streamed onto the Semple Stadium outfield with their hurleys to play themselves. 

The most notable difference between this and the cricket games on the outfield at Hove during the intervals, was not just the sheer numbers but also the preponderance of girls playing. I gather camogie is just as popular, if not more, than hurling amongst the youngsters.

Of course the Gaelic games played in Ireland suffer the same drawback (but for entirely different reasons) that American football and baseball suffer from in the USA. Because no other country really plays these games there are no credible international fixtures.

Maybe that is why the Irish, in recent years anyway, have become so good at what I like to keep reminding my Tipperary friends, are 'English games' - soccer football, cricket and rugby.

Jack Charlton is still a national hero in the Republic for his exploits with the - admittedly heavily plastic paddy influenced - Irish soccer football team at the 1990 World Cup. The English one day cricket team is captained by an Irishman in Eoin Morgan, and even without him the Irish cricket team continues to perform respectably (and on the basis of performances is probably more deserving of test status than either Zimbabwe or Bangladesh).

It is though the ultimate public school, Protestant game of rugby that Ireland have succeeded at most. It was a privilege to be in a pub in Cashel and watch Ireland comprehensively defeat France in the Rugby World Cup this weekend. Despite the injuries, every Irishman and woman I spoke to is convinced that Ireland will go on to lift the trophy on  31 October. Judging by the celebrations this weekend they will need a whole month off work if that were to happen.

But - and sorry about this - on a serious note I am incredibly heartened by the success of the Irish rugby team for political reasons as well. The rugby side is - in stark contrast to the football (well done Northern Ireland by the way) - an all Ireland team. Even at the height of the troubles serving police officers in the RUC would travel to Dublin to play for the Irish Rugby Team.

Bearing in mind the history the rubicon was probably crossed when the GAA agreed to allow the Irish Rugby team to play matches at Croke Park (when the Lansdowne Road rugby/soccer stadium was undergoing a long overdue refurbishment). This event is movingly commemorated in a wonderful sculpture at Shannon Airport.

Paul O'Connell

is sadly just the latest injury victim of the brutal nature of the modern professional game of rugby. It is a shame he cannot play again but this news maybe adds to  the potential emotion of an Irish rugby side being cheered on to victory in the 2015 World Cup by Enda Kenny, Gerry Adams, the Rev Ian Paisley jnr, Peter Robinson, David Cameron and the prime plastic paddy of them all, me.

I can't stand doilies or potpourri so why would I want to join the National Trust?

I have to confess to always having an, admittedly mildly irrational, prejudice against the National Trust.
I do not like those doilies, the potpourri, the pretententious food in its hideously expensive tea shops or the mission to preserve England in aspic. 
Even worse now are the achingly embarrassing efforts by the 'management team' (there's loads of them) of the National Trust to be seen as 'relevant' by issuing blood curdling warnings about climate change and modernising the 'mission' by conserving the childhood homes of ageing or deceased pop stars.
So on returning from a great few days in Tipperary spent drinking Guinness, losing Euros on the dogs and horses and seeing only my second hurling match, it took real effort on my part to appear pleased with my 'welcome home' present.

I fear I am now doomed to a series of afternoons having to pretend to enjoy slowly wandering round stately homes (and not being allowed to see the really interesting bits), suppressing the temptation to touch things just to annoy the ever watchful volunteer wardens (who I suspect are desperately hoping you will touch something so they can admonish you loudly in front of the other visitors - who in turn will tut just loudly enough for you to hear).

Old age has caught up with me early - but at least I got a free pair of binoculars.

It's distracting to engage in next Conservative leader speculation but.......

I have been enjoying myself lately engaging in a bit of punditry for the BBC and the excellent, and unfairly underrated, LatestTV. Latest get me on to spout off about politics, whereas the BBC tend to ask me to comment on policing (until today).
Commentating on events is obviously not as difficult as actually doing things - but it can be enormous fun.
This morning I went to the Charles Dickens pub in Worthing to watch the PM's speech in company with Louise Murphy and Carson Albury (councillors in Adur and Worthing). The idea was that we would give our initial responses, all recorded by the new (and rather talented) BBC Sussex political reporter Ben Weizs.

Ben set up his recorder and asked us to speak. For the first half hour I was on top form, with endless insightful observations and humorous asides to match Paul Merton. Ben then announced that the tape recorder had not been working after which rather I dried up!
I gather that something was cobbled together in the end and broadcast on the Drivetime show on Radio Sussex, and both Louise and Carson were very impressive.
There are already numerous online reports on David Cameron's speech across the internet so I will keep my comments on that short. I thought it was good, and for me a welcome throwback to the days of his early leadership with its emphasis on compassionate Conservatism and, dare I say, the Big Society. 
He also made it clear once and for all, removing even the smallest smidgen of doubt, that he will not stand again. The Party line, for all sorts of sensible reasons, is that this should not result in speculation as to who will succeed him. As a loyal Party member I do not intend to engage in such speculation but just to be helpful I thought it might be interesting to have a quiet peek at the next Conservative leader odds-
George Osborne 13/8
Boris Johnson 9/2
Theresa May 9/1
Sajid Javid 10/1
22/1 bar
As ever my guess is that these odds are about right. Cameron referred to Osborne as the 'Iron Chancellor' in his speech, which was as near to an endorsement as you can get. Boris delivered a good speech this week but his flirting with EU exit and controls on immigration look just what they are - positioning to the base by half heartedly adopting positions that he does not really believe in.
Theresa May has been resilient beyond belief in her job as Home Secretary, but many Tory activists still find it hard to forgive her for her 'nasty party' comments. The speech she made this week suggests she is actually unaware just how much the Conservative Party has changed since she made that observation.
Sajid has a fantastic back story (and a brother who is a Chief Superintendent, which for obvious reasons appeals to me) but is still a little unsure when put on the spot in interviews - and I cannot see him standing against George.
When pressed by Tim Ridgway on The Vote this week I suggested that Osborne is the most likely next Conservative leader. Nothing at conference this week has suggested otherwise.
But, and it's a big but, history suggests the front runner rarely wins. So how about a couple of outsiders who could come through if the favourite stumbles?
For me there are 2-
1. Ruth Davidson. The grass roots love her, the media loves her, and she is simply brilliant. There is every chance she can lead the Scottish Conservatives into second place at next year's Holyrood elections. Were she in the Commons she would be second favourite.
2. Robert Halfon. The MP for Harlow is my political hero. He is the white van man Conservative, a terrific campaigner and the ultimate de-toxifer of the Tory brand.
HalfonforPM - you read it here first.

Frankie for SPOTY

Whilst I accept that Frankie Dettori is one of the few racing figures who appeals to the wider public, I confess I have always found his jack-in-the-box antics and flying dismount stuff a bit wearing.
Still each to his own and even an old cynic such as me was moved by his performance in the Arc yesterday. I thought Frankie cocked up the only time Golden Horn got beaten, with his pacemaker actually aiding Arabian Queen, the filly that ended the Derby winner's unbeaten run.
Yesterday Frankie made up for it in spades. Drawn in the car park he conducted a brilliant manoeuvre to ensure Golden Horn was in the perfect position after 3 furlongs, ironically this time benefitting from Treve's pacemaker.
With his broad appeal beyond racing and his comeback from the dark days of a ban for taking cocaine, there is certainly an entertaining back story to Frankie's successes this year.
I have just checked the betting for BBC Sports Personality of the Year (SPOTY), and Jennifer Ennis-Hill (10/11 favourite), Chris Froome, Lewis Hamilton and Andy Murray (joint 8/1 second favourites) head the market. All worthy candidates with significant achievements.
The problem with SPOTY is that the winner often seems to miss the 'personality' bit of the award - Nigel Mansell, Steve Davis anyone?
Frankie fits the personality bill and you can still back him at 100/1 this morning. Might be worth a small each way punt.
One thing I can certainly guarantee is that the winner will not be a rugby player.

The line from Cashel's gone quiet so Found it is

Well that wasn't exactly great was it. I am no expert on rugby but even I could tell that England were poor. The rugger boys even made the football team look good in comparison. The curse of ITV strikes again. They paid hugely for the rights to the Champions' League and no English teams qualified for the knock-out stages, and now they make the Rugby World Cup central to their sports strategy and the national side do not make it. Stop giggling at the back Sky and the BBC.
Anyway to more important matters and this afternoon's Arc. Sadly no Sir Peter O'Sullivan there this year. He drove to the meeting for more then 50 years, and was reputedly even stopped by the French traffic cops for doing 100mph on the Paris ring road 4 years ago - they let him off with a warning as he was only exceeding his age by 7 years!
The marvellous mare Treve, and her equally marvellous trainer Criquette Head-Maarek, could make history as the first horse to win the Arc for the third time. 
Of course there are no certainties in racing, or indeed sport (e.g. South Africa v Japan). I cannot see our champion, Golden Horn, striking a blow for the English Derby. He's drawn in the car park, and I did not like the way he jinked right under pressure at Leapardstown last time.
For me if anything is going to dethrone Treve, it has to be another female, in the filly Found. I'll be visiting Cashel next weekend, and as anyone who has been there knows, everyone there knows somebody who knows what is going at Ballydoyle. Found has now been tipped up to me 4 times, and each time she has lost. Today will be her first time over a mile and half, I'm convinced the 3 year old fillies are better than the colts this year, and there is total silence from my connections in Tipperary. This can only mean they are all getting on before the price contracts.
Found each way for me at 20/1 - would be good for the pocket but I still hope Treve does it really.

William Hill's generosity knows no bounds

On checking the Racing Post today I noticed unusually that William Hill were best priced about a rugby bet. According to the comparison table they had New Zealand to beat Georgia by between 61-65 points in tonight's game at 7/1. Since the handicap had been set at 64 this seems a reasonable punt to me. 
Despite his best efforts the cashier could not find the price so had to phone it through.
After a longish wait and a short conversation he said to me, '250-1'.
I said, 'Are you sure. that sounds a bit high to me?'
Further muffled conversation and then 'Yes, 250-1.'
What a dilemma! Do I take the 250-1 in order to get one over the capitalist pig dog corporate bookie (as surely my hero from the Morning Star would do)?
After a moment's hesitation - ok a few moments' - discretion gets the better of me and I suggest that cannot be right.
The cashier agreed to give me 7-1 for as he put it 'the bloke in the call centre didn't even know the Rugby World Cup is happening'.
Of course in reality the bet would have never stood as the bookie would have ruled it out under the palpable error rule. I am pretty sure the expert at Hill's HQ was quoting the price for Georgia to beat New Zealand by that margin - which represents no kind of value at all. The true odds of that would be nearer 1million-1. 
Shame though - even if it would have made New Zealand's final attack in the 79th minute with them leading 67-3 a touch tense. Come on Georgia.